So I'm reviewing this claim to ensure that it meets company standards. It says something like this: The claimant Maria S. was assigned to oversee a group home where eight mentally retarded persons reside. Normally they all go to their day programs each morning but on this day, one refused. After the rest of them had left, Maria asked him if it was his birthday. He says, "Yeah I turned 21 today." She asks him if wants a present while undoing the buttons on her blouse. He says, "Well, sure." Next thing you know he's bending her over an ottoman and ravaging her.
Now you might be wondering how on Earth this could possibly qualify her for worker's comp benefits. Well, she claimed that her mentally challenged charge had raped her. Neither the police detective nor our own investigator bought into her dubious tale. No charges were filed. Hospital records didn't show any evidence of forcible action. There were two other persons present, both of whom said they'd heard moans emanating from the back bedroom. The alleged perpetrator didn't flee. Maria had a history of erratic behavior and had been reprimanded for it.
Naturally we slammed the door in her face. End of story? Hardly. She hired an attorney to pursue her claim. He in turn referred her to a shrink who recounted her bogus story and affirmed that she was indeed disabled for life. Post-traumatic stress, don't you know. Never mind that by all accounts she'd not only initiated the wild thing but enjoyed it immensely too. Hell, who wouldn't?
Here's the twist: Whatever happened went down in Washington DC, perhaps the most liberal jurisdiction in the country. DC law dictates that there is a presumption that any malady a worker claims is related to the work injury. If you fail to rebut this presumption, you're screwed. Which means our lawyers must prove she wasn't raped by this retarded guy.
We've checked out our star witness. His IQ is 80. He's got a long rap sheet, mostly for petty crimes but no sexual assault cases. He's on multiple meds. Not what you'd call an ideal witness. My company is going to take it up the ass on this one.
So if you want to hop aboard the worker's comp gravy train, move to DC. Secure a job working with disabled folks. Seduce one of them and then claim he or she raped you. Hook up with a sleazy attorney and doctor and you're in business. You'll collect up to $1,022 weekly for life, tax-free with automatic COLA adjustments. What a deal!
Of course faking psychological problems for financial gain is nothing new. 20% of Social Security Disability recipients sustained no physical injury at all. Until a few years ago being a drunk or a junkie would qualify you. Which is part of the reason few of you will ever see a dime of the money you've poured down the Social Security rathole.
Don't get me wrong though. I'm not trying to trivialize true mental illness or rape. I myself am psychotic, you could ask Ezy who visited my home recently. It's just that scammers like Maria make it much tougher for legitimate victims to prove their cases. One bad apple spoils the whole bunch.
I went to Iowa State and it always surprises me when attention is turned toward my alma mater. Usually it's pretty odd. I think Big Media wither cannot comprehend things happening outside large cities or it has the impression that anything that happens outside a large city is tinged with rural weirdness.
For example, it was a complete coincidence the Rodney King verdict coindided with our student run festival, Veishea, which had the occasional drunken riot. A riot broke out the same night as rioting broke out in LA over the verdict. ABC News and CNN were both on hand. Some jokers were chanting "Rodney King, Rodney King" and even Ted Koppel announced that rioting had broken out in Ames Iowa over the Rodney King verdict. It was nuts.
So right now, a lot of people are getting all worked up that Iowa State Basketball Coach Larry Eustachy has been busted getting his drink on with a bunch of students in Manhattan, Kans. and Columbia Mo. Apparently, Eustachy likes to lose games and then crash parties. Or at least he loses games and then likes to crash parties.
The most shocking thing pictures of Eustachy reveal was not him getting kissed on the cheek by coeds, but the shocking fact that even though he makes more than any other state employee in all of Iowa, he still drinks Natural Light. At the lowest point in my life, I never drank Natty Light. I just wouldn’t drink anything if things got that bad.
Apparently, Eustachy got verbally “fresh” with some 23-year-old “girls.” The way I figure it, if they’re old enough to get drunk at a frat party, they are old enough to get hit on by Larry Eustachy.
Who cares about this? Anyone? Besides boosters who are a bunch of uptight assholes who want students to sit down and shut up at games. It isn’t like Larry rides into these towns on the back of his battle stallion like a conquering Mongol to burn villages, do keg stands, shove honies in a gunny sack and ride hard back to Ames with his booty.
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, you pay a guy a lot of money, you expect he won’t act like a tool, but he still has a First Amendment right to assemble, to say what he likes and to get his swerve on. No laws have been broken. He supports the troops. Aren’t there more important things to kvetch about?
Has anyone else ever been shushed by their partner during sex? Or had someone place a hand over their mouth to try to accomplish a shushing? How about been post-coitally offered a pillow?
The funny thing with the first and last incidences is that, in those cases, I was being quiet. At least, as best as I could; the pillow offer involved only a lot of heavy breathing on my part -- the noise factor was quite effectively contained.
When I was shushed, well... I was doing the best I could. What can I say? When the getting's good, I'm very vocal -- I find it's a challenge not to be noisy, and it actually feels better to do some hollering... which is why that hand over my mouth was rejected -- I turned my head to the side and kept up my vocalizations. What do I care if the neighbours hear? It's just proof that my guy is showing me a damn good time.
I'd invest in some ball or cloth gags, but I really don't think they'd do any good. If biting my arm or choking off as much of the noise as I can doesn't work -- and if I like to be loud and it feels better -- I'm not convinced that a gag really would. Maybe I'll just send the neighbours some ear plugs.
The boys are back in town this weekend. The quasi-annual meeting of the geeks is in full swing so my best advice to all the peasants out there is lock up your daughters (and your sons in at least one case), hide the Mountain Dew, nail crooked boards over your doors and windows, look both ways before crossing the street and, if at all possible, DON’T PET STRANGE DOGS.
Yeah, I tell you, when it comes to the pinnacle of nerdishness, nothing beats a roomful of men screaming toward middle age acting like 14-year-olds, rolling multi-side dice and calling each other by their “character names.”
Until they they start doing it in public.
So Thursday, Steve, The Big King Geek (”that than which no greater geek can possibly exist,” according to St. Anselm) rolls into town from North Carolina at 11:30 a.m. Every time Steve comes into town, his first stop for lunch HAS to be Spaghetti Works – an all-u-can-eat spaghetti place – because “we don’t have anything like this in North Carolina.”
This is what Steve tells us and the waiter and anyone else who will listen.
“Can we get another basket of bread?” Steve asks the waiter.
“Yeah, they don’t have bread in North Carolina either,” I said.
“Shut up,” said Steve, brandishing his fork like a feral child, the last crust of garlic bread dangling from bloody fangs.
“Hey, Steve, you want to recreate the Spaghetti Works experience at home? MAKE SOME SPAGHETTI!” I suggested.
“I don’t cook,” demured Steve.
“You can boil water, can’t you? Boil water, insert spaghetti, remove water, insert sauce, shove in your gut,” I said. “What could be simpler. Nothing, Steve. Nothing could be simpler.”
“But,” said Steve, his lip beginning to quiver.
“AND if you want to have the complete Spaghetti Works experience, just sit on the toilet for an hour while your wife kicks you in the stomach over and over again until you shit blood,” I said.
It was at this point that Steve snapped. He grabbed his glass of Mr. Pibb and broke it on the edge of the table. Ice cubes, brown sugar water and shards of glass flew leaving Steve holding the deadliest weapon he had wielded since his wedding night.
“You wanna dance, Hans?” he asked, calling me by my character name of nearly 20 years ago. “Let’s dance!”
“Bring it on, cholo,” I shouted as I picked up the parmasean, the only blunt object at hand.
A crowd of Nebraska fans gathered in shock and awe at seeing two Iowa Titans going into battle before their eyes. “Protect the children they screamed” for all the good it would do them that day.
Just as I was about to receive my first blow from Steve, David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance!” came over the jukebox and we just fell about laughing.
“I love you, man,” said Steve, tears in his eyes.
“Calm down, Stephanie,” I said putting up the emotional defenses that keep me from satisfying adult relationships.
Mike and Brian who sat through the entire episode oddly passive and now seemed disappointed. They were undoubtedly expecting a big haul. When geeks fight, the ground around them is littered with coins. I once made $47 collecting coins after two of these Urkels went at it because one of their characters died in a game.
We finished our lunch talking about how “Top Gun” is the greatest subversive, homo-erotic film ever made by a major studio (it’s Rated-R, so be warned) then Steve tried to sell us all computers so he could pay for lunch with company plastic ... and I cried.
by mg at 03:24 PM on April 28, 2003
What happened here?
Everything was going fine here. Lots of posts by lots of different authors. Lots of interesting comments by the peanut gallery. It seemed like everyone was getting along swimmingly without me, and I was very glad. The thought that I could go on about my life without worrying about the time consuming, energy sucking behemoth that Bad Samaritan has become, well, that made me happy.
Now, I come back from my mental health holiday, only about two weeks since I “left,” and things are in near ruin. In the last two weeks there were two stretches where no one posted for two whole days. There were a lot of twos in that sentence. There have been only 20 comments over the last four days – we’d been averaging about 40 comments a day for the past few months. The regular crew of commentors seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.
What the hell is going on? Where has everyone gone?
I could understand if just a few authors and commentors were missing, but it seems like everyone is slacking off recently. This isn’t just one person’s real life getting in the way, because I know all of you can’t have all gotten lives at the same time. It’s inconceivable.
I’m upset that you primates can’t seem to get along without me. But, it is also sort of nice to know that you primates can’t seem to get along without me. I liked the idea that things could carry on around here with only minimal urgings from me, and that maybe I could take a fucking break every once in a while, without fearing of everything going to hell. But I’m also such a narcissist that I feel much better knowing that that without me here the bustling metropolis that BS is when things are really popping quickly drops lower than radio airplay from the new Dixie Chicks single.
So much of what I do is behind the scenes, and never gets notice. I mean, Linz writes about corrupting a minor and gets 40 comments, but no one would have anything to say if I mentioned how I optimized the scripts on the site so pages now pop faster. This is something that I alternatively don’t, and do mind.
The birthday presents helped a lot, Shannon and David, Josh, Chuck, and Lockheed (stupid post office sent your package back since I wasn’t here the three times they tried to delivered it, but thanks for the thought), and the fact things fall apart around here without me helps, so I guess I’ll just get over my envy. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ll get over my weird mental things about this site. Either that, or can just shower me with affection and presents, and I’ll promise to never leave you again. Actually, that sounds much easier, and like a good basis for a healthy relationship, doesn’t it?
At my office there's a mysterious department known as SLG. No one knows what it stands for or what they do. All we do know is that SLG applicants must be uber-hot, fresh out of college and dumb as rocks.
