So, I'm looking in the mirror the other day. Actually, I was shaving. Not an easy task for a man my age. You have to start moving parts of what's left of your face around. By hand. Literally. It's not pretty. Hell, a week ago I was "attempting" to shave my neck and damned near severed my head. No shit. I bled like a stuck pig. I just stood over the sink and drained for about 45 minutes. Seasquirt came home from work to find me with a bloody towel about my head looking way too much like something out of "Le Mis". Enough said...
Anyway. I was shaving. Actually, I was done shaving. I was trimming my mustache. For those of you not in the know, the mustache is sort of, well... large now. And the goatee is back as well. They are both completely gray. I want to die. If any of you happen to see a sale on wooden boat oars with the bronze edges, let me know. I'll drive. Just use them on me. Trust me, it's a family tradition...
Again, back to the dimples. So, as I trim off all of the stranglers on my mustache and even off the bottom of the thing I decide to start giving myself a few expressions in the mirror just to see how the mustache "moves". Suddenly, I see dimples staring back at me. Dimples. Yes, dimples. I have never had dimples in my life. Why is Sam Elliott staring back at me in my bathroom mirror??? Dimples. Dimples??? Their they were. Big as life. I freaked out. Dimples??? Where the hell did these things come from??? Yeah, they're cute when you're in high school but on a man on the downhill part of the water slide to 60 they're sort of a shock. Especially when they're on YOUR face. DIMPLES??? Seasquirt happily told me "Honey, you're old. Those aren't dimples, they're wrinkles. Truth be told, your face is starting to look like a morel." I beat him savagely about the head and shoulders with what was left of his shoulder once I had chewed his arm off...
They're dimples. And oddly, I have three of them. Two on the left side and one on the right side. Which, in an odd way sort of counter balances the discrepancy of me having two nipples on my right side and one of my left. (Patty, Maxine and Laverne.) I am now centered. OMG!!! I can start to play the violin again!!!
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Saturday, March 23, 2013
PECKER...
What can I say, I love that word. English. Yeah, English. Thank god I speak it as my primary language or I would never be able to learn it otherwise. It's the only language in the world that can change a noun into a verb. And vice versa. Do not get me started on verbs. I flunked Latin in high school. Big time. All I can remember is "villa es villa Romana", "face amour non bellum" and "omnia vincit amor". (BTW, that's "the house is a Roman house, make love not war and love conquers all." How the hell do I remember this shit???). I can't get my head around a Romance language to save my life. My Spanish is so freaking bad it hurts. Hell, for two years I was wishing passer-by's in Mexico a "Happy New Butt-hole" when I thought I was wishing them a "Happy New Year". Anos is a VERY tricking word. I got slapped, punched and spit on so many times. Verbs. I hate them.
OK, back to peckers...
John Waters, bless his soul, brought the word pecker into the social consciousness with his movie "Pecker". It's not what you think it's about. Which is unusual considering it was made by John Waters. I love him. I think of him as the John Huston of my generation. Magnificent movie maker. Twisted but magnificent. I mean, c'mon, how can you not love that scene where Divine is taken advantage of by the giant lobster? Or the scene with the skid marks? How about "Odorama"? Or "Babs, when's the egg man coming?". I loved it when he filmed Cotton's ass hole singing a song. I loved it when Edie got smacked by a salmon from the third story window. I fell out of my seat and collapsed on the floor in tears. John Waters. He's just brilliance. With a pencil thin mustache. Which, apparently, is pretty easy to carry off in Baltimore. But I digress...
OK, once again, back to peckers...
The world is full of peckers. Lord knows, I've met most of them. Or at least been trapped in check out lines behind them. Or been forced to follow behind them on a highway. At 52 miles an hour... I have been up to my nipples (all three of them) in peckers since I can remember. Holy shit. Peckers. They're everywhere. You'd think there would be a hunting season on them just so we can cull the herd a bit. But no, we just encourage their growth. I personally have been facilitating peckers to grow for decades. I don't know why. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. It's a hard habit to break.
I have met some of the biggest peckers that you can possibly imagine. REALLY big peckers. Several of them have been my boss. This is where I learned how to be bossed around by a REALLY big pecker. I was hesitant at first but eventually I let the pecker do what it wanted to me. It was just easier that way. Trust me, give a pecker what it wants and you can get back to what you were doing a helluva lot faster than if you try to wrestle with the pecker and get mouthy with it. And yes, I have gotten mouthy with quite a number of peckers in my life. I have just learned how to choose my battles. A small pecker is not worth getting mouthy with. It's better if you just grab it with both hands and choke it. Maybe a couple of times. If the pecker is up to it...
In 1992 I was subjected to the biggest pecker I have ever encountered. I'm talking HUGE pecker!!! We got into it on the sales floor one afternoon. Yeah, me and a giant pecker in between jewelry and shoes. Just going at it. I was ready to shake that pecker for all it was worth. I was gonna beat that pecker like it owed me money!!! I could see the security cameras start to aim in on us. Yes, he was the store manager. But I was corporate. CORPORATE!!! I was head office. With a secretary. Corporate peckers DON'T wear name tags!!! I didn't care if he was 15 years older than me, I out-ranked him. I am a bigger pecker than you are, you bitch!!! Five minutes later we have managed to draw a crowd from as faraway as the toy department. You would have thought no one had ever seen two peckers go at it orally. I cursed that pecker. I berated that pecker. I told that pecker it was totally incapable of any growth and wasn't going anywhere.. I told that pecker it was in the wrong place. "Pecker," I said, "Get out of my face!!!" Finally, the assistant manager from electronics came over and separated us. Have you ever tried to get two peckers apart when they're really going at it? It's not easy...
Peckers. I will admit, I have been a pecker most of my almost 60 years. Oh, lord... a 60 year old pecker. Experienced? Yes. Pretty? No. As peckers age they wrinkle. And shrink. And lose their hair. Nothing is more sad than a wrinkled, shrunken and balding pecker. I have covered all of the mirrors in the house in heavy shrouds so I don't have to see it anymore. In my mind I am a young lion looking for a harem to shag. In reality I am a lame lemming with a limp. I'm missing a paw, don't y'know...
OK, back to peckers...
John Waters, bless his soul, brought the word pecker into the social consciousness with his movie "Pecker". It's not what you think it's about. Which is unusual considering it was made by John Waters. I love him. I think of him as the John Huston of my generation. Magnificent movie maker. Twisted but magnificent. I mean, c'mon, how can you not love that scene where Divine is taken advantage of by the giant lobster? Or the scene with the skid marks? How about "Odorama"? Or "Babs, when's the egg man coming?". I loved it when he filmed Cotton's ass hole singing a song. I loved it when Edie got smacked by a salmon from the third story window. I fell out of my seat and collapsed on the floor in tears. John Waters. He's just brilliance. With a pencil thin mustache. Which, apparently, is pretty easy to carry off in Baltimore. But I digress...
OK, once again, back to peckers...
The world is full of peckers. Lord knows, I've met most of them. Or at least been trapped in check out lines behind them. Or been forced to follow behind them on a highway. At 52 miles an hour... I have been up to my nipples (all three of them) in peckers since I can remember. Holy shit. Peckers. They're everywhere. You'd think there would be a hunting season on them just so we can cull the herd a bit. But no, we just encourage their growth. I personally have been facilitating peckers to grow for decades. I don't know why. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. It's a hard habit to break.
I have met some of the biggest peckers that you can possibly imagine. REALLY big peckers. Several of them have been my boss. This is where I learned how to be bossed around by a REALLY big pecker. I was hesitant at first but eventually I let the pecker do what it wanted to me. It was just easier that way. Trust me, give a pecker what it wants and you can get back to what you were doing a helluva lot faster than if you try to wrestle with the pecker and get mouthy with it. And yes, I have gotten mouthy with quite a number of peckers in my life. I have just learned how to choose my battles. A small pecker is not worth getting mouthy with. It's better if you just grab it with both hands and choke it. Maybe a couple of times. If the pecker is up to it...
In 1992 I was subjected to the biggest pecker I have ever encountered. I'm talking HUGE pecker!!! We got into it on the sales floor one afternoon. Yeah, me and a giant pecker in between jewelry and shoes. Just going at it. I was ready to shake that pecker for all it was worth. I was gonna beat that pecker like it owed me money!!! I could see the security cameras start to aim in on us. Yes, he was the store manager. But I was corporate. CORPORATE!!! I was head office. With a secretary. Corporate peckers DON'T wear name tags!!! I didn't care if he was 15 years older than me, I out-ranked him. I am a bigger pecker than you are, you bitch!!! Five minutes later we have managed to draw a crowd from as faraway as the toy department. You would have thought no one had ever seen two peckers go at it orally. I cursed that pecker. I berated that pecker. I told that pecker it was totally incapable of any growth and wasn't going anywhere.. I told that pecker it was in the wrong place. "Pecker," I said, "Get out of my face!!!" Finally, the assistant manager from electronics came over and separated us. Have you ever tried to get two peckers apart when they're really going at it? It's not easy...
Peckers. I will admit, I have been a pecker most of my almost 60 years. Oh, lord... a 60 year old pecker. Experienced? Yes. Pretty? No. As peckers age they wrinkle. And shrink. And lose their hair. Nothing is more sad than a wrinkled, shrunken and balding pecker. I have covered all of the mirrors in the house in heavy shrouds so I don't have to see it anymore. In my mind I am a young lion looking for a harem to shag. In reality I am a lame lemming with a limp. I'm missing a paw, don't y'know...
Thursday, March 21, 2013
IT'S FLOUR, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, IT'S NOT FUCKING ROCKET SCIENCE!!!
