Thursday, December 26, 2013
Once Christmas is over -- this being December 26 -- one of the most unpleasant reminders of the holiday is the Christmas tree. There it still sets, suddenly unwelcome, like a hangover.
I look over and feel nothing but queasiness, whereas, somehow, before Christmas and on Christmas Day it was such a great thing to see. I really don't know what it is about a Christmas tree on Dec. 26. It's not like it has rabies or rickets or some other communicable disease. It's the same thing it was yesterday ... and isn't Christmas supposed to have 12 days and not just one?
The tree I have is one that comes in a box. Artificial. Unless you're a tree grower or the Optimist Club, the only kind to have. I had a real one for the last time in the '70s. Unfortunately I was slow about taking it down and it dried out and the needles fell into the carpet, keeping me up till 3 or 4 in the morning cleaning it up. Never again! And I've been good to that vow.
But still, it's work to take it down and get it in the box. There's ornaments and various knickknacks on it. Then there's another problem, unplugging it, knowing it's not going to work right when I plug it in next year. It didn't work when I plugged it in this year. I messed with it for an hour, changing a few bulbs and doing all kinds of things, to no avail. Then I left it half-on, as it was, and when I came back in the room a few hours later it had fixed itself! Can't depend on that every year!
I got the idea today that if the tree could talk, and if it knew my disgust with it on Dec. 26, it'd probably say, "I didn't ask to be set up. You brought me into this world. If there's something wrong, obviously it's something in your own psyche and nothing about me. I'm the exact same tree I was yesterday." Which, you know what? I agree with!
Everything about the Christmas tree, except for the physical thing, is in the psyche. I think it's something like this, recalling stuff I heard as a kid: The ancient whoever, our ancestors, thought when winter came everything was going to die. So to keep things alive, they brought a tree in the house. Then, I guess, if everything did die, all they had to do was take the tree out in the spring and everything would resurrect. How they kept the needles out of the carpet, that's what I don't know. Probably wooden floors.
I'm not especially a big believer in a magic tree keeping things alive in the spring, certainly not an artificial tree. But there's still something in my psyche, apparently, like everyone else, that says, "Must have tree in house ... just in case everything dies, or whatever." Even Republicans have Christmas trees. They might not accept global warming and the need to save the whole planet, but by golly, we're going to have plants in March!
Bye bye, tree. Back in the box you go. See ya around Thanksgiving!
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Christmas always comes this time of the year. And without dispute, it's the most wonderful day of the year. A time of good cheer, love for all, and universal peace. It arrives like magic, then 24 hours later, unfortunately, it's gone in a flash. But while it lasts, O what reverie, what a blessed time!
It is our wish, our hope for you, that this will be the absolute greatest Christmas ever, making past Christmases as well as future ones pale in comparison. Then we hope that in the sad Christmases to come you will be able to look back to this day in 2013 and remember it fondly with the complete gladness that it brought.
JOLLY OLD KRIS--as his bells come tinkling across the sky bringing joy and gladness to so many disturbed homes -- we pause a moment to wish you, our beloved readers and friends, every happiness, and thank you for any service it has been our wonderful treasure and blessed privilege to render. Further, it is our fervent hope that the New Year, basically unforeseeable as to its trials and challenges, will be full of happiness with not an ounce of dread misery.
ROBBER OR SAINT?Some of we old ones call him a robber -- but the youngsters all call him a Saint -- But he casts his magic spell over all of us, so here's to the day when he holds sway, and here's to you whom we hail as friends and readers.
You have brought us such joy that we are constantly astounded that such a vast reservoir of joy can even exist. We think, "Surely by now some multinational company with a legal team and a huge host of marketing experts second to none would have snatched it up and started parcelling it out to the miserable at $25 a pop, speaking of robbers unambiguously not Saints."
IF WE COULD MEET YOU
IT COULD BE DICEYPerhaps 'twould be nice if we could meet you all and tell you how much we appreciate the friendly cooperation which has characterized your dealings with us. Or perhaps not. We are not what you'd call the most social of beings, clamming up nearly instantly in the presence of strangers. And what would we have to talk about, really? How much you like the blog? That'd take about 10 seconds. Then what? You might want money or, worse, sex, which is not our desire.
GRANDMA SLUMP BLOG INDUSTRIES UNLIMITED
P.S. - Remember, I'm sending a special select group of friends -- my dear friends -- a French Silk Pie for Christmas. If you receive one, God bless you. If you do not receive one after waiting a sufficient period of time, how ever long that may be, then I can only hope it will become obvious to you that I didn't send you one.
May you receive everything you so richly deserve on this blessed Christmas Day!
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
I was out trash-talking the weather today after the big snowstorm. First, you know me, I wasn't impressed. I used to hear the old timers talk about snow so deep they had to cancel school for a month. That was back before the government realized you could build trucks to get rid of it. And, second, I'm just not that easy to impress. Even if nature eventually destroys us completely, my last words will be, "With any competence it wouldn't have taken so long."