One in particular springs to mind. Meet former SLG employee-cum-model Claudia. Cross Monica Belluci with Thumbelina and you'd have this wisp of a chick. She's blessed with these impossibly high cheekbones, a swan's neck and a waiflike waist.
SLG is situated between the rest of our office and the mailroom. As guys would saunter by her desk under the flimsy pretense of checking their mail, their heads would crane to give her a good looking-over. She'd look up and flash a devilish smile, which only encouraged heavier traffic. The worn carpet told the tale. Management was not amused and took steps to halt it. They actually hung a No Loitering sign outside her cubicle.
My boss is a staid, older guy not prone to outbursts of exuberence. Yet when we were talking in the hallway and Claudia came sashaying by, he gasped, "Oh....my.....god" loudly enough for her to hear. See, as ZZ Topp put it, she had a west coast strut that was sweet as molasses.
On Halloween she donned this skimpy cat getup underneath a trench coat. She purred, "Hi I'm Claudia and I'm a cat---meow. Then she lost the coat and twirled around suggestively. This was greeted by a thunderous round of applause that guaranteed her first prize. Much grumbling was heard from runners-up who' crafted more imaginative costumes.
They'd dangled a pinata from the ceiling. Two volunteers took a crack at it but failed to bust it open. Enter Claudia, exuding all the confidence of a seasoned pinata-busting pro. The office manager blindfolded her gingerly so as to avoid any untoward touching allegations. But when it came time to twirl her around he was left with no choice but to lay hands on her. She grabs the bat and gives that pinata a mighty wallop worthy of Barry Bonds. Candy spewed everywhere. At first she daintily bends at her waist to pick up Snickers and Skittles, giving the audience an ample glimpse of her assets. Then she drops to her knees and begins scooping up candy by the handful. All male eyes except for mine were riveted to her. I was distracted by the visible bulge in the manager's pants. He was clearly having one of those Southwest Airlines "wanna get away?" moments.
As the festivities wound down it occured to me that I faced a similar dilemma. As I trudged back to my desk, a coworker whispered, "Looks like you enjoyed that a little too much." Busted! "Well, you have to admit she had a helluva swing for a girl," I stammered.
Yes, like Jimmy Carter, I have lusted if only in my heart. So where's my Nobel Peace Prize?
Springtime has come to Iowa, complete with its vacillating weather: one day it’s 70 degrees, the next day, 40. Before I head out the door in the morning I make sure to hang out my window for a few minutes to ascertain the shifts in the weather. I used to just peek out the window at what everyone else seemed to be wearing, but that can backfire. There’s always that guy running around campus in the middle of a snowstorm in shorts, and it would be my luck that it would be this fool that I would spot out my window, dress accordingly, and then I, too, would become that guy. Just as I get frustrated at another day of sweating in unnecessary layers or freezing and wishing for the coat I left at home and I’m about to shake my fist at the sky and proclaim, “Just make up your goddamned mind!” I realize that there’s really no one around to hear me. And if there were someone who would hear me, it might be a way to get myself locked in a padded room.
But still, spring is here; that time of year that signals new growth and life has come at last, out of the deep freeze of winter. No longer must we worry our exposed body parts will be victims of frostbite as we trek across campus. Now we worry that our exposed body parts will be victims of the pigeons and crows, endlessly circling, awaiting the perfect moment to execute a drop with the uncanny accuracy of a Cruise missile. The scent of blooming trees and shrubs is filling the air with their potency of new energy. We see the bunnies hopping around, frantically trying to copulate, with an ADHD pattern: they hop, nibble some grass, hump each other furiously for 15 seconds, hop away, nibble grass, repeat...
In a college town, the thawing of the ground and warming of the air is also a harbinger of that last great rite of entry into adulthood, where we cast off the trappings and fittings of youth and stand poised to take our place in the “real world” – graduation. It’s the time of year when those who for some reason or other wish to escape the shielding arms of academia and enter into the bloodbath we call society manically try to find jobs, finish classes, and find time to commiserate in shared joy and pain over countless pitchers of beer. It’s also when many try to make up for lost time, talking to those on whom you’ve had your eye for years and then frantically trying to copulate. Luckily for some of us, namely me, I have one more year to go before I have to think about abandoning this safe harbor of school, the comforting womb of knowledge, the simulacrum of life where I can almost forget about the world of “terror threats” and “economy” and “unemployment.” I watch another round of friends try to find jobs, made all the more difficult by the lousy economy, and remember when they began school, fresh-faced and eager. Most people who know me think I should be graduating this year, and I laugh a hearty belly-laugh at their folly, momentarily forgetting that the standard convention is to go to school for only four years. Four, six, who’s counting?
It seems that the people who are graduating aren’t nearly as concerned about entering the “real world” as I think they should. They go about their daily lives, unaware that their entire structure of life is about to change. I want to protect them from the dangerous war that we call the business world and shelter them from the frightening things they will encounter. And just when I’m about to grab them and shake them to their senses with “Don’t you see what’s happening here? Don’t give in!” I realize that this, too, is probably a good ticket to a padded room, this time with a cozy jacket to wear.
Instead I sit back and watch them pull impossible hours, trying futilely to up their GPA by a few meager tenths and schmoozing with whomever they think might be able to give them an in into their field. And I smile and sit back, secure in the knowledge that I won’t have to do this for another year. Am I doing anything to ease my tension when this time comes around for me next year?
by mg at 10:18 AM on April 24, 2003
Spring is in the air, finally. And this is always the time of year when a young man’s fancy turns to… government and public policy. In conjunction with some research I’m doing for school, and just because I wanted to play with Blogger, I started an eGovernment Weblog. Doesn’t that sound exciting?
I don’t know, I’m such an academic, theory-wank that it does sound interesting to me. Over the past couple months I’ve realized an interest research and design of information systems for government and public interest uses. Don’t be surprised if a year or so from now you hear me looking to get another Masters in public policy, and eventually settling down into a nice cushy civil service job.
For now, I’m just looking for a place to dump and store the vast quantities of info I’m sucking down like Clinton intern with a cigar in her kootchie. But if eGov doesn’t sound exciting to you, don’t worry, I’m getting back into the swing of daily life, shaking off the mental cobwebs brought on by the recent Indian Winter (Is that a term? It should be), and will be back to my old self in no time.
I used the word kootiche, so things can’t be far off from normal.
For many of us who don't have a loved-one stationed in Iraq, the war is swiftly fading from memory. As is the contentious brouhaha it engendered. And even though Osama and Saddam's whereabouts remain a mystery, our government has seen fit to downgrade the terror threat to yellow. Isn't it strange how the threat matrix has become an ubiquitous aspect of our lives?
On the home front, this past winter couldn't have been more desultory. War talk dominated the news. Over my son's strenuous objections, our TV remained glued to CNN's droning heads. Showdown with Iraq, War in Iraq, The New Iraq and so forth. We suffered through two crippling snowstorms and a flood in our basement. Our agent warned that to file a claim would be to get dropped like an aging Hollywood wife by Allstate. My stepdaughter disappeared for months. We were worried sick about her.
Whoever dubbed the holiday season the most wonderful time of the year must have been licking too many hallucinogenic toads. Cranky shoppers crowd overheated malls in search of gifts no one will appreciate. The weather is always frigid and miserable. Bratty kids are off from school and demand entertainment.
Summer's no better. It's too damn hot so we barricade ourselves inside hermetically sealed homes with the AC cranked. I enroll my son in a series of expensive camps he hates, lest he complain of boredom and loneliness. Vacations never live up to artificially inflated expectations.
Fall usually isn't so bad, but that wasn't the case this year. We Washingtonians were besieged by snipers. Sniper experts crawled out of the woodwork to offer up strategies for avoidance of getting murdered at random as you made your daily rounds. I pumped gas at a murder site, where I noted an odd-looking stain I chalked up to an oil leak. It was an uneasy, almost surreal tie. Soccer was cancelled due to security concerns.
But like the war, that's all over now. Spring has arrived and I for one am majorly psyched. The TV is once again tuned to Cartoon Network. My stepdaughter resurfaced unscathed if a tad worse for the wear and tear. She has found not only a job but an apartment. She even made a rare daytime appearance so that we might buy her a new work wardrobe. Said snipers are jailed down the street. Soccer season is set to commence. And I've been able to sleep with the windows open, which I love.
Our yard is blanketed in hot pink leaves from the crabapple tree. Azaleas are in full bloom. Flowers are peaking shyly from the ground, though not where we planted them. A nesting pair of wrens has taken up residence in our dryer vent. Every time we turn it on they start squawking in protest.
Skimpy halter tops, sundresses and wife-beater t-shirts have made their first appearance. Sing hallelujah! Here's to spring 2003 and the long-overdue renewal of spirit we all hope it brings.
Now if I could just get my damn mower to start before the Lawn Nazi pays me a visit. Just like last year, he'll darken my doorway offering up the lawn-mowing services of his son. He'll segue into his standard War on Dandelions lecture, wich includes my sacred suburban duty to participate in it. I'll politely decline and shut the door. Ah, the rituals of spring.
One of Necro’s comments got me to thinking about a little adventure my buddy Eddie and I had when we were around seventeen.
I was supposed to go out with Stephanie but opted to hang with my buddy on Friday night. We went to supper at a country diner (well due to where I grew up all of the diners were country) with my Dad to get some home cooked grub. We were checking out the menus when our waitress walked over. She was hot. I started flirting with her and she surprised me by flirting back. Whoa. The flirting got to a point, then she asked me what I was doing later. Going to the football game with my bud I informed her. She asked if she could tag along and bring a friend for him. Ed kicked me under the table and I quickly said yes. We worked out the details, finished eating and walked away from the diner feeling triumphant. We had at least one hottie showing up with us to the football game. Sweet!
We picked the ladies up and proceeded to the high school. We had gotten a friend to get us beer, some whisky, and I had an eighth of bud. We were primed for a good time. We went in and started watching the game. I was in the process of completing my mack move when there was a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and who was there? Stephanie!!! Oh fuck! How long had she been there I wondered? Well, too late now. I was busted. She went to another school. They weren’t playing my school. What the hell was she doing there? I wasn’t sure what to do so I started a scene and accused her of spying on me. How ridiculous is that? Well, Ed and I scooped up the ladies and left. We were determined to have a good time and nothing as trivial as a pissed off girlfriend was going to thwart our plans.
We drove up to the Blue Ridge Parkway and pulled off at a place I knew. We started a small campfire and got down to getting those girls drunk and high. Things were progressing nicely (I even got my hands up my girl’s skirt. Go Me!) then the girls asked if we could go back to their house where there were beds. Not a problem I assured them. I asked my girl where her parents were and she informed me that she lived with her Dad and had the basement to herself. She also told me that her Dad didn’t really care what she did and never came downstairs. Perfect.