The other day I had a rare opportunity. The better part of a day home alone. By myself. I cranked the tunes. I danced naked. I drank from the bottle. I wiped a booger on my bath robe. I rolled a dube. I smoked it. All by myself. I downloaded some more porn and saved it to flash disk. Then I hit the pantry. I had the munchies. A bag of honey bbq potato chips, some nachos, an apple, half of a tuna fish sandwich and some semi-sweet chocolate chips later I'm ready to get down to some serious eating. Oh, wait, I forgot the two cookies and the handful of ranch flavored crackers...
Anyway, the next thing you know I'm back at the computer and I'm Google-ing my ass off. I needed a recipe for "something". I didn't care what it was. I just had the need to open the spice cabinet, heat up some olive oil in the biggest skillet that I have, boil some pasta, dice up about a half a bushel of veggies, grab the largest mixing bowl I have, dig out the measuring spoons, shred a pound or two of Velveeta, make a pie crust and go down into the storage unit and bring up my turkey roaster and just see what happened. So, I find the recipe online. I had all of the ingredients. I had the pan. I had the oven. I was all set to go. I'm half way thru this recipe before I actually look at it closely. It got sort of complicated. No, actually, it got VERY complicated.
First, the flour. OMg!!! The "flour" in the ingredient list turns out to be rice flour once you get into the recipe. Rice flour??? Yeah, right... And it needs to be sifted before you add it in. SIFTED??? LMAO!!! OK, I actually do have a flour sifter. It's a fridge magnet. Holds about a teaspoon. Yeah, not happening anytime soon... Rice flour. I just put about three cups of uncooked rice into the blender and turned it on for about half an hour.
The vinegar. Again, hidden in the recipe. I has to be rice vinegar. I lucked out, I had some. Great in potato salad. Had it not been in the cabinet I would have used apple cider or balsamic vinegar instead. It's vinegar. Either ramp it up or water it down. Get over it...
The butter. Oh, yeah, the butter... Of course, it has to clarified. Clarified butter is perhaps the dumbest damned thing I have ever heard of. Only the French could up with something that stupid. Yes, I know how to clarify butter. I think the last time I did it was about 1981. What can I say, I had a craving for some Coquille St. Jacques from scratch. As god is my witness, I will NEVER clarify butter again!!! It's just one of those ditzty-ass kitchen tricks that is even too gay for me. Yeah...
Then there was the sugar. Turbanado sugar. Really??? The dark brown kind. Really??? Organic. Just a fucking minute here!!! Dark brown organic turbanado sugar??? Do I look like I fucking live in Hawaii??? Yeah, trust me, brown sugar went in that mixing bowl.
The parsley had to be fresh. Fresh Italian parsley. The asiago had to be from some cheese factory in New Hampshire. Where the cows were fed a strict diet of Cheerio's, mini-marshmallows and Evian. The raisins were "recommended" to be from some place deep in the Hindu-Kush of Pakistan. The diced green onions didn't seem too hard. Until I saw that I should have started to brine them last night. The basil had to be some strange variety. Mountain grown as I recall. Bolivia, I think. It just went down hill from the basil. Damned near every ingredient in this recipe was special. And not in that short bus kind of way.
WTF wrote this nightmare??? This recipe would have scared Wolfgang Puck out of the kitchen!!! Even my recipes aren't this nuts!!! For those of you that I have shared my recipes with, you now have a learning curve of what I am talking about. I went back to Google and brought the recipe up again. I discovered links. To more of this loon's recipes. OMg, they're all this nuts. If not more so. One called for unbleached salt. WTF is unbleached salt??? Another one called for saffron. Fresh saffron. When was the last time you saw fresh fucking saffron??? It's from India for fucks sake!!! It takes awhile to get to Madison. One recipe called for home-dried cranberries. You gotta be kidding me. Home-dried cranberries??? Lady, I live in Wisconsin. We're literally up to our tits in those here!!! We buy them at stores. Then there was the onion chives. Onion chives??? Hmmm... onion... chives... Onion chives??? Excuse me but the last time I looked chives WERE onions!!! Trust me, I've grown them. They're supposed to taste like that. THEY'RE ONIONS!!!
In quiet resignation I admitted defeat. I had been bested in my own kitchen by a stranger that was sorely under or over medicated with access to a keyboard. In the middle of the night. With a cocktail and a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. And a rolled up dollar bill with a rubber band around it.
I grabbed the cell phone, speed-dialed Domino's and said extra large Special. With extra cheese. Can you put some jalapenos on that for me? Half an hour later, instant gratification...
Anyway, the next thing you know I'm back at the computer and I'm Google-ing my ass off. I needed a recipe for "something". I didn't care what it was. I just had the need to open the spice cabinet, heat up some olive oil in the biggest skillet that I have, boil some pasta, dice up about a half a bushel of veggies, grab the largest mixing bowl I have, dig out the measuring spoons, shred a pound or two of Velveeta, make a pie crust and go down into the storage unit and bring up my turkey roaster and just see what happened. So, I find the recipe online. I had all of the ingredients. I had the pan. I had the oven. I was all set to go. I'm half way thru this recipe before I actually look at it closely. It got sort of complicated. No, actually, it got VERY complicated.
First, the flour. OMg!!! The "flour" in the ingredient list turns out to be rice flour once you get into the recipe. Rice flour??? Yeah, right... And it needs to be sifted before you add it in. SIFTED??? LMAO!!! OK, I actually do have a flour sifter. It's a fridge magnet. Holds about a teaspoon. Yeah, not happening anytime soon... Rice flour. I just put about three cups of uncooked rice into the blender and turned it on for about half an hour.
The vinegar. Again, hidden in the recipe. I has to be rice vinegar. I lucked out, I had some. Great in potato salad. Had it not been in the cabinet I would have used apple cider or balsamic vinegar instead. It's vinegar. Either ramp it up or water it down. Get over it...
The butter. Oh, yeah, the butter... Of course, it has to clarified. Clarified butter is perhaps the dumbest damned thing I have ever heard of. Only the French could up with something that stupid. Yes, I know how to clarify butter. I think the last time I did it was about 1981. What can I say, I had a craving for some Coquille St. Jacques from scratch. As god is my witness, I will NEVER clarify butter again!!! It's just one of those ditzty-ass kitchen tricks that is even too gay for me. Yeah...
Then there was the sugar. Turbanado sugar. Really??? The dark brown kind. Really??? Organic. Just a fucking minute here!!! Dark brown organic turbanado sugar??? Do I look like I fucking live in Hawaii??? Yeah, trust me, brown sugar went in that mixing bowl.
The parsley had to be fresh. Fresh Italian parsley. The asiago had to be from some cheese factory in New Hampshire. Where the cows were fed a strict diet of Cheerio's, mini-marshmallows and Evian. The raisins were "recommended" to be from some place deep in the Hindu-Kush of Pakistan. The diced green onions didn't seem too hard. Until I saw that I should have started to brine them last night. The basil had to be some strange variety. Mountain grown as I recall. Bolivia, I think. It just went down hill from the basil. Damned near every ingredient in this recipe was special. And not in that short bus kind of way.
WTF wrote this nightmare??? This recipe would have scared Wolfgang Puck out of the kitchen!!! Even my recipes aren't this nuts!!! For those of you that I have shared my recipes with, you now have a learning curve of what I am talking about. I went back to Google and brought the recipe up again. I discovered links. To more of this loon's recipes. OMg, they're all this nuts. If not more so. One called for unbleached salt. WTF is unbleached salt??? Another one called for saffron. Fresh saffron. When was the last time you saw fresh fucking saffron??? It's from India for fucks sake!!! It takes awhile to get to Madison. One recipe called for home-dried cranberries. You gotta be kidding me. Home-dried cranberries??? Lady, I live in Wisconsin. We're literally up to our tits in those here!!! We buy them at stores. Then there was the onion chives. Onion chives??? Hmmm... onion... chives... Onion chives??? Excuse me but the last time I looked chives WERE onions!!! Trust me, I've grown them. They're supposed to taste like that. THEY'RE ONIONS!!!
In quiet resignation I admitted defeat. I had been bested in my own kitchen by a stranger that was sorely under or over medicated with access to a keyboard. In the middle of the night. With a cocktail and a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. And a rolled up dollar bill with a rubber band around it.
I grabbed the cell phone, speed-dialed Domino's and said extra large Special. With extra cheese. Can you put some jalapenos on that for me? Half an hour later, instant gratification...
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
HERBERT STREICHER HAS LEFT THE BUILDING...
Oh, my. This one shocked me. Yesterday, an icon died. Someone who pushed the envelope in the 1970's. Someone that helped define the 1970's. Someone who's name was on everyone's lips in the 1970's. The first performer in history to be taken to court by the Feds. Convicted and facing at least 5 years in prison Hollywood rallied around him, supported him and helped him hire Alan Dershowitz for his appeal. It worked. Aah, yes, Herbert Streicher.
You may recall him better as Harry Reems. Can you say "Deep Throat"??? Think the movie, not the informant. Yes, porn. Oh my word, did that movie cause a stink!!! I saw it three times. Just to see Harry. I was in college. He was smoking hot and I was on the cusp of going gay. It was a match made in heaven.
He was buffed, furry, funny, hung and had a mustache that just screamed stud.. OK, it was 1972. What can I say, he just rang my bell back then. It was a simpler time...
"Deep Throat" cost him dearly. Prior to that he had actually acted in legitimate theater. He worked in the porn industry on the side to pay the bills. He was originally hired as the lighting director on that film and then got cast as the "doctor" at the last minute. He was paid $250 for a day's work in the filming. The rest is history. The film became a hit. It made over $600 million. Hell, Jackie O even went to see it. His career in the adult industry took off. He was the first male porn superstar. He was such a little stud-puppy.
Two years later he was behind bars. On Federal charges involving 3 states for distribution of obscene materials. Kentucky, Tennessee and New York went ape shit!!! Harry and 7 big time mobsters went down on multiple charges. Was Linda Lovelace indicted? No. Was the studio that did the film indicted? No. Just Harry and 7 crime bosses. His legal bills were fucking astronomical!!! Six months after his conviction of interstate transportation of obscene materials (huh???) his conviction was overturned and he got a new trial. Charges were dropped. Free man!!! But he was still toast.