Of course I don't have to worry about nature destroying us. Mankind is king of the universe, OK?, the judge and jury over these pipsqueak storms. We have brains, but nature has no real organization. If I were pissed off nature (nature with brains) I'd concentrate my whole force in one area and make an example of someone. Like Afghanistan. American man has been screwing around in the war over there for close to 15 years and doesn't seem to be any closer to beating whoever it is we're fighting. But if I'm pissed off nature, I whirl and blow till they beg for mercy and choose to have a righteous democracy, giving rights to their girls to go to school.
That's all taking me pretty far afield, since I didn't mean to get mixed up in Afghanistan. If any terrorists are reading this, please don't hurt me. I wouldn't normally be afraid, but, seriously, if American man has been screwing around trying to beat you for close to 15 years, you must be doing something right.
My actual topic is the failure of our snowfall last night. I've never thought of snow as a true success till it's hit the ground. That has to be the purpose. It's up there in the tallest part of the sky and has the ground as its destination. But -- this is Nature vs. Nature -- it gets caught in trees, on cars, and even on my head. That's a weird thing I think of every snowstorm: "This snow fell from the tallest part of the sky and just happened to land on my head. Imagine that, if only snow came with winning lottery numbers!" And you can even localize it more, if it lands on an even smaller target, your tongue...
I was driving past this local wall, seen in the photo, and saw the tragedy of snow failing. Such as getting all the way from the tallest part of the sky and screwing it up with a mere 8 inches to go! Instead of falling on the ground, it got trapped in the crevices of the bricks. Then 8 inches up from that, and on and on. Isn't that a drag if you're snow? You're looking at the ground and knowing it's a sure thing ... just to have the wind swirl at the last possible second and put you on a ledge 8 inches up.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Probably the first thing you notice is that I'm advertising a pool hall, in fact wishing you Merry Christmas from White Pool Hall. I've only been hanging out here about a month and already Gus heard I had a blog and a good reputation for web design, so he spotted me a few drinks for coming up with this ad.
The extraordinary thing about all this is that I'm even in a pool hall. And that I'm actually getting over the guilt, since a bunch of the guys here have really befriended me. They're very friendly, and of course they get friendlier as the night goes on, not being afraid to put a few away.
But me ... in a pool hall! Which was a dirty word when I was growing up. Anyone -- you, your dad, anyone -- who went to a pool hall was scum of the earth. They were drinking away their paycheck, their kids were dirty and poor, and they didn't belong in polite company. But now here I am! And while all that is absolutely true -- I've never seen such dysfunctional families -- the guys are honestly very friendly ... and generous with their paychecks, buying drinks, treating me to pool games, etc.
I made this big switch in my personal life when my Mom died in August. It's been a hell of a year. The thing is, you see, she was the one who came up with the rule against pool halls. It was "God's will," and all the rest... That would be the same God who took my Mom. Kind of a downer, first giving her cancer, then making it so she was the wrong blood type to get the best radiation, then complicating things with her diet so she'd waste away, and finally ... the bitter end. Right then I vowed what anyone in my skin would say: That's the way you wanna play it, I'm going to pool halls!
The weird thing about my childhood was: We always had a pool table! I think Mom and Dad were trying to convey to us that good families could still play pool, just not at pool halls. We played Rotation, 8-Ball, and a game I made up called Jackoslovitch, which was kind of like hockey, played with pool cues broadly swiping the table. Now, of course, those days are long gone. Everyone's dying off. We're all getting old.
I think about Mom all the time, too, at the pool hall. Hoping that maybe she's not that ticked off in Heaven, since, after all, I am 60, old enough to veer off the straight and narrow path from time to time, depending on how I choose to live.
Hey, hey! A truck driver kind of guy, a big burly Dutchman -- Jake -- just came in the door. They act like I'm "the Professor," since I know big words and still act a little uptight. I'm also the kindest guy here, but I'm hoping to get coarser as time goes on. But, really, doesn't the world need sweet guys too?
About the advertisement -- Hope you like it. We really do wish that Happy Thoughts Caress You at Christmas. And that Good Old Santa doesn't forget you and yours. Christmas is for the whole family, but I always say it's really all about the kids. And I'm thinking I'll probably try a few interventions with some of the guys here, to get them to not waste their whole paycheck on drinks. A few's nice, yes, but I don't like the idea of kids suffering. Definitely not at Christmas. I'm going to call that my strictest rule.
That's it! Happy Holidays! All the best of the season! And stop in for a game!
Mama don't allow no pool hall goin' 'round here,
Mama don't allow no pool hall goin' 'round here.
Well, we don't care what Mama don't allow,
Rack them balls up anyhow!
Thursday, December 19, 2013
I'll try to be brief, although I could actually go on at length about this incident. I'm still a little shook up, trying to make sense of it. It's hard to believe it all fits together, even if the tie-in with books is admittedly a matter of my own theory. The rest is 100% certain.
I was leaving a parking lot today in my buggy. I had to cross a sidewalk to leave. I pulled out in the middle of the sidewalk and stopped to watch for traffic. A guy on a bike happened to be coming from the south on the sidewalk. He had to stop because I was blocking the way. But instead of stopping he only slowed down, then came toward my buggy and intentionally smacked into it! He did it on purpose, you see, a total a**hole!