We got to her house and I parked up the street so as not to tip off her Pops and went in the basement door. We didn’t talk or anything. We just started taking off clothes throwing them everywhere. I had my girl on her bed while Ed was making good use of the couch. I was fumbling with a condom when the upstairs door opened. Shit! Then footsteps on the stairs. Shit!! Ed and I beat feet to her closet and got inside. There we were, two naked dudes, in uncomfortably close quarters, in complete darkness. We heard her Dad yelling at her about hearing guy’s voices in the basement. She then proceeded to yell “They’re not in the closet!” Oh my God. Could she be any more stupid? Ed and I pulled what clothes we could over us then the door opened. “You boys have about one minute to get the hell out of here. I’m going upstairs to get my shotgun.” her Dad said. He turned and we heard him going back up the stairs. Ed and I were frantically looking for our clothes when we heard him coming back. I had a tee shirt and Ed found his pants. We bolted. We were running up the street when we heard a loud BOOM! To this day I don’t know if he actually shot at us or not but it was enough to coax Jessie Owens like speed out of both of us. We were parked about fifty yards up the street. On the way to the car we ran past an old lady walking her dog. I think we all made the same face when we saw each other. We got to the car and got the hell out of there.
It didn’t end there. I had to try to sneak into my house in nothing but a tee shirt. Naturally my parents caught me. My Mom freaked while my Dad stood behind her trying not to laugh. Needless to say I didn’t pursue anything else with either of those girls. It was probably exactly what I deserved for cheating on my girl but I really liked those pants.
by mg at 03:34 PM on April 23, 2003
Some recent comments on Anna’s gay post, and the recent furor over Senator Santorum’s comment’s regarding consensual butt-sex, got me thinking about morality.
Santorum (isn’t that a great name for an evil villain?) said that if the Supreme Court ruled it okay for consensual adults to participate in homosexual activities, despite the fact that those behaviors are illegal in Texas (where the original case was tried), than any activity would be considered legal if performed in the privacy of our own homes.
From what I understand of the law, he is dead on in that comment. The case involved isn’t about whether homosexuality is “okay”, but whether the anti-sodomy laws in Texas are legal. But what’s got people really upset is that Santorum inadvertently compared homosexual sex to incest, polygamy, etc.
Personally, I think you homos should be allowed to do whatever the hell you want. But I think incest is bad. I’d wager to say that most people would agree with me. Hell, I’d go so far as to say the 100% of the country, outside those making residence in the Never-Neverland Ranch, would say that incest is immoral. And except for that crazy homeless dude who kidnapped Elizabeth Smart, most people would probably say that polygamy is immoral, too.
But not too many years ago there were a majority of people in this country who did think that homosexuality was wrong. There is a pretty strongly vocal minority who’d still say that. I don’t know Santorum’s leanings in this regard, I’m sure he’ll say he has plenty of gay friends, but a lot of people in this country do think homosexuality is immoral, and he just might be one of them.
This sort of raises the question - who decides when something has moved from being immoral, dark, and dirty, to being acceptable? Was it the meteoric success of Jim J. Bullock in the early 80s? Was it Whams string of number one hits? Did the love that dare not speak its name pass into normality when it became the subject of a comedy on Must See TV?
Why is homosexuality okay, but incest wrong?
Since we do now say that homosexuality is okay, but incest is wrong, why isn’t it believable that one day the moral leanings of the nation will say that incest is alright? I’m not saying I want those things to be deemed acceptable, but just think back a couple decades to what was, and wasn’t, generally acceptable. Even just a within my lifetime, interracial couples and homosexuality have become commonplace, two types of relationships that 50 years ago would have been met with legal or social retribution.
In another 30 years, what else that is considered taboo today will become acceptable? Pedophilia? Beastiality? Who makes that decision?
I realized recently – and a friend helped by naming the condition – that I am flypaper to virgins and near-virgins.
I have, in my sexual past, slept with two virgins, turned down two others, and slept with at least one guy who had very (as in, I was his second) limited experience.
It all began way back in grade school, when none of us really had any experience and we were all getting it with each other. I was propositioned for sex at the ripe old age of 13 or 14 by a guy who was only a year or two older than I – so part of me hopes that he, too, was a virgin.
And it continues to this day, many years later. In fact, within the last few weeks I had a semi-proposition tossed my way by an old friend with limited sexual knowledge, shall we say.
Now, I’m experienced enough to know that just ‘cause someone hasn’t been driven around the block, it doesn’t mean that they don’t know what they’re doing – or at least aren’t willing to learn.
I’ve been with experienced guys that were set in their ways: “This is the way I do things, and you can either come from it or hate it.” Needless to say, I wasn’t very encouraged, nor was I particularly enthusiastic during the pumpin’ and grindin’ portions of the evening.
I’ve been with some virgins or near-virgins who had it going on in the mad skillz department, and the memories put a smile on my face. Hell, it was a near-virgin that taught me that I could come from sex.
But in the end… I gotta ask, why the hell are they coming after me?! Why go after the girl who talks a good game but puts out about as often as the Leafs win the Cup?
And it’s not just the inexperienced guys who go after me, but the inexperienced girls, too. Well, one girl I don’t know what her past was like, but another one had only sorta been with another girl, and she was hitting on me. Mind, she hit on everything that breathed, so I guess that’s not fair, but still…
I think playing teacher is all well and good, and hell, it makes for a great fantasy game, but at the same time, it’s nice to be with someone with confidence and the mad skillz to back it up. It’s nice not to have to tiptoe as carefully around someone else’s ego, and it’s great to know that you can bounce someone about the bed without worrying that they’re going to get scared and bolt for the door – they know the best is yet to come.
I guess I should be flattered, and it's not like I've never learned from my little newbies (still with that new car smell) -- see above -- but still... ah well. Someday.
Brief recap, in case y'all forgot me: MG gave me a login, I posted a couple of times, got intimidated, and ran off with my tail between my legs. Boo hoo.
Honestly, I didn't know what to write about, since Drama Boy - the whole reason I wanted to start writing something here - had cut me off in January, when I let slip that I was actually having FEELINGS for him. "Oh, well, then," he says, "We'd better set limits, to protect our friendship." And then he pretty much disappears from my life altogether, aside from the occasional quick phone call. So at the time, I didn't have even have a so-called love life to write about.
Then last night Drama Boy comes over to my apartment, ostensibly so we can watch Spirited Away. I haven't seen him in over two months. Nonetheless, within 45 minutes we're fucking like a Easter bunnies.
He's so obvious about it, but so passive at the same time - coming in all gripy about how his neck hurts until I offer a backrub, then hesitating when I point him towards the couch. "We'd have more room on the bed." Yeah, right, like I don't know what he's up to. So he lies down on my bed and I rub his back for a while and then he rolls over and smiles up at me.
"What are you doing?" I ask as he starts tracing his fingertips up and down my arms. Then his hands are elsewhere. "Don't you want to?" he asks. I sigh and say, "Look, it's not that I don't want to..."
He waits until my eyes are closed and my breath is ragged. "I don't want to date you, Rayanne," he says, his fingers making excruciatingly slow, gentle circles. This is the point where anyone with half a brain would say, "Why the hell don't you want to date me, when we have wonderful conversations and we have so much fun hanging out with each other and we have this mindblowing sexual chemistry? What is it about me that's so fucking undateable, anyway?" But instead it's the point where I shush him and start unzipping his pants.
Here we go again. This is the third time now that I've started up a sexual relationship with Drama Boy without a dating relationship to go along with it. I am SUCH an idiot.
Then I got an email from a friend who had gone off and had sex with the ex over the weekend. Man, what is it about the familar nookie that makes it SO hard to say no?
Splendid to see the original Bad Samaritan Snaggle on this site. But I swear this piece has nothing to do with his reappearance here. It was actually written last week but I hadn’t found time to post it till now.
So I’m perusing this article and thinking to myself, damn, I was just warming up to my company’s newly instituted policy of putting domestic partners on equal footing with wives and husbands. Come to find out we’re already barreling headlong into the “post-gay” era as embodied by this Cojo. Seeking confirmation, I perform a Google search. Just imagine my surprise to discover that everyone is gay to some extent!
There’s ample historical precedent to support such a counterintuitive notion. In ancient Greece and Rome it wasn’t at all uncommon for respectable married men to keep a boy toy or two on the side. No stigma was attached to this practice. Hell, according to the link above, no less a mind than Sigmund Freud himself believed we all swing both ways. It’s only in modern times that we’ve started making these arbitrary distinctions about sexual preference.
I’d guess that leather-vested gay activists have a vested interest in promoting this premise, in part because their aim is for homosexuality to be widely accepted as an alternative lifestyle rather than deviance as it was in the pre-gay era. And it’s working. In fact, the whole concept of “deviance” has been marginalized, except for pedophiliac priests. Witness the ho-hum reception that greeted the coming-out of lesbians from Ellen DeGeneras to Rosie O’Donnell. When tabloids announced that the First Lady herself was a lesbian, all it elicited was a collective yawn. To say nothing of Today and Access Hollywood’s giddy embrace of this Cojo fellow, who makes Elton John seem like John Wayne in True Grit.
Were we to accept the universal gaiety theory as fact, then surely the converse would hold true as well. Primarily gay men must occasionally stray into heterosexual territory. Ditto for lesbians getting seduced by men. Just look at onetime lipstick lesbian and certified nut Anne Heche, who’s since wed a filthy... guy.
Everyone fancies themselves enlightened when it comes to homosexuality, except as it’s practiced in prison. This was never more in evidence than when the Lecher of the Free World used to invite DeGeneras and Heche to lavish state dinners and beam his approval as they’d paw one another.
It’s also gotten fashionable to lump gay men in with lesbians, as in “the gay & lesbian community.” I disagree, in that it’s clear many dudes revel in lesbian action while few women go in for watching gay guys bugger one another. Then again, correct me if I’m wrong. I’m not exactly hip when it comes to sexual matters. In fact, I just learned what goes on inside glory holes. Eek!
Let me confess one thing before I dig myself any deeper into this morass: Although I have gay friends, I remain woefully ignorant about gaiety in a practical sense. Aside from one youthful experiment in a tool shed, I have yet to explore my effeminate side. Okay, there was that time in Key West when I got picked up hitchhiking. The driver had taped a snapshot of this hot blonde to his dashboard. Desperate to pierce the painfully awkward silence, I inquired about her. The dialogue to follow is indelibly etched into my mind: Him: She’s a pistol alright, but no girl could ever know how to bob on the ol’ knob like a guy. Me: You think? Him: Look at the size of these hands! Me: You should keep them on the wheel.