Remember the movie "Grease"? Harry was originally cast as the coach. Two weeks before filming started he was replaced with Syd Ceasar. Seems the studio thought that his "notoriety" could be a bit more than they wanted to bite off. He was sacked.
He spent the next 15 years drinking himself into oblivion. Can you say half a gallon of vodka a day??? Not pretty. Amazingly, of all places, he finds himself in Park City, Utah. He goes through spin dry and cleans up his act. He gets a real estate license. He gets married. He turns his life around. And he still keeps the name Harry Reems. Head back, shoulders high he flips the world the bird, says yes, I was the guy who throat fucked Linda Lovelace in "Deep Throat" and then, looking you directly in the eye asks you if you would like to buy a house. I LOVE THAT!!!! Cupcake, you had some stones...
Late last night he left us. At the age of 65. Pancreatic cancer. I honestly can't think of a worse cancer. But at least it's quick. Hell, most of the time you don't even know that you have it until you're already half dead. Enough on that...
Harry. Oh, god,,, Harry... You were cute as hell. And furry. And Jewish. You were my own personal PowerBall!!! You helped open my eyes. You helped change the world. You took on the Federal Government and WON!!! You made the Supreme Court redefine "obscenity".
I salute you. I mourn your passing. I remember you young, hung and studly. Of course, I remember myself the same way. But it's been so long ago I'm sure I've forgotten. Who are you??? Pickle??? Anyway...
Harry, travel safe. And tap dance on the stars...
You may recall him better as Harry Reems. Can you say "Deep Throat"??? Think the movie, not the informant. Yes, porn. Oh my word, did that movie cause a stink!!! I saw it three times. Just to see Harry. I was in college. He was smoking hot and I was on the cusp of going gay. It was a match made in heaven.
He was buffed, furry, funny, hung and had a mustache that just screamed stud.. OK, it was 1972. What can I say, he just rang my bell back then. It was a simpler time...
"Deep Throat" cost him dearly. Prior to that he had actually acted in legitimate theater. He worked in the porn industry on the side to pay the bills. He was originally hired as the lighting director on that film and then got cast as the "doctor" at the last minute. He was paid $250 for a day's work in the filming. The rest is history. The film became a hit. It made over $600 million. Hell, Jackie O even went to see it. His career in the adult industry took off. He was the first male porn superstar. He was such a little stud-puppy.
Two years later he was behind bars. On Federal charges involving 3 states for distribution of obscene materials. Kentucky, Tennessee and New York went ape shit!!! Harry and 7 big time mobsters went down on multiple charges. Was Linda Lovelace indicted? No. Was the studio that did the film indicted? No. Just Harry and 7 crime bosses. His legal bills were fucking astronomical!!! Six months after his conviction of interstate transportation of obscene materials (huh???) his conviction was overturned and he got a new trial. Charges were dropped. Free man!!! But he was still toast.
Remember the movie "Grease"? Harry was originally cast as the coach. Two weeks before filming started he was replaced with Syd Ceasar. Seems the studio thought that his "notoriety" could be a bit more than they wanted to bite off. He was sacked.
He spent the next 15 years drinking himself into oblivion. Can you say half a gallon of vodka a day??? Not pretty. Amazingly, of all places, he finds himself in Park City, Utah. He goes through spin dry and cleans up his act. He gets a real estate license. He gets married. He turns his life around. And he still keeps the name Harry Reems. Head back, shoulders high he flips the world the bird, says yes, I was the guy who throat fucked Linda Lovelace in "Deep Throat" and then, looking you directly in the eye asks you if you would like to buy a house. I LOVE THAT!!!! Cupcake, you had some stones...
Late last night he left us. At the age of 65. Pancreatic cancer. I honestly can't think of a worse cancer. But at least it's quick. Hell, most of the time you don't even know that you have it until you're already half dead. Enough on that...
Harry. Oh, god,,, Harry... You were cute as hell. And furry. And Jewish. You were my own personal PowerBall!!! You helped open my eyes. You helped change the world. You took on the Federal Government and WON!!! You made the Supreme Court redefine "obscenity".
I salute you. I mourn your passing. I remember you young, hung and studly. Of course, I remember myself the same way. But it's been so long ago I'm sure I've forgotten. Who are you??? Pickle??? Anyway...
Harry, travel safe. And tap dance on the stars...
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
TITS!!! OH, WONDERFUL TITS!!!
Aah, yes. Tits. Oh, wonderful tits!!! Yes, tits. TITS!!!
Boobs. Nay-nays. Jugs. Funbags. Hell, call them what you will... Grab them! Slap them! Juggle them like tennis balls! Toss them around! Swing them,.. Bounce them... Get them going in opposite directions! Hell, shake them like they owe you money!!!
Yes, tits. I have three of them. OK, so my third one is sort of hidden under my right on. But it's there. Yes, I have three of them. I am old and I have three tits. Boobies!!!
Oh lord, I am an old man with three nipples... I have named them. Patty, Maxine and Laverne, to be exact. Laverne is the "hidden" one. She's not shy, she's just sort of hidden under Maxine. At least while I am vertical. When I am horizontal she sort of peaks her head out. If I roll to one side. Just right. At least on one side...
Tits. hmmmm.... tits. Actually, I like to spell that with a "z". As in titz.... "Tits" is plural. "Titz" is more than two. I have three... Tits. Oh, wonderful tits. TITS!!!
Yes, I have three nipples. OK, I have two nipples. And a "nubbins" as I like to call it. Her. Laverne, don't y'know... On the surface, I appear normal. (OK, just stop laughing!!! I can hear you!!!) But beneath my polo shirt I outnumber you by 50 percent!!! Hell, with the right hormones I could effectively dock conjoined triplets if the need should arise. Yeah, can't you just imagine me breast feeding anything??? Sort of makes "The Exorcist" look warm and fuzzy, doesn't it???
Tits. Titz. I guess it doesn't matter how you spell it. Them? Tits... Fun bags... Jugs...
Why the hell do men have nipples??? OK, I know why gay men have nipples but why do straight men have nipples??? Hell, they don't even know they have an asshole!!! Trust me on this one, touch a straight mans sphincter and it slams shut like the gates at Fort Knox. Touch a gay mans sphincter and you've got the keys to the kingdom. And a couple of free cocktails... And a couple of hours of a good time...
Nipples. Hmmmm.... nipples. I've managed to learn how to do some stuff with nipples in the last 6 decades. I will not go into detail. But, trust me, I know how to make those little puppies happy. Be they mine, yours or theirs. I think I need a third hand... Laverne is starting to feel left out, if you know what I mean.
Shoulders back, head high and Laverne snoozing comfortably under my right one I cruise through life.. Brazenly proud of my extra 50 percent. Awash in my extra tittie I march down State Street. with a smile on my face. And an extra tit in my shirt. Bow to me you bitches!!! I have 50 percent more mammalia than any of your girlfriends ever had!!! Yeah, I could have been really fun on Prom night!!! I could have made that backseat rock!!! Oh, wait.... I did.
Tits are power. Just ask any woman with good ones. In ten minutes she can OWN you!!! And you will let her do it willingly. What is it with you straight guys and tits??? OK, I'm gay and I do appreciate a good set of tits. But not for the same reasons. Show me a nice set of knockers and I can say "Hey, nice tits!". Yeah, you try that and see what happens. Women show gay men their tits at the drop of a hat. I've seen more tits than I know what to do with. Hell, I've seen your wife's tits!!! A couple of times. Don't even get me started on how many lesbian tits I've seen... "So, are my tits even?" Well, yeah, I guess so. Isn't 2 an even number??? Don't forget, I have 3. I feel ashamed. But grateful. THREE!!! I am a weird orgy just waiting to happen....
Titties. Lord, I love that word. Titties. Titties. Titties. There, I've said it again... and again.
Why do women feel compelled to show their tits to gay guys??? Yes, their nice. Now, put them away. I'm eating. OMg, boobs, What can I say, I'm gay. Really gay. BIG TIME GAY!!! Put your boobies away!!!
I am a man with three tits. Irag. Iran. I roll. Yes, three tits. Lick me if you dare...
Boobs. Nay-nays. Jugs. Funbags. Hell, call them what you will... Grab them! Slap them! Juggle them like tennis balls! Toss them around! Swing them,.. Bounce them... Get them going in opposite directions! Hell, shake them like they owe you money!!!
Yes, tits. I have three of them. OK, so my third one is sort of hidden under my right on. But it's there. Yes, I have three of them. I am old and I have three tits. Boobies!!!
Oh lord, I am an old man with three nipples... I have named them. Patty, Maxine and Laverne, to be exact. Laverne is the "hidden" one. She's not shy, she's just sort of hidden under Maxine. At least while I am vertical. When I am horizontal she sort of peaks her head out. If I roll to one side. Just right. At least on one side...
Tits. hmmmm.... tits. Actually, I like to spell that with a "z". As in titz.... "Tits" is plural. "Titz" is more than two. I have three... Tits. Oh, wonderful tits. TITS!!!
Yes, I have three nipples. OK, I have two nipples. And a "nubbins" as I like to call it. Her. Laverne, don't y'know... On the surface, I appear normal. (OK, just stop laughing!!! I can hear you!!!) But beneath my polo shirt I outnumber you by 50 percent!!! Hell, with the right hormones I could effectively dock conjoined triplets if the need should arise. Yeah, can't you just imagine me breast feeding anything??? Sort of makes "The Exorcist" look warm and fuzzy, doesn't it???
Tits. Titz. I guess it doesn't matter how you spell it. Them? Tits... Fun bags... Jugs...
Why the hell do men have nipples??? OK, I know why gay men have nipples but why do straight men have nipples??? Hell, they don't even know they have an asshole!!! Trust me on this one, touch a straight mans sphincter and it slams shut like the gates at Fort Knox. Touch a gay mans sphincter and you've got the keys to the kingdom. And a couple of free cocktails... And a couple of hours of a good time...
Nipples. Hmmmm.... nipples. I've managed to learn how to do some stuff with nipples in the last 6 decades. I will not go into detail. But, trust me, I know how to make those little puppies happy. Be they mine, yours or theirs. I think I need a third hand... Laverne is starting to feel left out, if you know what I mean.
Shoulders back, head high and Laverne snoozing comfortably under my right one I cruise through life.. Brazenly proud of my extra 50 percent. Awash in my extra tittie I march down State Street. with a smile on my face. And an extra tit in my shirt. Bow to me you bitches!!! I have 50 percent more mammalia than any of your girlfriends ever had!!! Yeah, I could have been really fun on Prom night!!! I could have made that backseat rock!!! Oh, wait.... I did.
Tits are power. Just ask any woman with good ones. In ten minutes she can OWN you!!! And you will let her do it willingly. What is it with you straight guys and tits??? OK, I'm gay and I do appreciate a good set of tits. But not for the same reasons. Show me a nice set of knockers and I can say "Hey, nice tits!". Yeah, you try that and see what happens. Women show gay men their tits at the drop of a hat. I've seen more tits than I know what to do with. Hell, I've seen your wife's tits!!! A couple of times. Don't even get me started on how many lesbian tits I've seen... "So, are my tits even?" Well, yeah, I guess so. Isn't 2 an even number??? Don't forget, I have 3. I feel ashamed. But grateful. THREE!!! I am a weird orgy just waiting to happen....
Titties. Lord, I love that word. Titties. Titties. Titties. There, I've said it again... and again.
Why do women feel compelled to show their tits to gay guys??? Yes, their nice. Now, put them away. I'm eating. OMg, boobs, What can I say, I'm gay. Really gay. BIG TIME GAY!!! Put your boobies away!!!
I am a man with three tits. Irag. Iran. I roll. Yes, three tits. Lick me if you dare...
I EMBRACE INSANITY...
Yes. It's true. I love weirdness. Craziness of any shade. Madness in any form. Full blown bat shit crazy is mother's milk to me. Give me a big old bowl of delicious delirium and I am delighted beyond words. I have sought out the insane lunatic fringe since I was a sprout. Trust me, that crowd is a lot more fun to hang out with... The stuff they do is wonderfully entertaining and a joy to watch. I usually join in.
All of my life I have been up to my uni-brow in crazies. Hell, at times I have been forced to keep them circling in a holding pattern because I didn't have anywhere to put them. A few of them ran out of fuel. That wasn't pretty. First, there was my family. OK, enough said about that exit... Then there were the ones that I actively invited in. Willingly. Oh, my... Most of them have been fun. Some of them have been certifiable. That being said, they have all been sorely under or over medicated. Not unlike myself...
I once knew a "woman" named Marge. "She" was born Micheal. Micheal was a woman trapped in man's body. OK, I can deal with that one. Micheal starts going through the change. OK, I can deal with that one. Micheal gets the full monty and becomes Marge. OK, I can deal with that one too. Then the other high-heel hits the floor. Marge discovers that she is a lesbian... WTF??? huh??? I would later learn that she was deported from Australia after being busted for smuggling heroin while working as a flight attendant for Qantas. What can I say?
I once found a dead body in a basement at 2 AM. Most of you know this story so I won't go into details. Let's just say, 3-day old dead body, basement, middle of the night and an overflowing litter box. That only means one thing: TOTAL HOMO HANDS!!! For about half an hour, until the scotch kicked in. By the time I finally got around to calling 911 (after sanitizing the house) I was so fucking blind drunk it hurt. I spent the next week being torn apart as the prime murder suspect. Oh, just fuck me... So much for living my life like water.
While living in Minneapolis I knew someone that collected bear traps. Antique bear traps. Do you know what those things are? They're horrid. They're like a cross between a guillotine, a trebuchet and Dame Edna. He had damned near a hundred of these things. Antique bear traps??? I remember reading the newspaper article about him describing how he had been bludgeoned to death in his apartment. Hmmm... Lloyd, you should have picked up a better one night stand...
I once dropped kicked a roommate of mine through a plate glass window. He was drunk. I was drunk. I just picked him up and tossed him into a store front on a street in Minneapolis after the bars closed. I watched 100 square feet of glass shatter. I saw mannequins turned upside down. I saw blood. I heard sirens go off. I ran. OMg, did I run. Oh, lord... why is it the better part of my weirdness always happens in the middle of the night???
I know more than my fair share of 300 lb PLUS drag queens. OK, enough said on that matter... What can I say? Amusing? Yes. Pretty? No. But, still, through them I learned how to make balloons and dry oatmeal into tits. Hey, it's a learning curve.
In Portland, OR I met some of the most twisted, strange people I have ever known. Yes, Republicans. Gay ones. WTHIWWTP??? And they were into leather. Again, WTHIWWTP??? OK, so I hit on some them. What can I say? Beer, it's the great equalizer... Out there we had something called a "pounder and a shot". It's a sixteen ounce glass of beer and a double shot of schnapps. Trust me, a couple of rounds of those and you're fucked up enough to kiss a gay Republican in a harness and ass-chaps. The down side of that is that they always wanted you to spank them and call them Peggy... hmmmm...
Some of my best pieces of psychological unhingedment have been during happy hours. Surprised??? Especially if I happen to be on the other side of the world at time. Lord only knows what you're going to find setting next to you in a bar at 4 in the afternoon in Sydney. Or Hong Kong. Or London. Or in the transit lounge of Aeropuerto Internacional de Cuidad de Mexico. Shots. Trust me. LOTS of shots!!!
Then there were the prostitutes. OK, a caveat... It was 1978. San Francisco. 18th and Mission St. Rough neighborhood to say the least. The "girls" would walk 50 feet up 18th Street and keep under cover from the rain in my doorway. Or course, I got to know them. Two were college students, one was a divorced nurse and the other one was just, well... strange. I offered them coffee. And towels. Then we started having lunch. Soon, at least two of them had keys to the place. As long as they didn't "use" it. If you know what I mean. Aah, yes... a simpler time...
I am a magnet for strangeness. I draw it into me like a large gaseous planet. It goes into orbit around me. I am like the fly strip from "The Voyage Of The Damned". Don't get me wrong, I love it. But sometimes... sometimes... I just gotta sit back and wonder how the bloody hell did we manage to t-bone each other??? I looked like a good landing spot??? Why would we trust each other with our keys??? Wanna know my PIN numbers??? Hey, you got any gum??? Wanna pickle???
All of my life I have been up to my uni-brow in crazies. Hell, at times I have been forced to keep them circling in a holding pattern because I didn't have anywhere to put them. A few of them ran out of fuel. That wasn't pretty. First, there was my family. OK, enough said about that exit... Then there were the ones that I actively invited in. Willingly. Oh, my... Most of them have been fun. Some of them have been certifiable. That being said, they have all been sorely under or over medicated. Not unlike myself...
I once knew a "woman" named Marge. "She" was born Micheal. Micheal was a woman trapped in man's body. OK, I can deal with that one. Micheal starts going through the change. OK, I can deal with that one. Micheal gets the full monty and becomes Marge. OK, I can deal with that one too. Then the other high-heel hits the floor. Marge discovers that she is a lesbian... WTF??? huh??? I would later learn that she was deported from Australia after being busted for smuggling heroin while working as a flight attendant for Qantas. What can I say?
I once found a dead body in a basement at 2 AM. Most of you know this story so I won't go into details. Let's just say, 3-day old dead body, basement, middle of the night and an overflowing litter box. That only means one thing: TOTAL HOMO HANDS!!! For about half an hour, until the scotch kicked in. By the time I finally got around to calling 911 (after sanitizing the house) I was so fucking blind drunk it hurt. I spent the next week being torn apart as the prime murder suspect. Oh, just fuck me... So much for living my life like water.
While living in Minneapolis I knew someone that collected bear traps. Antique bear traps. Do you know what those things are? They're horrid. They're like a cross between a guillotine, a trebuchet and Dame Edna. He had damned near a hundred of these things. Antique bear traps??? I remember reading the newspaper article about him describing how he had been bludgeoned to death in his apartment. Hmmm... Lloyd, you should have picked up a better one night stand...
I once dropped kicked a roommate of mine through a plate glass window. He was drunk. I was drunk. I just picked him up and tossed him into a store front on a street in Minneapolis after the bars closed. I watched 100 square feet of glass shatter. I saw mannequins turned upside down. I saw blood. I heard sirens go off. I ran. OMg, did I run. Oh, lord... why is it the better part of my weirdness always happens in the middle of the night???
I know more than my fair share of 300 lb PLUS drag queens. OK, enough said on that matter... What can I say? Amusing? Yes. Pretty? No. But, still, through them I learned how to make balloons and dry oatmeal into tits. Hey, it's a learning curve.
In Portland, OR I met some of the most twisted, strange people I have ever known. Yes, Republicans. Gay ones. WTHIWWTP??? And they were into leather. Again, WTHIWWTP??? OK, so I hit on some them. What can I say? Beer, it's the great equalizer... Out there we had something called a "pounder and a shot". It's a sixteen ounce glass of beer and a double shot of schnapps. Trust me, a couple of rounds of those and you're fucked up enough to kiss a gay Republican in a harness and ass-chaps. The down side of that is that they always wanted you to spank them and call them Peggy... hmmmm...
Some of my best pieces of psychological unhingedment have been during happy hours. Surprised??? Especially if I happen to be on the other side of the world at time. Lord only knows what you're going to find setting next to you in a bar at 4 in the afternoon in Sydney. Or Hong Kong. Or London. Or in the transit lounge of Aeropuerto Internacional de Cuidad de Mexico. Shots. Trust me. LOTS of shots!!!