That one youthful toolshed encounter was a fluke in that it was over before it had begun. It wasn’t... consummated so it didn’t count. Nonetheless, I do wonder what would have happened if I’d taken that big-handed driver up on his proposition. Given that I cringe when touched by anyone aside from my wife or mom, I’d have probably hated it. But if I’d have relished his ministrations and thus elected to pursue a light-in-the-loafers lifestyle, I am so certain I’d bear no resemblance to the flamboyant Cojo or those stereotypically promiscuous gay guys as depicted on Will & Grace. More likely I’d be one of those quaintly monogamous old guys you see holding hands at museums. Gay Me would be more The Birdcage than Queer as Folk. Really.
by mg at 02:31 PM on April 21, 2003
I'm alive. And stuff.
You know, just in case anyone was wondering.
Most people make New Year’s resolutions during, well, New Years. I, however, usually tend to make them come springtime, roughly coinciding with the thoughts of “God, I’m scrawny. I need to get buff and find me a boyfriend. Everyone else is looking so cute in their little t-shirts with their big arms and cute short hair and then there’s me, scrawny, wasting away. Someday maybe I’ll find that stallion to sweep me off my feet but until then I’ll just pine away.”
But I digress.
One of my springtime resolutions was to severely cut back on the amount of alcohol I imbibe. Anyone who’s spent a night out trying to keep up with me can attest to the fact that while Jesus may have been able to turn water into wine, my body seems to be able to turn wine into water. (Take that, Jeebus!) This unprecedented ability unfortunately often leads to episodes of shameless dirty dancing, grinding on straight boys, and trying to take them home. Or things of that nature. One weekend this spring, when I passed out on my living room floor Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights in a row, I decided it was probably time to make a change. Oh yeah, and did I mention I’m on two medications that have those little labels that say, “Do not take with alcohol”?
So we’re making a change in my life. So far, it’s been a strange paradigm shift. Usually, I am the instigator of craziness, the rampant animal waiting to be unleashed as the weekend draws near. It is I who leads the army to the bar and it is I who outlast them all as they fall one by one to the sweet vintner’s arts. Now, instead, I’m the lame-ass who gets tired at 12:30 and goes home.
Yup, my entire world has shifted.
It’s a very strange feeling to no longer be the crazy firestarter that everyone knows you as. I’ve been trying to substitute caffeine for alcohol and while that works for a time, there’s usually the bitter result of tossing and turning in bed once you get home rather than falling into a blissfully drunken stupor.
There are other side effects as well. Last night I went down to the Garden, a gay club, with a few friends. This has been a favorite spot of mine ever since I turned twenty-one, and it has rarely failed to provide me with a good time. Last night was no different, in general. It started off fairly normally, making the rounds and saying hi to the DJs, owner, bartenders, drag queens, circuit queens, etc. At some point I ran into my friend Matt, who was celebrating his twenty-first, appropriately with a large quantity of drinks working their magic upon him. As the night wore on, we ended up dancing together on the dance floor, a sloppy mess of two sweaty, shirtless gayboys. Normally, skin-to-skin contact like this is quite welcome; there’s something about the closeness of people to you on the dance floor, where the writhing of sweaty bodies to the pumping of bass is so reminiscent of the writhing of sweaty bodies under other circumstances. And yet, with one singular Long Island Iced Tea in my body, most of the alcohol having already coursed its way through my veins and out my pores, I was not enraptured in the moment, fixated on helping my friend have a wonderful, sweaty, gropy birthday and enjoying the otherwise welcome attention, as I have done on similar occasions. Instead, I was obsessing over one thought:
Hello you've reached the voice mail of Anna Nimez in the claim department. Your call is very important to us, though not so important that we'd ever dream of addressing your concerns personally. Also, please note that this call may be monitored not to optimize customer service but simply because we're nosy. Listen carefully to the following list because our options have changed to eliminate the possibility that by some wild coincidence one might fit your specific needs. *Snickers snidely*
Press one to hear me sound all bored and unsympathetic to your petty concerns. Press two now to hear me say I don't field this sort of inquiry. Press three to hear me get all shifty and evasive about why I've failed to fulfill some hollow promise I made just to get you off the phone. Press four to hear me say that due to systems problems I cannot look up that information. If you'd like to speak with me whilst I rudely stuff my face, press five. Press six for a directory of other persons who will refuse to answer their phones. If you know your party's extension, please press seven to access another voice mailbox that is full. For further assistance, you can visit our website here. To be connected to our suicide hotline please hold for a torturous eternity. To give up in anguished frustration, hang up now.
Do not bother to leave a message. I have caller ID and if I had any desire to speak with you I'd have picked up the phone.
We're Dorothy and her bedraggled cohorts groveling at the feet of Corporate
America's great and powerful Oz. "Please sir, might you find it within your callous heart to permit us to speak with a live human being during our lifetime," we simper.
Companies talk a good game when it comes to customer service and how committed they are to it. I have seen scant evidence of this. For instance, I tried to purchase a set of matching dishes to replace the mishmash we currently have. The cashier couldn't get the scanner to work so she sent me to get another set. Still the damn thing wouldn't scan. When I humbly suggested she punch it in manually she looked floored. Company policy dictates that each purchase must be scanned. Eventually she informed me that Sears wasn't willing to sell me the dishes. I shuffled away empty-handed, never to return. So much for the softer side of Sears.
I love that chicken from Popeye's. When I go there I'm fully prepared for the interrogation. The following exchange always takes place: Me: "I'll have combo nmber one, white meat, spicy, for here. For a side dish I'll have your red beans and rice." Her: "You wan spicy o mile?" Me: "Like I said, spicy." Her: "Why me o dock?" Me: "White meat. Did you hear a single word I said?" Her: "No. What kind sigh odor?" Me: "How about red beans and rice." Her: "Fo he o to go?" Me: "Argh!"
Lockheed asks what it is I do for a living. I adjust worker's comp claims, which mostly entails humdrum matters. But there are times when it gets quite interesting. I'll share a few here.
You might have heard of the OxyContin epidemic sweeping the nation. All my clients gulp down this drug like candy. One runs through $10,000 worth every month. Another admitted to stealing his doc's prescription pad to get more dope. Which isn't too surprising when you consider that OxyContin fetches a $1 per milligram on the street. One pill ranges from 20 to 80 milligrams.
I handle the most serious cases, where there's no expectation that they'll ever work again. Most of these folks have severe psychiatric problems, including conversion disorders. This means there is nothing medically wrong with them but they've convinced themselves that there is. One guy who tore a ligament in his knee has sat speechless in his wheelchair for seven years as a result of this imaginary disorder.
And yes, we do check them out now and again. We filmed one chick hauling her paralyzed adult daughter down a flight of stairs wrapped in a sheet. She then carried her wheelchair down to the sidewalk, propped her daughter up in it and loaded her into the car. They then sped off to parts unknown. She'd been on disability since 1977. The judge was less than amused.
Our longer term clients try to get all buddy-buddy with us, a practice the company frowns upon. We're encouraged to keep them at arms length. First names are forbidden. Which isn't to say that friendships don't develop. I had one injured cashier who was between homes. Thus she'd show up at our office every week for her check. She'd sashay along dressed in a most improbable getup like this. As I issued her check, she'd lean over my desk in a provacative manner. Jaws would drop. Drools would flow. Work would come to a standstill.
After her case was settled for a large sum of money we embarked on a torrid if short-lived affair. During pillow talk she confessed that her whole case hd been a scam.
These slackers are the exception to the rule. Most of my clients have sustained legitimate manifest injuries. In one case a guy was bent over to paint a baseboard on a barn. Out of nowhere came charging a goat that proceeded to impale the painter on his horn. He endured a mechanical bullish ride that lasted just seconds but must have seemed like a torturous eternity. It doesn't get any more heinous than that.
But my favorite was the 32 year old partial quadraplegic who approached me about settling his case. He took his $800,000 windfall and purchased an abandoned race track. There he stages races featuring paraplegic, quadraplegic and brain-damaged drivers barelling around the track at breakneck speeds. Seems people's morbid curiousity knows no bounds.
He has sent me pictures of him beaming in the winner's circle with hot babes draped all over him. How's that for a heartwarming tale?
In junior high, Mike had a girlfriend who wore bonnets to school every day. Now, mind you, this was about 1980 and bonnets were not what you would call “conventionally” cool at the time. Unlike leg warmers, for instance. I don’t know if she was Amish, a big fan of “Little House on the Prairie” or if she time-travelled from from 1880, but she wore bonnets, OK, and that raised eyebrows and questions. Mostly the other kids just made fun of her and Mike. When the pressure got to be too much, Bonnet girl dumped Mike.
Kirk never made fun of Mike but he was, like everyone else, extremely curious about the bonnet situation. One day, Kirk decides that, as Mike’s buddy, he is entitled to ask, in all earnestness, “What IS the deal with the bonnets?”
So Mike pops Kirk in the kisser tout suite without so much as a “by your leave.” Needless to say, this did not sit well with Kirk who began to immediately plan his revenge.
In those days there were two very similar products on the market. One was called Chiclets; small, candy-coated pieces of square gum. The other product was a popular form of highly potent laxative that came in small, candy-coated square pieces of gum. They were identical products and nobody at the Food and Drug Administration seemed to notice or care. As the story goes, Kirk, in his bitterness, went to the drugstore and the next day at lunch, offered Mike as much gum as he could chew. It was customary for chewers of the laxative gum to have one or two pieces based on the seriousness of the problem, but it was customary of chewers of Chiclets to chew quite a few more than that, let’s say.
As Mike depleted the flavor in one piece, he would ask for another only to be obliged by his good friend Kirk whose heart burned with the fires of revenge.
The next day, Mike was not to be seen. In fact, he was out for some time. Depending on the time Kirk told the story, it was anywhere from a day to a week or more. Regardless, Mike spent at least one night gripping the thunder bucket with all his might. His experience surely left him dehydrated and suffering from sleep deprivation since he could not leave the toilet for more than a few minutes at a time. Payback for raising his hand to a friend.
If there is a moral to this story, I think it is this: If you are going to go out with a girl who wears bonnets, don’t be so sensitive about it. So endeth the lesson.
Wow. When it rains it pours. I got laid, again, Sunday night. I had to call off work Monday things went so well. I’m not really one to toot my own horn, if I could I probably wouldn’t leave the house, but there are portions of my body that needs to be bronzed after that performance. Whew. I think I hurt myself.