Then there were the prostitutes. OK, a caveat... It was 1978. San Francisco. 18th and Mission St. Rough neighborhood to say the least. The "girls" would walk 50 feet up 18th Street and keep under cover from the rain in my doorway. Or course, I got to know them. Two were college students, one was a divorced nurse and the other one was just, well... strange. I offered them coffee. And towels. Then we started having lunch. Soon, at least two of them had keys to the place. As long as they didn't "use" it. If you know what I mean. Aah, yes... a simpler time...
I am a magnet for strangeness. I draw it into me like a large gaseous planet. It goes into orbit around me. I am like the fly strip from "The Voyage Of The Damned". Don't get me wrong, I love it. But sometimes... sometimes... I just gotta sit back and wonder how the bloody hell did we manage to t-bone each other??? I looked like a good landing spot??? Why would we trust each other with our keys??? Wanna know my PIN numbers??? Hey, you got any gum??? Wanna pickle???
Sunday, March 17, 2013
SO, WHO ARE YOU?
OK, so the Blog is back up and running. Yes, I rant. Yes, I rage. And, yes, I do indeed blow smoke and mirrors out of my ass when the mood strikes me. Hey, it's my Blog, get over it.
I just checked my stats and it has come to my attention that I actually have readers from 10 different countries. From North America, Central America, europe, (oops, sorry, that should have been a capital "E") and Asia. China to be specific. How the hell did you find this Blog? Hell, how did any of you find this Blog??? Why am I not being censored in China??? Does China think that I am "safe"? LMFAO!!! OK, for 10 trillion Renmibi's I will agree to perform at the Birdsnest. But only if Celine Dione is my opening act. And she's in drag. Oh, wait, she is in drag. But I digress...
For you far flung souls out there, please leave me a comment. Let me know how you found me. Let me know what you think. Both of the Blog and how you think in general. Play your cards right and you might even get my email address. Would love to hear from you and know where you are from!!!
Yes, this is a weak post. But I'm curious to see who actually reads my rants. Inquiring minds want to know...
I just checked my stats and it has come to my attention that I actually have readers from 10 different countries. From North America, Central America, europe, (oops, sorry, that should have been a capital "E") and Asia. China to be specific. How the hell did you find this Blog? Hell, how did any of you find this Blog??? Why am I not being censored in China??? Does China think that I am "safe"? LMFAO!!! OK, for 10 trillion Renmibi's I will agree to perform at the Birdsnest. But only if Celine Dione is my opening act. And she's in drag. Oh, wait, she is in drag. But I digress...
For you far flung souls out there, please leave me a comment. Let me know how you found me. Let me know what you think. Both of the Blog and how you think in general. Play your cards right and you might even get my email address. Would love to hear from you and know where you are from!!!
Yes, this is a weak post. But I'm curious to see who actually reads my rants. Inquiring minds want to know...
THANK YOU, SWEDEN!!!
Been clothes shopping lately? Taken a close look at the mannequins modeling the clothes? It's bad enough in the Men's Department where everything is displayed on a mannequin about the size of a high school freshman but the Women's Department is truly nightmarish. Female mannequins in America are designed to display either size 4 or size 6. The average size worn by American women is size 14. 14!?! Hell, I don't even where a size 14 and I'm a guy. Trust me, I can schwiggle this saggy little old ass into a women's size 12 gown in a heartbeat. A 10 if it's cut right. And still have enough lee-way to need it taken up a tad around the bodice.
Why is it, as a nation that is expanding waistband wise at an exponential rate, that we are being subjected to waif-thin bulimic mannequins? Let alone wearing clothes that we fall in love with right up until we walk out of the dressing room and take a look in the mirror? I once spent 20 minutes in a dressing room putting myself into an ensemble I loved. On the mannequin. In the mirror I was an Umpa-Lumpa. OK, I'm gay, I notice that sort of fashion faux pax . Straight guys don't. It's sad...
Ladies, I bow to your patience and apparent unwillingness to take a store hostage in anger. I have noticed those mannequins. They have no boobs. They have no hips. Their legs are chop sticks. I have seen more meat on a scarecrow!!! Why do you think that the dress doesn't look as good on you as it does on "her"? And that size thing... What a joke. You do know that about 18 years ago the fashion industry decided to "re-size" the sizes, don't you??? Oh, yeah... Size 10 suddenly became an 8, 8 a 6, 6 a 4, 4 a 2. And then the ultimate weirdness.. the size ZERO. Yes, zero. Who the bloody hell wears a size zero??? Pencils? Bamboo skewers? Pipe cleaners?
This has all managed to create a rather entertaining back-lash around the world. Magazines have been berated for Photoshopping covers to make models slimmer, models have been getting younger so they are smaller, that rail thin, bulimic "look" is being accepted as desirable (if not fully expected), we can actually seen the models skeleton and sleep overs became puke overs for way too many junior high school aged girls. And we finally got fed up.
Sweden has come to our rescue. A chain store of women's stores there has had some custom made mannequins done for them. To model lingerie. OMg, has this sparked a hissy fit on the Web. The mannequins are amazing!!! They have curves where curves should be. They have boobs. They have hips. And lordy, do they have legs. Totally realistic. Right down to where the body fat should be. I'd say they are about a size 8. Which is really a size 10 but I digress... And they actually look healthy, which is kind of hard to do when you're made out of fiberglass and aluminum. Unless of course, you're Anne Francis in that really bizarre Twilight Zone episode. This chain is getting slammed with emails. Some in support, some not. The supportive ones praise them for showing women as they really are and encouraging healthy self images and the others are blaming them for supporting obesity (WTF did size freaking 8 become obese???). In all honesty, these mannequins look like one of those bikini wearing surfer girls in one of those 1960's beach movies. I don't remember that being fat...
Again, Sweden, I commend you. One small step. But a great leap forward. We come in all shapes, sizes and heights. Colors, too. And, yes, some of us have hips...
Why is it, as a nation that is expanding waistband wise at an exponential rate, that we are being subjected to waif-thin bulimic mannequins? Let alone wearing clothes that we fall in love with right up until we walk out of the dressing room and take a look in the mirror? I once spent 20 minutes in a dressing room putting myself into an ensemble I loved. On the mannequin. In the mirror I was an Umpa-Lumpa. OK, I'm gay, I notice that sort of fashion faux pax . Straight guys don't. It's sad...
Ladies, I bow to your patience and apparent unwillingness to take a store hostage in anger. I have noticed those mannequins. They have no boobs. They have no hips. Their legs are chop sticks. I have seen more meat on a scarecrow!!! Why do you think that the dress doesn't look as good on you as it does on "her"? And that size thing... What a joke. You do know that about 18 years ago the fashion industry decided to "re-size" the sizes, don't you??? Oh, yeah... Size 10 suddenly became an 8, 8 a 6, 6 a 4, 4 a 2. And then the ultimate weirdness.. the size ZERO. Yes, zero. Who the bloody hell wears a size zero??? Pencils? Bamboo skewers? Pipe cleaners?
This has all managed to create a rather entertaining back-lash around the world. Magazines have been berated for Photoshopping covers to make models slimmer, models have been getting younger so they are smaller, that rail thin, bulimic "look" is being accepted as desirable (if not fully expected), we can actually seen the models skeleton and sleep overs became puke overs for way too many junior high school aged girls. And we finally got fed up.
Sweden has come to our rescue. A chain store of women's stores there has had some custom made mannequins done for them. To model lingerie. OMg, has this sparked a hissy fit on the Web. The mannequins are amazing!!! They have curves where curves should be. They have boobs. They have hips. And lordy, do they have legs. Totally realistic. Right down to where the body fat should be. I'd say they are about a size 8. Which is really a size 10 but I digress... And they actually look healthy, which is kind of hard to do when you're made out of fiberglass and aluminum. Unless of course, you're Anne Francis in that really bizarre Twilight Zone episode. This chain is getting slammed with emails. Some in support, some not. The supportive ones praise them for showing women as they really are and encouraging healthy self images and the others are blaming them for supporting obesity (WTF did size freaking 8 become obese???). In all honesty, these mannequins look like one of those bikini wearing surfer girls in one of those 1960's beach movies. I don't remember that being fat...
Again, Sweden, I commend you. One small step. But a great leap forward. We come in all shapes, sizes and heights. Colors, too. And, yes, some of us have hips...
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
gOD LOVE A THEME FUCK!!!
Y'know, sometimes people just got to get down, get funky and get loose. I can appreciate that. Been there. Done that. Still got the whip... marks...
C'mon, you've all seen what's hanging in my closet. "Hey, Donn, why do you have all of these police uniforms?" "Uh, Donn, what's up with all of the SWAT uniforms?" "So, Donn, just how many pair of jackboots do you actually own???" "Donn, what the hell is this THING???" "Donn, honey, you have enough leather in this closet to build a cow." What can I say, I've always leaned towards the road not taken...
Sex can be dirty. But only if you do it right. I'm a firm believer in that. Ya gotta be inventive. O, come on, sex is pretty generic until you put your dark side behind it.
I am a collector of porn. Love the stuff!!! In the last couple of years a whole new niche genre of "fetish" porn has popped up on my screen. Much to my delight. You like feet? We'll give you feet. You like bald? We'll give you bald. You like boots? What kind? We got em all. Uniforms? Just let us know what kind. Construction workers? Road or building? Belts? Where and how? Socks? Athletic or dress? Dress shoes? Lace up or loafer? Suits? Two or three piece? 5 o'clock shadow? Where? OMg!!! It's an incredible ala carte menu of satisfaction out there. You name it, you got it. Streaming. Oh, lord, I think I need a cigarette...
But I have questions. I studied film in college. I know what continuity is. It's kind of important. How the hell did you get your pants off but you still have your boots on? How did you get completely naked without removing your tool belt? How did you get completely out of that uniform without removing your belt holster? When did you change from knee high jack boots to lace up construction boots? And who the hell was the set decorator that decided to hang a clock on the wall in the background with no battery in it??? THAT one pisses me off!!! No one has sex for 45 minutes from 12:05 to 12:05!!!
Anyway... the minutia of all of our secret fetishes and twisted romps is out there. On demand. Downloadable. (Flash drives. I LOVE them!!!) Viewable in the dark. Privately. Wink wink... And all just a couple of key clicks away. I have a rather extensive list of file share sites that I frequent for my fetish fix. I am surprised that most of their search engines have not jumped out of the window thanks to me. I put them to task. I search for really weird stuff. I once typed in "worker boots hairy doorbell daddy". Oh, my. 227 freaking pages of stuff popped up. All porn. Lord, I SO need some more flash drives!!!
I have been dressed up strangely since the day I was born. My second pair of shoes was a pair of cowboy boots. I was 7 months old. A fetish can start so innocently... And then blossom into 6 decades of strangeness. I was born into a world of METAL rotary dial phones with party lines. 5 digit phone numbers for chris'sakes!!! Metal ice cube trays with handles. Coal fired home furnaces. Linoleum. Yeah, look that one up...
Now, I am happily at my computer at 3 AM, while Seasquirt happily snores away, getting a fetish-fix. Door bells. Oh, lord, I love those things...
C'mon, you've all seen what's hanging in my closet. "Hey, Donn, why do you have all of these police uniforms?" "Uh, Donn, what's up with all of the SWAT uniforms?" "So, Donn, just how many pair of jackboots do you actually own???" "Donn, what the hell is this THING???" "Donn, honey, you have enough leather in this closet to build a cow." What can I say, I've always leaned towards the road not taken...
Sex can be dirty. But only if you do it right. I'm a firm believer in that. Ya gotta be inventive. O, come on, sex is pretty generic until you put your dark side behind it.
I am a collector of porn. Love the stuff!!! In the last couple of years a whole new niche genre of "fetish" porn has popped up on my screen. Much to my delight. You like feet? We'll give you feet. You like bald? We'll give you bald. You like boots? What kind? We got em all. Uniforms? Just let us know what kind. Construction workers? Road or building? Belts? Where and how? Socks? Athletic or dress? Dress shoes? Lace up or loafer? Suits? Two or three piece? 5 o'clock shadow? Where? OMg!!! It's an incredible ala carte menu of satisfaction out there. You name it, you got it. Streaming. Oh, lord, I think I need a cigarette...
But I have questions. I studied film in college. I know what continuity is. It's kind of important. How the hell did you get your pants off but you still have your boots on? How did you get completely naked without removing your tool belt? How did you get completely out of that uniform without removing your belt holster? When did you change from knee high jack boots to lace up construction boots? And who the hell was the set decorator that decided to hang a clock on the wall in the background with no battery in it??? THAT one pisses me off!!! No one has sex for 45 minutes from 12:05 to 12:05!!!
Anyway... the minutia of all of our secret fetishes and twisted romps is out there. On demand. Downloadable. (Flash drives. I LOVE them!!!) Viewable in the dark. Privately. Wink wink... And all just a couple of key clicks away. I have a rather extensive list of file share sites that I frequent for my fetish fix. I am surprised that most of their search engines have not jumped out of the window thanks to me. I put them to task. I search for really weird stuff. I once typed in "worker boots hairy doorbell daddy". Oh, my. 227 freaking pages of stuff popped up. All porn. Lord, I SO need some more flash drives!!!
I have been dressed up strangely since the day I was born. My second pair of shoes was a pair of cowboy boots. I was 7 months old. A fetish can start so innocently... And then blossom into 6 decades of strangeness. I was born into a world of METAL rotary dial phones with party lines. 5 digit phone numbers for chris'sakes!!! Metal ice cube trays with handles. Coal fired home furnaces. Linoleum. Yeah, look that one up...
Now, I am happily at my computer at 3 AM, while Seasquirt happily snores away, getting a fetish-fix. Door bells. Oh, lord, I love those things...
Monday, March 11, 2013
A WEE BIT OF TIME AGO AND A LOT OF TIME ZONES IN THE OTHER DIRECTION...
Lord, I was lost. In Asia. I was out of my element completely. After a 9 day stay in Seoul (where BTW, I truly learned the meaning of smog and how to fasten my seat belt when I was in a taxi) I found myself getting off of a plane in Hong Kong. In the middle of the night. On the tail end of Typhoon Ruby. Talk about a brown trouser sort of landing...
OK, so I didn't really step off the plane in Hong Kong. It was Kowloon. Get over it. I'm telling a story here.
Hong Kong and it's surroundings drop kicked me across the street. OMg!!! That place is insane. I shopped my brains out, drank my liver into oblivion, ate like a starving man and shot over 120 rolls of film. I had a fling with a waiter. I dumpster-dived at 3 AM in alleys I wouldn't otherwise be caught dead in at high noon. I was threatened by a duck. I swapped spit with some English guy in the back row of a multi-plex while we tried to ignore the incredibly bad American movie playing that had been dubbed in Mandarin. I think it was "You've Got Mail".
So, two weeks later I'm hopping on the hydrafoil and taking a 90 mile skim up the river into actual-factual CHINA!!! I was in trouble from the word go. The questions I had to answer on my visa application that they gave me on the boat scared me. Of course, I lied on all of them. Then I step off of the boat and head towards Customs and Immigration. I get stopped immediately. Guess who doesn't look anything like the picture in their passport. The picture in my 5 year old passport shows a guy with short hair, parted in the middle, large aviator style glasses and totally clean shaven. Yes, you could actually see my upper lip. I, on the other hand at the moment, have shoulder length hair, it's highlighted for christ's sake, I have a full beard and mustache (dark at the time) and I'm wearing what can only be described as taupe colored Sally Jesse Rapheal glasses. So, off I got to that small window-less room surrounded by the worst fitting uniforms and the biggest ass guns I have ever seen. I just immediately resigned myself to the upcoming strip search and anal probe. So the interrogation begins. They ask me questions in Cantonese, which I don't understand. And I give them answers in English which they don't understand. Can this possibly get any better??? Finally, thank god, a woman walks in that could not have been more that 3 feet tall. Oh, shit!!! I'm going to be tortured by a little person!!!
She speaks perfect English. Oh, shit!!! She's going to curse and threaten me in perfect English while she tortures me!!! I think to myself, "China, you are a wicked mistress!". Ten minutes later I have bowl of hot water and a mirror in front of me and I'm digging stuff out of my shave kit and I'm shaving my way into the Glorious People's Republic of China. Half an hour later I am liberated and I am in a taxi and on my way to the White Swan Hotel. Damn nice old colonial style hotel!!! A couple of days later I started bouncing my way around China. Always escorted by a guide and driver. I spent damn near a month in China and took trains, buses, planes and barges. I sailed down river from Guilin to Yangshou. Went to X'ian. Coughed my lungs out in Beijing and marveled at Shanghai. BTW, just to get you up to speed... livestock of varying sizes is considered acceptable carry-on luggage in China, ALWAYS book "soft seat" on ANY trip longer that 3 hours on a train, NEVER eat off of the foot cart on a train, never turn down a couple of dozen shots of moatai . Trust me, moatai will fuck you up so royally!!! Yes, I had fun in China.
Next stop Hong Kong. Again. Oh, just bite me, I knew a really hot waiter there... I had a week to kill. So I went to Macau for few days. Macau at that time had a footprint smaller that Lake Kegonsa. Now, Hong Kong was England and China. Macau was Portugal and China. A short hop on a hydrafoil but truly worlds away from each other. Again, I was lost. But I was in heaven. I was a day short, literally. A pesada short of a taxi ride back to my hotel. And a world away. From everything that was me. And so many time zones I couldn't even begin to count them.
Ahh, yes... the other side of world. I highly recommend it.
OK, so I didn't really step off the plane in Hong Kong. It was Kowloon. Get over it. I'm telling a story here.
Hong Kong and it's surroundings drop kicked me across the street. OMg!!! That place is insane. I shopped my brains out, drank my liver into oblivion, ate like a starving man and shot over 120 rolls of film. I had a fling with a waiter. I dumpster-dived at 3 AM in alleys I wouldn't otherwise be caught dead in at high noon. I was threatened by a duck. I swapped spit with some English guy in the back row of a multi-plex while we tried to ignore the incredibly bad American movie playing that had been dubbed in Mandarin. I think it was "You've Got Mail".
So, two weeks later I'm hopping on the hydrafoil and taking a 90 mile skim up the river into actual-factual CHINA!!! I was in trouble from the word go. The questions I had to answer on my visa application that they gave me on the boat scared me. Of course, I lied on all of them. Then I step off of the boat and head towards Customs and Immigration. I get stopped immediately. Guess who doesn't look anything like the picture in their passport. The picture in my 5 year old passport shows a guy with short hair, parted in the middle, large aviator style glasses and totally clean shaven. Yes, you could actually see my upper lip. I, on the other hand at the moment, have shoulder length hair, it's highlighted for christ's sake, I have a full beard and mustache (dark at the time) and I'm wearing what can only be described as taupe colored Sally Jesse Rapheal glasses. So, off I got to that small window-less room surrounded by the worst fitting uniforms and the biggest ass guns I have ever seen. I just immediately resigned myself to the upcoming strip search and anal probe. So the interrogation begins. They ask me questions in Cantonese, which I don't understand. And I give them answers in English which they don't understand. Can this possibly get any better??? Finally, thank god, a woman walks in that could not have been more that 3 feet tall. Oh, shit!!! I'm going to be tortured by a little person!!!