I strolled my happy ass out Sunday to wash my much neglected vehicle. After finishing, I decided to drop the top due to how beautiful it was and drive a while to blow the water off. I decided to stop at a sometimes on, sometimes off friend (?) that lives in the same direction I was traveling. When I pulled up I heard a female voice yelling my name. I looked up a few parking spaces and it was this girl he had been dating the last time we talked, which was a couple of months ago. She was carrying boxes to her car and seemed upset. She told me she had moved out a while back and just couldn’t take the drugs and emotional abuse anymore. Hell, it was a beautiful day; I had a convertible so I asked her if she’d like to join me on my road trip. She agreed it was a great idea and we set off. She needed someone to talk to and I am a good listener.
We stopped by the package store, I purchased a bottle of Jager and off we went again. I don’t know how many of you have ever met someone you immediately connect with and feel like you’ve known forever but that’s how it was from the first time we met. She told me how she came home one night to Tom doing heroin, in the living room, with a bunch of people she didn’t know, a girl sitting on his lap and then left him for it. I said that was probably a good decision because either death or the cops can’t be far behind heroin use. We drove an hour to my sister’s house, in the mountains, and just talked about everything and nothing. We laughed, she cried at being used so badly (let me just interject here that this woman had moved from the Caribbean and a good job to be with this dude) and I held her until she was done with her tears. We talked more about life and the cruel twists and turns that seem to appear just when you think you’ve got a handle on things. It was getting a little late so we decided to head back to my place.
When we got back we went to my bedroom, so we wouldn’t disturb my roomie, and she asked me if I’d play some guitar for her. I told her no problem and played for her for a while. We were both a bit buzzed from the Jager and she told me how much she appreciated me showing up. “My pleasure” I told her then we were kissing. I pulled back and told her I didn’t want her to think she had to do anything with me at all for helping her out. That’s not what I am about and she told me she had wanted me from the first time we met. She told me she was a big girl and I wasn’t taking advantage of her as far as she was concerned. Well, what do you say to that? I said yes. We stayed up the entire night having probably some of the most amazing sex I have had in a while. We seemed to know exactly what to do and where to go on each other with no verbal communication. I took her to work the next morning and went back home for some sleep.
She called me a little while ago and is coming over tonight to watch a movie with me. I still feel a bit weird about this being with someone’s ex that I know but I’m not sure if I care. If she had fucked things up and treated him badly I may feel differently but that wasn’t the case. Hell, this guy has used, possibly, everyone he has ever come into contact with, me included. I just hope I’m not making a bad decision here.
Absence of any form of political authority.
Political disorder and confusion.
Absence of any cohesive principle, such as a common standard or
What with the spate of antiwar protests lately, you haven’t heard much from those hardcore anarchists in their clown regalia. Who must be the most naive fools on Earth. Under anarchy, dudes, chaos reigns. The strong forcibly wrest everything from the weak and sickly. The poor steal from the rich. Which kind of sucks if you happen to be rich or weak or both.
Yet that’s pretty much the situation over in Iraq right now. Jubilance has given way to turmoil and vengeance. Rabid looters have ransacked hospitals, carting off MRI scanners and hot-wiring ambulances. They’ve also pillaged museums filled with irreplaceable antiquities dating back to the dawn of civilization. What do these people need with an MRI scanner or ancient Sumerian tablets? Look for these items to begin turning up on eBay.
Coalition troops are understandably reticent to sashay into this roiling maelstrom. They’re trained as warriors, after all, not street cops. Hence the looters have succeeded in destroying many of those structures their precision bombers took such great pains to avoid. Talk about cruel irony.
While no one knows for sure how they’d react to a similar outbreak of lawlessness in one’s ‘hood, chances are it depends entirely on one’s socioeconomic status. Absent moral considerations, have-nots would probably leap at any chance to join in the frenzied plunder. Whereas well-heeled haves would most likely be poised to defend their property against any rampaging mob. No way in hell these freaking heathens are going to make off with my X-Box or diamond tennis bracelet, they’d vow. Famous last words, me thinks.
Still, I'd fancy myself among the vigilante set; since I have plenty to lose were an unruly mob of looters to come marauding up my driveway. I’d also like to think I’d harbor no qualms about confronting anybody who’d set foot on my property bent on mayhem and thievery. But when push came to shove you'd likely find me cowering beneath my bed as looters carted off my stuff. “Take it all, just don’t hurt me,” I’d simper. I just don't have the stomach for that sort of thing.
Then again, any would-be looter would probably take one look at this filthy hovel and hotfoot it out of here empty-handed. You see, my family resides in a swamp and we currently have six dogs roaming the property. One belongs to us, two are emaciated rescue mutts and three are here to be trained. These vile beasts have tracked mud and dog shit onto every inch of our home. Our carpets are ruined, our walls are smeared with red clay. We’re in a living hell.
Aside from the unhappy prospect of being beset by swarms of impoverished looters, having a decent job does have its drawbacks. For example, I am in the process of pawning my treasured belongings in order to pay an unexpected $2,500 tax obligation. This burden hangs over my head like the freaking Sword of Damocles. And 4/15/03 looms large.
Here's the problem: Rather than pay us, my company’s miserly management metes out stock options that don’t cost it a dime. When you exercise them, sufficient taxes are supposed to be withheld. But last year my broker evidently failed to do so, leaving me holding the proverbial bag. To avoid becoming hovel-less, I just might have to resort to looting myself. D’oh!
Wouldn’t it be smarter to sell said stocks to pay off the taxman, you ask? Ah, that anything could be that simple. These stocks are restricted, which means you must hold them for a year. And the stock price is plummeting. By the time I can unload them they'll be worth less than a Betamax tape. So I am royally screwed and Saloman Smith Barney is to blame. Argh.
Let’s see, my favourite sexual encounter… I’d have to say it was the first time I came from sex itself. See, I don’t come easily, I’m not very well endowed in the clitoral region, so it’s a bit of a challenge for me to get off through straight fucking (or crooked fucking, or angled fucking. I’m just not built properly for it!).
As well, it’s a whole adventure and a half to get me off from oral or manual sex. It’s doable for those who are gifted or who take the time to learn, but not everyone does, depressing as that is.
Anyhow, this one particular boyfriend (I’ll call him Bob) and I had made out on one or two previous occasions, wound up topless, but hadn’t gone any further. We hadn’t been going out very long, but I was really attracted to him and really enjoyed his company (and his hands_ I swear one morning I thought I wouldn’t get my eyes out of the back of my head from the way he was playing with my nipples).
This one evening we were fooling around on his couch, and both of us had wound up topless and were having a blast torturing the hell out of one another. I have a really sensitive neck, and he was taking full advantage of that, while I had a lot of fun playing with his sensitive nipples and nibbling his earlobes.
I love a guy with sensitive nipples, but I digress.
We decided to move things off the couch and into the bedroom, and we left a trail of clothing between the two places. By the time we got into the bedroom, we were both down to our underwear and that was it. I hadn’t planned on any such activities, so I hadn’t shaved in a few days, but I was wearing nice underwear, so it somewhat balanced out.
We hopped up on the bed and he immediately started going down on me. He was driving me crazy, kept getting me close and then moving off my clit and licking about, just teasing me mercilessly. I was alternately moaning and complaining, and finally got fed up and flipped him over to repay the favour.
Now, with a responsive partner and the right kind of encouragement (i.e., of the “Oh God, yes! You’re fantastic at that! I love when you go down on me!”), I have an absolute blast going down on guys. Not only did Bob provide me with the kind of encouragement I like to hear, but his proportions were such that I was looking damn forward to feeling this boy inside of me.
Most of my previous partners had been of average proportions, the odd short or skinny one, one or two longer ones, but for the most part, just average. After all, that’s why they call them average, no? Anyhow, this boy had it made -- long and thick, I alternately drooled and whimpered to look at it. I mean, I’m not exactly of large proportions myself, so I had some minor doubts as to my ability to accommodate him, but I was definitely looking forward to giving it a try. At least a few times.
Once we got crazed enough from teasing one another, we agreed that it was time to move on to the main event. I wound up on the bottom, he on top, and the games began. He felt incredible, I’d never been so stretched, and apparently I was quite tight (as he’d found out and commented on during the earlier festivities, another thing I like to hear). My eyes were rolling back in my head, my fingers were desperately digging trenches into his back and butt, and I could feel this pressure building in my abdomen.
I’d felt something like that before, but nothing ever came of it, so I focused instead on just how the rest of it felt. All of a sudden, my breathing and voice were taken over by someone else and the pressure exploded and I was screaming, I was screaming swear words, praising the Lord, praising Bob, it was amazing.
After it was all over, I started laughing uncontrollably at how I must have sounded, especially after I had told him I didn’t come from sex. For awhile after that, the big challenge was to get me screaming again, never a difficult prospect, for Bob had the mad skillz and the determination to get me off each time.
It led to an awful lot of jokes about knowing winks from his neighbour or the setting off of security alarms at the bank up the street, but damn, was it worth it.
Most of my best "sex" stories are near misses. I worked at a telemarketing place back the mid 90s. The X Files were new and everything seemed right with the world. Believe it or not, this story involves TWO strippers. I worked with this chick at the telemarketing place who lived in downtown Omaha, but we worked out in west Omaha and she didn't have a car. She was bussin' it home every night.
Now, in spite of appearances, I am a pretty nice guy, unassuming, good-natured and not particularly lascivious. I had to go the train station near her house to pick up some train tickets. So I asked her if she wanted a ride home so she didn't have to spend 45 minutes on the bus and make two transfers. She said OK. I picked up my tickets, dropped her off and was prepared to go my own way when she invited me up to her place to blow some really good herb.
She was a stripper. Her roommate was a stripper and they had to get ready to go to work, but I could sit down and smoke. Well, it was only about 5 o clock and they didn't have to go to work until like 8 or 9, but I had never been to their particular club so I didn't know if they were day or night or whatever. So there I am, smokin' this really good ganja, watching Highlander and these two strippers are getting changed for work. They are both takin' showers and then the one is wearing a teddy, which is odd, because most dancers do their makeup but they don't wear their costumes to the club and most of THOSE don't wear teddy's.
I know what you're thinkin'. "This guy must have been stupid." And I was. For you see, the weed was so good, I was totally out of it. I had been hanging around strip clubs so long, I was desensitized and thought they were merely being immodest in my presence. Plus I'm not the most sought after piece of ass in the Midwest and really don't expect women, let alone TWO women, LET ALONE TWO STRIPPERS, to want to have sex with me at the same time. CAN YOU DIG IT?!
But here is the really good part. My friend was like "come in here so we can talk" and I was all like "that's cools, I can wait until you're done changing." Then i got tired of waiting around. I was getting hungry for my usual Friday night gyro so I said, "Well ladies, thank you for the very nice time, but I guess you have to go to work and I need to be moseying along so I will say good night."