She speaks perfect English. Oh, shit!!! She's going to curse and threaten me in perfect English while she tortures me!!! I think to myself, "China, you are a wicked mistress!". Ten minutes later I have bowl of hot water and a mirror in front of me and I'm digging stuff out of my shave kit and I'm shaving my way into the Glorious People's Republic of China. Half an hour later I am liberated and I am in a taxi and on my way to the White Swan Hotel. Damn nice old colonial style hotel!!! A couple of days later I started bouncing my way around China. Always escorted by a guide and driver. I spent damn near a month in China and took trains, buses, planes and barges. I sailed down river from Guilin to Yangshou. Went to X'ian. Coughed my lungs out in Beijing and marveled at Shanghai. BTW, just to get you up to speed... livestock of varying sizes is considered acceptable carry-on luggage in China, ALWAYS book "soft seat" on ANY trip longer that 3 hours on a train, NEVER eat off of the foot cart on a train, never turn down a couple of dozen shots of moatai . Trust me, moatai will fuck you up so royally!!! Yes, I had fun in China.
Next stop Hong Kong. Again. Oh, just bite me, I knew a really hot waiter there... I had a week to kill. So I went to Macau for few days. Macau at that time had a footprint smaller that Lake Kegonsa. Now, Hong Kong was England and China. Macau was Portugal and China. A short hop on a hydrafoil but truly worlds away from each other. Again, I was lost. But I was in heaven. I was a day short, literally. A pesada short of a taxi ride back to my hotel. And a world away. From everything that was me. And so many time zones I couldn't even begin to count them.
Ahh, yes... the other side of world. I highly recommend it.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
THE SUMMER OF 1970...
Oh my, those were heady daze. I was 16 and soon to be 17. And I was growing up in San Francisco. Ahh, a smile comes to my face but I don't know why. I honestly don't remember that summer at all. I was 16, going on 17 (with my apologies to "The Sound Of Music") and was in the center of the universe for the best LSD on the face of the planet.
I used to take a 10 minute bus ride over to the Haight and score. I knew this burn-out over there that washed dishes in my parents restaurant. He was the most amazing crispy critter I have ever had the pleasure to encounter. He lived in a crash pad (i.e., 27 "roommates") in a miserable 3rd floor walk up. It smelled of goats. And brown rice.
Half an hour later, safely back at home and barricaded in my room I start chowing down on Mr. Natural. and a quarter of a piece of Windowpane. Thank god for X-acto knives. And I start giggling. For the next 16 hours. And that was only because I had enough sense to set the alarm on my Sears Signature clock radio to go off about 6 hours into this little vacation so I could pop another quarter of the Windowpane just about the time I was peaking. Now, trust me, this is a totally acceptable way to do this sort of thing. That way, about the time you're about to start crashing off of the first dose you start boosting up on the second one. I like to call them "floaters". Trust me, they're FUCKING FABULOUS!!!
I was doing this from pre-Memorial Day Weekend until some time late September. 3 to 5 times a week. Oh, good lord, I was mess. A train wreck. A puddle... But I always had a smile on my face. Conversationally I became very animated for the first time. Probably just so I could watch my hands "trail". (That is SO fucking cool!!!). I was liquid. My parents were clueless. Obviously, a much simpler time...
I do not remember moving across the country in October of 1970 when my father retired and went full blown bat shit crazy. I came to sometime around the end of November. I was in Jefferson, Wisconsin. I was sitting at a desk in a public school for the first time in my life. I was no longer in a uniform, I was in jeans. And there were girls in the class. And not a nun in sight... WTFIWWTS??? WTF is my briefcase???
Then I found out that dad had bought hobby farm. I live in the country??? I'm a "farm kid"??? I ride the FUCKING bus??? WTF!!! Please, god, just give me a sinkhole... NOW!!!
I have softened over the years. Not really. I have mellowed. Not really. I am no longer rude, crude, lewd and socially unacceptable. Not really. I am warm and fuzzy. Not really. Well, maybe fuzzy. In more ways than one. Trust me, you don't want to see my back...
No surprise to any of you, I have the short term memory of a gold fish. I do not know my home phone number. Or my cell phone number. Or my zip code. Or most of my PIN numbers. Thank god for masking tape and post-it notes. Has anyone seen my wallet? Car keys? What??? I own a car??? REALLY??? Is it anywhere close? What does it look like? Are you sure that it's mine? Can I have a pickle? You got change for a penny???
Yes, I am damaged. Oh hell, I have enough baggage to move to Mars with!!! Including the spice rack. And a bunch of shit I haven't even unpacked from IKEA yet. WHY DO YOU PEOPLE LET ME BABY-SIT YOUR CHILDREN???
I used to take a 10 minute bus ride over to the Haight and score. I knew this burn-out over there that washed dishes in my parents restaurant. He was the most amazing crispy critter I have ever had the pleasure to encounter. He lived in a crash pad (i.e., 27 "roommates") in a miserable 3rd floor walk up. It smelled of goats. And brown rice.
Half an hour later, safely back at home and barricaded in my room I start chowing down on Mr. Natural. and a quarter of a piece of Windowpane. Thank god for X-acto knives. And I start giggling. For the next 16 hours. And that was only because I had enough sense to set the alarm on my Sears Signature clock radio to go off about 6 hours into this little vacation so I could pop another quarter of the Windowpane just about the time I was peaking. Now, trust me, this is a totally acceptable way to do this sort of thing. That way, about the time you're about to start crashing off of the first dose you start boosting up on the second one. I like to call them "floaters". Trust me, they're FUCKING FABULOUS!!!
I was doing this from pre-Memorial Day Weekend until some time late September. 3 to 5 times a week. Oh, good lord, I was mess. A train wreck. A puddle... But I always had a smile on my face. Conversationally I became very animated for the first time. Probably just so I could watch my hands "trail". (That is SO fucking cool!!!). I was liquid. My parents were clueless. Obviously, a much simpler time...
I do not remember moving across the country in October of 1970 when my father retired and went full blown bat shit crazy. I came to sometime around the end of November. I was in Jefferson, Wisconsin. I was sitting at a desk in a public school for the first time in my life. I was no longer in a uniform, I was in jeans. And there were girls in the class. And not a nun in sight... WTFIWWTS??? WTF is my briefcase???
Then I found out that dad had bought hobby farm. I live in the country??? I'm a "farm kid"??? I ride the FUCKING bus??? WTF!!! Please, god, just give me a sinkhole... NOW!!!
I have softened over the years. Not really. I have mellowed. Not really. I am no longer rude, crude, lewd and socially unacceptable. Not really. I am warm and fuzzy. Not really. Well, maybe fuzzy. In more ways than one. Trust me, you don't want to see my back...
No surprise to any of you, I have the short term memory of a gold fish. I do not know my home phone number. Or my cell phone number. Or my zip code. Or most of my PIN numbers. Thank god for masking tape and post-it notes. Has anyone seen my wallet? Car keys? What??? I own a car??? REALLY??? Is it anywhere close? What does it look like? Are you sure that it's mine? Can I have a pickle? You got change for a penny???
Yes, I am damaged. Oh hell, I have enough baggage to move to Mars with!!! Including the spice rack. And a bunch of shit I haven't even unpacked from IKEA yet. WHY DO YOU PEOPLE LET ME BABY-SIT YOUR CHILDREN???
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
FMTT!!!!
It has just occurred to me that I am now 4 months and 15 days away from turning 60. Oh, just fuck all of you, don't you know that I can hear you laughing??? Yes. 60. Sixty. Ahem... Old...
So... Who wants to go skydiving? Bungi jumping? Concrete poisoning while skate boarding? How about hang gliding? Swimming with sharks? Perhaps a "family fiendly" cruise. Yes, I really did mean to say fiendly.
No, wait, I take that one back. I am so NOT family fiendly...
I am no longer 59 and a half. I am on the skid marks to 60. 60... FM!!!! For those of you older than me: FUCK YOU!!! For those of you younger than me: FUCK YOU TOO!!! Don't forget I know where all of you live and I am not above breaking in in the middle of the night and doing you in with a boat oar. I'm a devious little bitch and your certain to not be my first victims. Think about it. I've been buggered with a dead body in a basement in the middle of the night. Oh yeah, that was fun. That was when I finally realized that I should be on Broadway. Damn, I'm good... especially in a totally suck ass situation. Who knew...
For some unknown reason my skinny little ass is still walking around the unarmed, the unsuspecting and the unaware. You bitches need to duck and cover!!!
Sixty. I remember fifty. Sort of. Not really. Well, kind of. Not really.... I was dressed up like Sponge Bob Squarepants and I was carrying a pineapple. Trust me, I was lit getting out of the car... Hell of a party as a vaguely remember...
60. OJFMTFT!!! Sixty??? Holy shit!!! Sixty!?! Oh, just FUCK ME AND FEED ME FISH!!! christ, if I was a dog I would have had the good graces to have died when I was eleven. In my sleep... In the basement..
Sixty. Start looking for boat oars now. Trust me, you're going to need them... That's about the only way to eradicate us. We're a tough little bunch of in breds. Southern, don't you know...
SIXTY!!! FMTT!!!
So... Who wants to go skydiving? Bungi jumping? Concrete poisoning while skate boarding? How about hang gliding? Swimming with sharks? Perhaps a "family fiendly" cruise. Yes, I really did mean to say fiendly.
No, wait, I take that one back. I am so NOT family fiendly...
I am no longer 59 and a half. I am on the skid marks to 60. 60... FM!!!! For those of you older than me: FUCK YOU!!! For those of you younger than me: FUCK YOU TOO!!! Don't forget I know where all of you live and I am not above breaking in in the middle of the night and doing you in with a boat oar. I'm a devious little bitch and your certain to not be my first victims. Think about it. I've been buggered with a dead body in a basement in the middle of the night. Oh yeah, that was fun. That was when I finally realized that I should be on Broadway. Damn, I'm good... especially in a totally suck ass situation. Who knew...
For some unknown reason my skinny little ass is still walking around the unarmed, the unsuspecting and the unaware. You bitches need to duck and cover!!!
Sixty. I remember fifty. Sort of. Not really. Well, kind of. Not really.... I was dressed up like Sponge Bob Squarepants and I was carrying a pineapple. Trust me, I was lit getting out of the car... Hell of a party as a vaguely remember...
60. OJFMTFT!!! Sixty??? Holy shit!!! Sixty!?! Oh, just FUCK ME AND FEED ME FISH!!! christ, if I was a dog I would have had the good graces to have died when I was eleven. In my sleep... In the basement..
Sixty. Start looking for boat oars now. Trust me, you're going to need them... That's about the only way to eradicate us. We're a tough little bunch of in breds. Southern, don't you know...
SIXTY!!! FMTT!!!
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
"LORD OF THE FLIES." THE MUSICAL!!!
So, I was out drinking a late lunch with a dear friend of mine the other day and completely out of the azul he turns to me and asks "Who's the worst queen you've ever been subjected to?". After I had signaled to bartender to line up another round of Sauza shots I felt obliged to answer. What the hell. Apparently inquiring minds hungered to know.
OK, I'm anal. My mind starts to immediately Google my brain looking for the juiciest links. As my friend signals the bartender to set us up again I query, "May I ask a qualifying question?". Of course, he says yes. Silly man... "How do you want this?" I ask. "By decade? City I have lived in? Proximity at any given moment? By bar? Sheer bitchiness? Total lack of ability to accessorize? No more Gay-Dar than god gave a toothpick? In drag or out of drag? Not as pretty as they thought they were? Dead or alive? The ones who stabbed me? The ones I filed charges for assault on? 911? How far do you want me to go back? C'mon, point me in a direction!!!" He looks at me. Kind of stunned. I ordered another round just to keep us both lucid. "Oh, just spill your innards." he says. I respond with "Fasten your seat belt, cupcake."
I decided to do it by decade. Flashback.... the 70's.
They started in my hometown of San Francisco, migrated to Wisconsin for college and ended up back in San Francisco for my whore period. Sort of like Picasso's blue period only a LOT more fun. OMG, I knew some of the most incredibly bitchy clones back then. It was WAY beyond dog eat dog. And I was one of them. Oh, god... Tight 501's. Top button undone. A specially custom shrank white t-shirt. Porn 'stache. Black tennis shoes. Oh, lord,we were just too awful for words. But at least we got laid a lot. A LOT!!! I met the most devious, bottom feeding, awful SOB I had ever seen up to that point.. OMG, we're talking psychic-vampire!!! I swear, that bitch could suck the color out of wallpaper!!! I still shudder. I hope to god someone finally put a stake through it's heart!
Fast forward... the 80's.
Cool, this gives me two cities. Minneapolis and Portland, OR. In Minneapolis I met a queen so freaking evil that she actually carried poison apples around just so she wouldn't have to pay for cab fare home after she wasn't snagged up at the "sidewalk sale" when the bar closed. Hideous. Just hideous. Her name was Chi Chi La'rue. Drag don't you know. Today she CEO of Chi Chi La'rue Productions. One of the largest gay porn studios in the country. I salute you. But you're still just a fat guy in a dress, you bitch!!! Portland. Oh, my... That city was just a clusterfuck waiting to be set on fire and then flushed. I met the chart topper of emotional cannibals there. Holy shit, he was amazingly toxic. And a total and complete cunt. My apologies to the sensitive out there, but holyshit this guy just sucked rocks!!! He was a pompous fuckwad with nowhere the money he needed to have behind him to be this big of a shithead. He and I served on two Boards of Director's together and came to so many (way to many) bitch slapping smack downs for me to count. I wanted that SOB to get hit by the moon!!! This is the one instance in my life where I can honestly say I prayed for the permission to instill bodily harm. To where the end result was a funeral. Where I would attend and piss on the corpse. Yes, I HATED THAT MOTHERFUCKER!!!
Flash forward... The 90's. Pretty boring really. I moved back to Wisconsin. I divorced husband number 3. I isolated. I drank. Heavily. I was happy. And then I moved to Madison. I had the next door neighbor from hell. Her name was Todd. FMTT!!! He had emotional canines! Talk about a great white in a pod of baby seals!!! I kept threatening her with a cattle prod... hooked up to Sears DieHard battery. Just get TFAFM!!! Thank god, she's dead. Poisoned, I've heard. Then there's John.. Dead body in the basement. At 2:00 in the morning. Oh yeah, instant freak-out. Don't ask questions. It was sort of a private moment for me. Thank god for a liquor cabinet full of Scotch and the good sense to "sanitize" the house!!! OJFMTTT!!! TOTAL homo-hands!!!
Flash forward... The 'Oughts.
Again, pretty boring. Unless you want to count the cranial hemorrhage, the "paper clip" in my brain, Lyme Disease and the building fire that I was rescued from. Out of window. Over the back of a VERY burly fireman. Had I been conscience I would have been in heaven!!! My car, my dog, me and everything I owned smelled like a bbq at Twelve Oaks. OJFM!!!
Flash forward... the 'teens...
I have a stalker. He's a strange dude. Actually, he used to be a friend. Now, he's just a fiend. I have never had someone that I know go this ballistic on me. Overnight. He used to be a good friend. Now, I look over my shoulder. Just way TOO weird!!! WTF do you think I did to you dude???
As the next round of shots magically appear before us, I ask my friend, "Does that answer your question?".
He immediately orders two more rounds of shots.!
And then we ask for the dinner menu.
OK, I'm anal. My mind starts to immediately Google my brain looking for the juiciest links. As my friend signals the bartender to set us up again I query, "May I ask a qualifying question?". Of course, he says yes. Silly man... "How do you want this?" I ask. "By decade? City I have lived in? Proximity at any given moment? By bar? Sheer bitchiness? Total lack of ability to accessorize? No more Gay-Dar than god gave a toothpick? In drag or out of drag? Not as pretty as they thought they were? Dead or alive? The ones who stabbed me? The ones I filed charges for assault on? 911? How far do you want me to go back? C'mon, point me in a direction!!!" He looks at me. Kind of stunned. I ordered another round just to keep us both lucid. "Oh, just spill your innards." he says. I respond with "Fasten your seat belt, cupcake."
I decided to do it by decade. Flashback.... the 70's.
They started in my hometown of San Francisco, migrated to Wisconsin for college and ended up back in San Francisco for my whore period. Sort of like Picasso's blue period only a LOT more fun. OMG, I knew some of the most incredibly bitchy clones back then. It was WAY beyond dog eat dog. And I was one of them. Oh, god... Tight 501's. Top button undone. A specially custom shrank white t-shirt. Porn 'stache. Black tennis shoes. Oh, lord,we were just too awful for words. But at least we got laid a lot. A LOT!!! I met the most devious, bottom feeding, awful SOB I had ever seen up to that point.. OMG, we're talking psychic-vampire!!! I swear, that bitch could suck the color out of wallpaper!!! I still shudder. I hope to god someone finally put a stake through it's heart!
Fast forward... the 80's.
Cool, this gives me two cities. Minneapolis and Portland, OR. In Minneapolis I met a queen so freaking evil that she actually carried poison apples around just so she wouldn't have to pay for cab fare home after she wasn't snagged up at the "sidewalk sale" when the bar closed. Hideous. Just hideous. Her name was Chi Chi La'rue. Drag don't you know. Today she CEO of Chi Chi La'rue Productions. One of the largest gay porn studios in the country. I salute you. But you're still just a fat guy in a dress, you bitch!!! Portland. Oh, my... That city was just a clusterfuck waiting to be set on fire and then flushed. I met the chart topper of emotional cannibals there. Holy shit, he was amazingly toxic. And a total and complete cunt. My apologies to the sensitive out there, but holyshit this guy just sucked rocks!!! He was a pompous fuckwad with nowhere the money he needed to have behind him to be this big of a shithead. He and I served on two Boards of Director's together and came to so many (way to many) bitch slapping smack downs for me to count. I wanted that SOB to get hit by the moon!!! This is the one instance in my life where I can honestly say I prayed for the permission to instill bodily harm. To where the end result was a funeral. Where I would attend and piss on the corpse. Yes, I HATED THAT MOTHERFUCKER!!!
Flash forward... The 90's. Pretty boring really. I moved back to Wisconsin. I divorced husband number 3. I isolated. I drank. Heavily. I was happy. And then I moved to Madison. I had the next door neighbor from hell. Her name was Todd. FMTT!!! He had emotional canines! Talk about a great white in a pod of baby seals!!! I kept threatening her with a cattle prod... hooked up to Sears DieHard battery. Just get TFAFM!!! Thank god, she's dead. Poisoned, I've heard. Then there's John.. Dead body in the basement. At 2:00 in the morning. Oh yeah, instant freak-out. Don't ask questions. It was sort of a private moment for me. Thank god for a liquor cabinet full of Scotch and the good sense to "sanitize" the house!!! OJFMTTT!!! TOTAL homo-hands!!!
Flash forward... The 'Oughts.
Again, pretty boring. Unless you want to count the cranial hemorrhage, the "paper clip" in my brain, Lyme Disease and the building fire that I was rescued from. Out of window. Over the back of a VERY burly fireman. Had I been conscience I would have been in heaven!!! My car, my dog, me and everything I owned smelled like a bbq at Twelve Oaks. OJFM!!!
Flash forward... the 'teens...
I have a stalker. He's a strange dude. Actually, he used to be a friend. Now, he's just a fiend. I have never had someone that I know go this ballistic on me. Overnight. He used to be a good friend. Now, I look over my shoulder. Just way TOO weird!!! WTF do you think I did to you dude???
As the next round of shots magically appear before us, I ask my friend, "Does that answer your question?".
He immediately orders two more rounds of shots.!
And then we ask for the dinner menu.
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