As they walked me to the door, they stood there in their underwear looking at me with the greatest incredulity I have ever seen on a human face. I waved from by the elevator and I SWEAR TO GOD I didn't figure out what was going on until I was eating my gyro some 30 minutes later. "OH MAAAN" i said with that little frustrated whine.
Now in retrospect, this dancer was working at a lesser club, HAD been on the pipe, HAD been a hooker and was probably not the best best for some reasonably safe sex. even if I wore a condom, how could I have my wicked way with two women who had a wall full of pictures of themselves partying with dudes and not end up with a face full of mystery muff and while I might escape the HIV i don't need a huge scab on my mouth that comes back every few weeks either.
But DAMN that gyro was good! I REGRET NOTHING! But still...
Talk about tough acts to follow! Go Linz! Go Ezy!
My tale is a bit more pedestrian. First up was Ivy, nominal gal pal of my friend Buck. That episode concluded in a matter of seconds. Next came the David Bowie look-alike Sarah, who introduced me to pearl necklaces. But that too proved embarrassing because after the messy moment of truth, I felt compelled to thank her profusely. She assured me that wasn' necessary. I felt like such a tool.
Then came Tracy, whom you might describe as buxom and big-boned. She was also quite aggressive in bed. Frail twit that I am, I barely survived my harrowing encounters with her. Years later I ran into her at a party. We laughed about the time we almost sunk her parents’ party barge. Our respective mates were less than amused.
On to high school. This was kind of a barren period in part because everyone was too stoned to get horny. That is, until my senior year. Frisky freshman females were literally throwing themselves at me, and I was more than happy to oblige. I remember one nubile lass who cooed, “Do whatever you want, just don’t use me.” Well, that’s as easy a promise to make as it is to break. Problem there was that this R. Kellyesque penchant for porking youths sparked accusations of cradle-robbing among my friends. I cooled it. Reputations are everything at that age.
Things picked up in junior college. Let’s just say my girlfriend Robin had unconventional ideas about how relationships should be conducted. It wasn’t at all unusual to come back to our hovel only to find her cavorting with a pair of guys amid the beer can-strewn squalor. I of course retaliated with a series of revenge trysts. Three in particular spring to mind. One redhead left our bed covered in blood and then sent me out to buy her tampons. Guys back then weren’t as keen on buying tampons as they are today---just put it on the grocery list, honey. Far more heinous was the one who started singing, “You put me high up on a pedestal...” off-key as I hurriedly drove her back to the dorm. I have never felt more uncomfortable in my life. Alex debauched me on the lawn outside her dorm and managed to pilfer my empty wallet in the process.
On to Real College. Two encounters bear mention. Chemistry major Margaret had a fiancee named Tony back home. When we’d go at it she’d pick up his picture from her nightstand and peer at it as she bucked and moaned. She’d also take calls from him and commence to talking dirty in my presence, which I found more than a tad disconcerting. Linda was three inches taller than my elfin ass. This didn’t exactly work wonders for my foundering self-esteem either.
Oh, I almost forgot Crystal the hot factory worker. Imagine my surprise when she struck up a conversation with me as I sat there pretending to read a book, my favorite barroom pickup ploy. “Watcha readin’ sugar,” she asked with a shy smile. Next thing I knew my cheekbone was shattered and I was out cold. Seems Crystal’s ex-husband didn’t take too kindly to college guys chatting with her. He pounded on her door the whole time I pounded her. They later reconciled.
Back home broken-hearted I started dating Buck’s kid sister Donna. When we were making it, I couldn’t help but picture...him. Not because I am gay but because they bore an uncanny resemblance to one another. This too proved to be a major turnoff. Next came a tumultuous long-term relationship with Jan. Suffice it to say that her favorite TV show was The Smurfs. But she sure didn’t act like any Smurfette behind closed doors. (And sometimes open doors. Buck caught quite an eyeful when he barged into my home unannounced.) So the whole time I found myself torn between this huge sexual upside and having to deal with her goofy little-kid demeanor. Again, my friends ribbed me unmercifully.
During the time with Jan my company sent me to New England for six weeks of indoctrination. Housing was in an austere dorm-like setting with drunken, raucous dudes as roommates. I resolved to find alternate arrangements. When I went to the bank to cash my paycheck, I seized upon my opportunity to chat up a swarthy, mustachioed teller. Before long she’d offered me not only free lodging but a whole lot more. Whoever said New Englanders are aloof types hadn’t met Sandra. She introduced me to gal-on-top action, a definite thrill. Problem was she grew quite smitten with me and thus traveled all the way to Virginia for a surprise visit. Let’s just say Jan was less than thrilled when Sandra turned up on my doorstep with suitcase in hand. And there’s nothing worse than an angry Smurfette with PMS.
I must remember to forget.
Well of course it is. It doesn’t take an Einstein to figure that one out. I think I’ll tell you guys about one of my favorite sexual encounters. Here goes.
I had this friend back in the day. For all intents and purposes we’ll call her Libby. Libby was one hell of a lay let me tell you. She was also bi-sexual which made things even cooler. Afternoons we would spend our time in bed exploring each other and seeing how many times we could bring each other to climax. It wasn’t fair really. Physiology was on my side. We had one hell of a good time trying though. She also taught me how to go south. She was a rough task master. She would tell me she wasn’t letting me come up until I learned to do it like a woman. Being bi she knew exactly what she was talking about. I spent more time with my head between Libby’s thighs than I did in any other activities, at that time, I believe. I thank her to this day. What I really want to tell you about is what she gave me for my twentieth birthday.
Libby called and invited me to her apartment for my birthday dinner. I happily accepted. She was Italian and one amazing cook. We decided on six that evening. I got my buddy, who had just turned twenty-one, to grab me four bottles of wine two white, two red and shagged ass over there at the appointed time. When I got there Libby’s girlfriend Wendy was also there. Libby informed me that Wendy would be having dinner with us and asked if I minded? Hell no. The more the merrier. Libby made her signature lasagna, home-made garlic bread, and a salad. We grubbed.
After cleaning up we retired to the living room and started on the last two bottles of wine. We all were feeling no pain and having great conversation. Libby said she needed to go to the bathroom and walked down to her room. Wendy begged out also and joined Libby. Boy, was I ever unprepared for what came next; Libby and Wendy standing in the doorway wearing nothing but smiles. Holy fuck! They walked in to the room and started kissing right there in front of me. I couldn’t even speak they were so sexy. They then proceeded to get on the floor and Wendy started going down on Libby. I thought I might break my pants so I let the guy out. The whole time Wendy is doing this she is staring right at me. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to join in or watch the show so I watched. Libby then told me to come down there and show Wendy what I had learned from her.
I went down there and gave my best oral performance, I think, to date. Wendy was impressed. They then flipped me over, took off my clothes and Wendy straddled my face while Libby straddled my guy. Everything was great except that Wendy would get a bit too excited and actually grind in to my face so I couldn't breathe. I thought I may drown a couple of times but she got the message when I brought my hands up under her bottom. Thank God. I could see my Mom reading that one in the paper. “Twenty year old man dies in tragic sex accident. His asphyxiation seems to have been caused by a mouth full of vagina. He was smiling, though, when paramedics attempted to revive him”. I let them know when I was close and both went down there and finished me off. I thought my freaking head was going to explode.
We spent the majority of the night acting out each other’s fantasies until we all went to sleep in Libby’s bed. The cool thing is that the next morning, when we all woke up, it wasn’t awkward at all. We snuggled in bed for a while, took showers (I found out it is nearly impossible to fit three people in a small shower comfortably) and went on about our daily business. We did this a few more times, before we all moved away, and I was with two women once more in the Army but nothing, to this day, compares with that first time. You see. Sex IS fun.
by mg at 11:42 AM on April 10, 2003
Gosh, the discussions sure have gotten heated again.
I was talking with Linz just last night, and we decide that it is one thing to argue about politics and religion, and it is another to argue about everything. And it seems lately that people around here have been arguing about everything. It’s weird. I don’t understand it, but I do know that I don’t want a wedge driven between us. I don’t want to drive anyone away. I don’t want to spend all day making dinner for you and the kids only to have you call me to say you’re staying late at work, but in reality you’re in the arms on another website.
I couldn’t bear that. We still love each other, right? Do you really want to go back out in the dating world again? How will we split up our record collection? And think about how hard this would be on the kids.
So, while I’m not going to place a moratorium on news, because seriously, look around you, we are living in interesting times people, but I will make a call for civility. I’m as much to blame for this as anyone. It sure seems that every body is a little quick to anger recently.
I don’t know exactly what it is. I do know that this time of year, right before spring really hits, gives most people a screaming case of the “blahs.” And what’s going on in the world sure isn’t improving anyone’s disposition. So, it’s time once again to post a statement that’ll bring us all together. I’m going to say something that I know everyone can relate to, and maybe it’ll help us realize that if we can agree on one thing, maybe we aren’t all that different after all.
So, here goes: “Sex is fun.”
Battle for Basra, Battle for Baghdad, bah! Hearing of The Ba'ath Party reminds me of gays frolicking in SF bathhouses. Likewise, when I hear CentCom, I envision a website frequented by rare penny collectors. Kurd rhyme with turd. Shiite sounds too much like shit.
I find it reminiscent of the last conflict, when we were forcibly familiarized with Uzbeks, Pashtuns and the Northern Alliance. Does anyone still remember the dashing Dr. Abdullah Abdullah?
Part of the problem with any war involving the U.S. military juggernaut is that it inevitably turns into a one-sided rout. The outcome is assured. In Kosovo, we pummeled those dastardly Serbs into submission without sustaining a single casualty. In Afghanistan we tricked local yokels into doing our bidding, with similar results. Now in Iraq, we see the supposed strongholds falling with little or no resistance. When enemy fighters glimpse US firepower, they wisely turn tail and run.
It's like Super Bowl Sunday. We're subjected to endless hype. The underdog stands a real chance of staging an upset of epic proportions. On any given Sunday anything is possible, after all. Then the favored team crushes the weaker squad and we all tune out after the halftime extravaganza. That's what I'd expect to happen now in Iraq.
I'd much prefer to watch those civil wars raging across Africa. There the sides are evenly matched and engaged in savage hand-to-hand combat where the outcome is far from assured. The victors put the vanquished on spits and barbecue them while raping their women. Now that's a show, albeit one you'll never see.
There's been so much saturation coverage of Operation Iraqi Freedom that it's all but inescapable. I even saw one DNA expert calmly discussing how we'd need family members' bodies to positively identify badly charred bodies found amid the rubble of our latest attack. Only then could we determine whether Saddam is dead or alive. Shades of the endless Hunt for Osama, no?
With today's statue-tossing orgy, it seems clear Saddam's regime is finished. But my guess is that his personal fate will remain shrouded in mystery just like Osama's.
by mg at 09:56 AM on April 09, 2003
If you haven’t heard by now, Baghdad is pretty much “liberated.” Fighting will continue, but the war is pretty much over.
It’s been said here and elsewhere that the Iraqis didn’t want the coalition forces in their country. Well, if you’ve seen any of the video, the Iraqi people are dancing in the streets of Baghdad. I can guarantee you there wasn’t dancing in the streets of Warsaw when Germany invaded. I can guarantee you there wasn’t dancing in the streets of Saigon as the North Vietnamese Army invaded.
This, is, and always has, been different.
It may have come about by unfortunate means, yes, war is never the preferable option, but it was the only option. But this is the result of that last resort – what we are seeing today is equivalent to the Berlin Wall falling. The Iraqi people are tearing down statues of Saddam today, because now they finally can. Lets hope that in the days ahead they choose to guarantee those rights for their people.*
It isn’t the constitution in the United States that grants freedom; it is a basic human tenet. We are all granted certain unalienable rights, that no government can grant, or take remove from us. For years Saddam Hussein has tried to take freedom away from his people, and today they are finally realizing those days are over. The Iraqi people taste freedom today, for the first time.
The Americans brought tanks and bombs with them to Iraq, but they also brought freedom. The people in Baghdad today are chanting “America! America! America!” They are flowers to soldiers and laughing with them. The only Americans they are telling to go home today are the human shields. Say what you will about this war, and why it was started, but to the Iraqi people a U.S. victory means freedom.
* This, and whether democracy spreads in the Middle East as it did in the Soviet Block after East Germany fell, will be the true test of Bush’s foreign policy.
Three trailer park girls go 'round an' 'round my insides, 'round an' 'round my insides, 'round an' 'round my insides!
OK, the last time I posted, I was so drunk I have to refer to that post to figure out what I said, and then try and figure out what I meant -
I realise that I havn't posted in, like, ages, but i have been busy, no?
it probably doesn't help anybody when I don't say why I have been busy. Here's a summary:
- moved out of my parent's home
- invented a new genre of music
- started doing a BSc (Hons), to add to my collection of degrees [gee, 21 and I'm already on my way to getting degree #3. did somebody say "professional student"?]
- i'm also teaching med students! [apparently i'm the only person in the university without a PhD who understands the stuff well enough to actually teach it... actually, i'm teaching it so some PhD students as well.]
- i've figured out a way to get drunk on a weekly basis on imported german beer and colourful cocktails for nothing
- i now host my own radio show. oddly enough, i do it out of a studio at a different uni to the one i attend...
- i've been printing up defamatory anti-war t-shirts for greasy-haired hippies
- and i'm doing a remix of a big track for a big electronic act
and that's just the last few months!
The US finds a group of Kurdish fundamentalists in Iraq, and thus decides to bomb Iraq? It's a little like bombing Florida to get at drug trafficers in Mexico.
Ok, bad analogy. I was drunk, and that was the best I could come up with.
My point is that, for all intents and purposes, Iraqi Kurdistan was a US protectorate before the war started. It was controlled by the Kurds, and not Saddam. Saddam's government probably had more influence in the goings on in Brooklyn than they did in Iraqi Kurdistan, so saying that Saddam was in bed with al Qaeda because an aligned group is in a part of the country that he does not control or run is like saying that George W Bush provided finacial support to Castro because he once drank an entire bottle of Bacardi Rum in one swig.
Therefore, this current war in Saddam cannot be part of the war on terror in retaliation for september 11 - someone should tell that to the troops that keep mentioning september 11 when they write those cute little chalk messages on missiles.
boy, i'm racking up those liquor references, aren't i?
That said, there has been so much disinformation going around - from both sides - that it's hard to know what's what. My, what a lovely war!
The chick I dig is now just a casual aquaintance, who I see every once in a while, because we are now both tutoring 2nd year biochemistry classes. It's obvious that she don't dig me and I have no feelings for her. Sure, I occationally yell out her name when I feel alone, but that's because her name has become a euphemism for my yearn for messy sex and post-cortius shallow deep talk.
what the fuck did i mean here?
oh, ok... I still have no girlfriend, but that doesn't worry me because enjoying life and generally having fun involves more than just getting felt up by somebody really hot on a regular basis. That, and I no longer have a computer with which to search for - and find - porn.
At least I've narrowed down the attributes my fantasy girl would have:
- awesome sense of funky uber-coolness
- pale, china-doll skin
- dark hair
[but not a goth - some of them are more fanatical about religion than the pope, GWB, and any ayatollah you care to name combined.]
- wears shiny things, and looks cool in 'em
- peircings i can play with (she's more than welcome to join in)
- smart enough to be impressed by the science stuff i do, funky enough to actually be interested in the music i make
- down to earth
- cooks vegan, eats meat. (as in beef, like, um, food... this in no way at all is a reference to my penis)
- likes a party, but isn't a pill-head
i guess that's not a difinitive list, but it's a start. sure, such persons do not exist, but this is my moment of self indulgent wankery, dammit!
i mention this because i have a friend that fits all the physical attributes, and a few of the others. [this bit links on to the free drinks thing] basically, when my uni society gets together for our free drinks on thursdays, this friend is there. um, along with all my other drinking friends, and a few neighbours. [one nice thing about moving out away from the gold coast and to brisbane is that i now have neighbours that don't want to spit on me.]
anyway, after a few drinks, i always end up playing with her peircing on that bit below her bottom lip - this is in front of everybody, by the way. there's no sinister motive behind it - i just have always wanted to play with somebody's peircings. it's a little like a skill tester and a sobriety test in one. she tells me she quite likes it, but it feels weird.
i don't intend to take it any further, cos she's a good friend, but also does a really good impression of pacman on the weekends, if you know what i mean.
oh, and i don't scream out anybody's name when i'm feeling really horny... i think i was trying to express... something...
Ok. I posted last week about spending the weekend with my ex-fiancé. Well, it didn’t happen boys and girls. The God, of relationships to be, has smote this fledgling endeavor a probable death blow. What could’ve happened you ask? I’ll tell you.
The plans were:
Ezy: play golf with friends teeing off at 12 noon
Steph: go to baby shower with sister and meet Ezy after golf
What went wrong: a car full of teenagers running a stop sign and hitting car with Ezy and acquaintance.
We played one hell of a round of golf that day save for Joe who was playing for the first time. I swear he shot 300. No shit. For those of you who don’t golf that would be the equivalent of me playing tennis (I suck) with Pete Sampras. Joe being me and the rest of us being Pete Sampras. Oh fuck it. I’m just confusing myself now. Anywho, it took about six hours to play eighteen when it usually takes about four and a half. I never, ever take my cell phone on the course. It’s worse than taking it to dinner with you etiquette wise. We left the course with me digging through my backpack for said cell phone. Before I can get my hands on it I hear squealing tires and feel a good jolt to the car. The aforementioned teenagers had hit us on my side in the passenger door. Shit! We get out of the car and checked on the kids. Everyone was fine but the kids were scared and my buddy had been drinking. My friend decided he wouldn’t pass a breathalyzer and made a deal with the kids. He told the kids that we were going to leave and he’d take care of the damage and they could handle the accident any way they wanted. Tell the cops they were hit and the other vehicle left or make up whatever story they thought would work. We left. Now, at this point, the smart thing would’ve been to call Steph and explain what happened. I didn’t do this. I was so caught up in the moment that she wasn’t first and foremost in my mind.
We got his car to a mutual friend’s house, that happened to live on the same road, and he let us put the vehicle in his barn. He then gave us a ride home so my golf buddy could plan how he was going to get out of this mess. He dropped me off and I ran upstairs while reaching for my cell to call Steph. Guess what? I had left it in golf buddy’s car. I don’t have anyone’s number memorized, with the exception of my family and a few close friends, so I couldn’t call. I rationalized what I would do, in her shoes, and decided she would be glad I was ok and write it off to bad luck. I went to bed with a throbbing head from hitting the door. I called the next morning and told her what had happened. No are you ok, nothing. She didn’t believe me; that much was evident. We talked for a while about nothing and I had another call come in I had to take. I asked if I could call her back and she said sure. I called back and her sister informed me she was in the shower and she would call me back later. Well it sure is later isn’t it? I’d say two days qualifies as later. I have called her cell and left messages called her sister’s house, where she is staying, and no return call.
Well, I guess this will about do it for the fairy tale. Damn, I had a feeling that it might actually work this time but if this is all it takes to derail us; maybe it wasn’t meant to be in the first place. I guess the moral of this story is; if you guys know any nice single women, living in Northern Virginia hook me up.
by mg at 02:52 PM on April 08, 2003
If you happened to wonder why I’ve been relatively quiet, word-wise, the past couple weeks, it’s because I wrote about 30 pages of academic work last week, and quite frankly I've run out of things to say. That, and the weather has been conspiring to keep me down. I’m definitely suffering through a little bit of the ol’ seasonal affective disorder.
Every time over the past couple weeks when I planned on sitting outside to soak up some vitamin D, something has happened. Even last week, when the temperature finally climbed up to official spring-like figures, the one day I decided to hang outside and study in the park, it rained. I need some warm weather, and soon, or else I’m going to go nuts.
Call me a spoiled brat to bitch about cold weather and snow, when people in other parts of the world are having to deal with entirely different kinds of objects falling from the sky, but, what the hell, it’s April now. Why is it 30 degrees (that’d be single digits in Celsius) and still snowing more than two weeks after the official start of spring?
I can’t deal with the snow anymore. Someone make it stop.
On a lighter note, I found these very disturbing pictures on the net. Probably not safe for work. Which is why I've hid them, just click "continue" to see.
by mg at 02:17 PM on April 08, 2003
by mg at 07:43 AM on April 07, 2003
I’d like to take a moment to thank Shannon and her husband, who is a regular commenter around here but for some reason I get the impression he doesn’t want to reveal his true identity. From everything I’ve heard about them, I kind of wish Shannon were my sister too. Except maybe for the fact all those fantasies about Linz would take on a disturbing, yet still somehow sexy, twist.
Anyway, you two are so far the only people nice enough to buy me something for my birthday. I really love you tree-hugging bastards. Thanks. Every time I pleasure myself to the moving image of a prepubescent Natalie Portman, I’ll be thinking of the two of you.
There is still plenty of time for the rest of you asshats to buy me something off my wishlist. Just so you know, the only thing I have to live for is the expectation of coming and finding something fun in my mailbox that isn’t gel-filled and battery-operated. So, if you want to make my life worthwhile, buy me something already!
by mg at 08:39 AM on April 05, 2003
In my head, this is Saddam Hussein as heckled by the two old dudes from the original Muppet Show. Of course, if anyone really heckled Saddam Hussein they'd be fed their own feet, and that wouldn't be funny at all. Not that this is funny either, but...
The state of the world today’s got me all introspective and melancholy, which doesn’t suit me well. I hark back to January 2, 2000. The Dow teetered on the brink of 11,000. Clinton had fended off his detractors and remained in power. Debate raged over his relevancy. Survivor was a fresh concept. Y2K fears turned out to be a hoax perpetrated by bottled water and generator companies. Nobody had ever heard of dimpled chad, Osama bin Laden, al-Jazeera, Bushwhacker rifles, mass smallpox vaccines, the Northern Alliance, GPS-guided munitions or posthumous US citizen-soldiers slain in Iraq. It all seems so...quaint now.
Nor could anyone have predicted that before that fateful year was out we’d see the most contentious election in history. Who’d have thought Justice Sandra Day O’Connor would choose our next leader, just as the senile bitch decides everything? Or that our country was so sharply divided that the election could come down to the results in one or two precincts?
Had anyone warned that terrorists were plotting to hijack airliners and crash them into our national landmarks, they’d have been dismissed as crackpots. If they’d even suggested that we’d then link up with dashing cavalry on horseback to oust something called the Taliban in response, men in white coats would have hauled them off to the nut hut.
Likewise, who could have predicted anthrax in the mail, shoe-bombers, snipers picking off citizens at random, dirty bombers, dissident roundups, the revocation of all civil rights, an irrelevant UN, a fractured NATO alliance, the explosion of reality TV or the forcible quarantine of SARS sufferers? All of which has become our new, frightening reality. My guess would be no one.
Just as anybody who predicted that America would invade a sovereign nation to forcibly oust its leaders under any circumstances would have also been brushed aside as a raving lunatic. Yeah right, American assassins prowling the streets of Baghdad, gunning for Saddam and his cronies.
Yet here we are, doing just that---which I am fine with. My only problem is with the operation’s deceptive name. Don’t kid yourselves, no Westerner cared about Iraqi freedom all these years and nobody does now. Why not at least be honest and call it Operation Gut Saddam's Regime?
These are strange and foreboding days indeed. All those giddy high hopes for this new millennium have long since been dashed, never to return. So I fester here in my dank, gloomy bunker, bleary eyes glued to CNN and waiting in dread for the other shoe to drop. And I desperately need someone to blame. Any ideas?
I got an unexpected 1/2 day off and have thus been exploring various nooks and crannies of this site. I have noted that this site is now directly linked to BadSam. It's a site I used to follow regularly.
Y'all really should check it out. This person consistently cranks out unique, quality prose unlike anything I've ever seen. As far as I can tell, he never misses a day. And many times he or she can post without using the word "the" @ all. That is an amazing feat.
Odder still is the fact that, unless I'm missing something, there is no comment mechanism on Girls Are Pretty.com. He or she just sits there cranking out this material solely for his or her own gratification. He or she requires no feedback whatsoever. Amazing indeed.
Tonight Diane Sawyer will interview Lisa Marie Presley. This chick mesmerizes me, in part because she's the spitting image of her dad only with that eerily impassive stare. You can expect Sawyer to pump her for juicy tidbits about her ill-fated marriages. You can also expect these questions to be ducked. Presley is only breaking her longstanding silence to promote To Whom It May Concern, due out 4/8/03.
But aside from that, what has she done with her life? Why then is she one of the most recognizable faces on Earth? Because she's a professional celebrity, that's why. Nor is she alone in this clique.
Elizabeth Taylor hasn't exactly been lighting up the screen in recent years. She last landed a starring role in 1966. (Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf?.) Her cameo in The Flintstones was a joke. Yet just about anyone could pick her from a police lineup.
Her pal Michael Jackson is another shaman at the Church of Charisma. His last two outings were disastrous both commercially and critically. Indeed, he hasn't done anything noteworthy since like 1988. Yet he still draws press like nobody's business. Networks turned to him during the February Sweeps.
Matthew Broderick ran over somebody in Scotland, killing him. I'd defy anyone to name a hit movie he's been in. Yet he's deified as Mr. Jessica Parker, as is Ben Lopez. What's he done for you lately?
Bill Clinton's legacy will forever remain tainted by the slurp 'n burp scandal. He had to be dragged kicking and screaming from the world stage. As a final insult he unleashed a swarm of violent criminals on an unsuspecting public. Yet he's still around running his mouth. And people listen.
Then there's comely Anna Kournikova, who's never advanced beyond the semifinals in a major tennis single's event. Her rank stands @ a lowly 66. Nonetheless, she's the most downloaded sportswoman of all time. Courtside, fisticuffs break out over her musky, sweat-soaked towels. Go figure.
I think the world would be a far better place were we to raze the Church of Charisma. Singers, politicos, actors and athletes should be judged solely on recent accomplishments. When they're washed-up, they should be consigned to the scrap heap of history. What do you think?
by mg at 12:09 PM on April 03, 2003
I had a brain taco for lunch at La Correta Rosa Tuesday. Of course, it wasn’t called a “brain taco” on the menu, it was called “sesos,” but I knew what I was doing.
I’ve been around the world a time or two (at least I’ve been to New Orleans once which is almost the same thing) and I’ve tried to keep an open mind about almost everything – food, music, social mores and customs. In my experience, in order to truly get to know a people, you have to try their food.
No, that’s not quite right. You have to eat their food and understand why they love it. You have to understand why they don’t just go to McDonald’s like us. I’ve had kim chee, squid and octopus soup from Korea, preserved duck eggs and black fungus from China, Mulligatawny stew from India, alligator and raw oysters from Louisiana and seaweed from ... well, the sea, I guess, but by far that brain taco won the award for weirdest thing I ever ate.
I have to say I’d do it again – in theory – but in reality it might be a while before I eat one again. Try it you might like it is a good rule to live by. I’ve been pleasantly surprised before. Cabeza (cheek meat), lengua (tongue), tripas (tripe) – it’s all good. Brain tacos are an aqcuired taste and while they are pretty common in Mexico, they are just a bit too far outside my comfort zone.
Of course, this works both ways. Do you know what a great many Asian people find absolutely disgusting in Western cuisine? Cheese. I had an Indonesean roommate who was sickened when I put cheese on anything. And not just those Ameican singles. I couldn’t blame him for that. I mean the good stuff, cheddar, mozzarella, cream cheese. To him, eating cheese was just like sucking up warm lard through a straw.
My roommate told me about a delicacy from his country called bird’s nest soup. The primary ingredient of bird’s nest soup is, in fact, a sea swallow’s nest. This isn’t metaphor soup, y’all, this is the real deal. Apparently, sea swallows use a lot of spit to hold together their nests made of seaweed and the spawn of small fish. The soup cooks for days and, like most things in Chinese cuisine that aren’t crab rangoon, it is supposed to bring long life and good health.
So here I am putting cream cheese on a bagel and grossing out this Indonesian guy telling me about this delicious soup made out of bird spit (and lord knows what else a bird leaves in its nest), seaweed and rotten fish spawn. To him, my pure sweet delicious cream cheese was just as disgusting as that thick bowl of mucousy soup.
When it comes right down to it, what ISN’T disgusting if you think about it too much? Our waiter at La Correta Rosa said you can’t be thinking “Oh God, I’m eating brains” while you are eating brains. He was right. How many people really focus on the fact that they are eating the flesh of a dead animal while pouring A-1 all over a t-bone? Did that do anything for you? How many people REALLY think about what’s in that hotdog? You know it’s the most disgusting leftovers from beef, pork, chicken and turkey production don’t you? Frankly, brains are the least of your concerns when it comes to a nice juicy hotdog, but you eat it, because you do one of two things. Either you put the thought of ingredients out of your mind or realize on some level that it’s all the same. Of course a third option is denial.
by mg at 11:41 AM on April 02, 2003
Now that shock and awe has given way to duck and crawl, it’s time to boot those 600 embedded reporters out of Iraq. What about the public’s alleged right to know, you ask? When did you obtain this right? Did I miss something?
You sure didn’t have it during Gulf War I or in the Afghan conflict, and you have no such thing now. You have a right to know whatever distortions the military brass chooses to foist upon you and no more, just as in those past wars.
Ah but wait, there’s more! These talking heads are in a raging war zone where they clearly don’t belong. Also, they require provisions, pampering and protection; which detracts from a military mission that has proven much tougher than expected in its early going.
Moreover, embeds are a constant distraction to our troops. In case you hadn’t noticed, guys tend to get horny after a few days without sex. And a lot of these correspondents are indeed hot tamales, some of whom may engage in wanton debauchery. Given that and the fact that our GIs are allowed to have Bibles but no porno, wouldn’t they be all over the hottest embeds and vice versa?
Which brings up the question of their objectivity. Perhaps because they’ve cozied up to our fighting men in tents, many have accused them of presenting a cheerily skewed view of unfolding hostilities. Myself I’d disagree on that point. Seems to me we’re receiving plenty of depressing news from the war front.
Hello. This embryonic war’s been going on for two weeks. Iraq is a heavily fortified nation the size of California. It takes time to invade it and oust its leadership. Yet the endless filing of redundant reports has made this campaign seem like a torturous eternity. So far it hasn’t eroded public support for the war but it will in time. Trust me.
Then there’s the matter of our badly tarnished image worldwide. Bush II was already widely viewed as a cocky cowboy overseas. What does letting a contingent of fresh-faced scribes tag along on a major military incursion say to you? To me it says 3 things: 1) Certain US officials, to varying extents, view this as a video game-like lark. 2) It will be over quickly with a minimum of televised carnage. 3) They want to control what images are aired as much as possible. (BTW, Arabs are being subjected to an entirely different version of Operation Iraqi Freedom on al-Jazeera. It’s more like Operation Iraqi Massacre. Or, should I say, they would be but for the ingenuity of patriotic computer nerds stateside. I don’t know how it’s being portrayed elsewhere. Perhaps readers might shed some light on that.)
Now don’t get me wrong. I support our valiant soldiers. I just think they should be allowed to go about their grisly business without reporters likening their peril to that of those in harm’s way. To say nothing of Peter Arnett fraternizing with the enemy or that self-aggrandizing 20th century relic Geraldo Rivera compromising operational security. So, Scud studs and Desert Foxes, it’s time to come on home. You’ve worn out your welcome, and it's time to get down to the nitty-gritty.
And I'm not so sure you're cut out for this sort of thing.
by mg at 08:36 AM on April 01, 2003
No sooner do I create a comic strip to reflect a different set of sensibilities than those represented by every hack artist out there, than I discover Chris Muir’s Day By Day, which already does a pretty good job speaking for me. It’s very good stuff, with actual drawings and characters and stuff.