I didn't do anything in response except look his direction. I didn't cuss, I didn't finger him, I didn't make any gestures at all. He crossed the road and I crossed the road and parked. He could see me get out to check for damage, because I was going to call the cops. Fortunately, there wasn't any damage. It appeared that he had merely bumped into my tire with his. Still, what an *sshole!
Naturally, I went over the facts in my mind, over and over, justifying myself completely. Yes, my car was on the sidewalk, and, yes, he was probably ticked off. But that doesn't give him the right to smack something on the sidewalk. Obviously I was already there, like anything. If someone else is there, you can't run into them without being at fault. Unless you're an assh*le, like the guy totally was.
OK, I left and reentered the parking lot, intending to shop for books. At the bookstore I found three books that I wanted. Then I talked myself out of them, knowing that I already have hundreds of books and need to save money. So I put them back and left.
Then, later in the evening, I thought I would go back and get them. How many books did I say I wanted? Three. But when I got to the bookstore, two of the three were missing! How likely is it -- I'd like to know -- that in a bookstore with literally 30,000 books, give or take, that any two of three random books are going to be sold in the space of six hours? My suspicion: The guy had followed me, saw my interest in those books and figured I'd be back, and screwed me over by getting two of them.
What I would have hoped for is this: That the guy would've taken them to the counter and told the checkout guy the whole story, how he had a grudge against me, therefore he'd take the books. With the checkout guy then saying, "Yes, we sell books ... but we're not selling them to you under those circumstances." Since it's out of an irrational grudge, merely meaning to screw me over, and he was at fault.
Like I said, I went back to the bookstore to get them. I was hoping the relief checkout guy would see me looking for particular books, and without me saying anything, remember what the other checkout guy said, about the first guy (me) and the other guy (the ***hole), and would know where the books were that I wanted. I didn't ask, I was going by faith, but none of it worked out. The books were gone and that was it.
In conclusion, the final word on the subject, what probably happened was the bike guy saw where the first checkout guy put the books, then came back in later, stole the books, leaving one behind to be on the safe side. Then the relief checkout guy saw me come back, went to get the books, saw they'd been stolen, and chose not to say anything about it. He would've known I was going by faith and wouldn't want to shoot it all together.
I told a friend the whole story of what happened and to him it sounded reasonable. So I'm telling you.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
I had a great idea this year for Christmas. I'm getting all my friends a French silk pie from Perkins! Seriously, each one is getting their very own pie! (To qualify, you needed to be one of my friends before now, like at least a year ago and thereafter showing the various signs of friendship. And if you become my friend now, I'm likely to suspect your motives, possibly having next Christmas in view. The bottom line: I alone am the judge on any and all terms, and my decisions are strictly final.)
How about that? My friends are going to be really happy, since I've never met anyone who doesn't like a French silk pie. They might get a hundred presents from a hundred different people, but this is the one that will stand out. They'll all be like, "I'm friends with this guy and look what he gave me! Isn't that something!? A French silk pie from Perkins!"
It's about time to get my order in, too. Because even Perkins needs a little notice, since I'm going to need probably 10-18 pies, maybe more depending on how the final criteria comes down. There's a few "shirttail" friends, acquaintances from church, etc. Depending, again, on the various signs of friendship, and possibly throwing in a few qualifiers for some "hard luck" that they've experienced, I might need more pies. There's this one guy. He's been on oxygen all year -- terrible case -- gasping all the time, and yet he'll shuffle across the sanctuary, a 20-minute shuffle at his pace, just to say hi and "God bless you." By the time he makes it back to his pew they're calling out Code Blue. I'll probably give him a pie. It's the least I can do.
I know, though, that when you start doing a thing like this, it can become a bastard. A few of them will feel guilty they didn't get me anything. Or I'll be on their list for next year; they'll be going into debt to pay me back, just what I don't want. Or they'll think there's something wrong next year if I don't give them a French silk pie. This is so true: If you give something unusual, like a French silk pie, they'll never forget it. But if I handed out a sack with an apple or box of chocolates, it'd be like nothing. That's something to think about.
No, I'm not backing off the idea ... not yet, at least. So if you're one of my friends -- and several of my actual friends do read this blog -- don't worry. I thoroughly believe the pie's on its way! Just be patient. I have to work with Perkins, blah blah blah. And I do have the money for it. I've been eating at home all year, not Perkins, saving up a ton of money. So it'll be like my whole Perkins budget in a normal year spent in one lump sum at Christmas. That works...
I wouldn't mind going there today to get a French silk pie, just so I can be eating on it while I'm making up my list and final preparations. You know how much fun that sounds? Very fun! They're so rich though, I'll probably have to eat it in thirds through the rest of the day. I'm very hungry for one, and I hope you are too, if you're one of my friends.
In conclusion, Christmas is also a great holiday for music. And I'm thinking of one of my all time favorite Christmas songs. You know the one by Brook Benton, "You're All I Want for Christmas"? That's the one I want to listen to. And here's an idea -- I just had this idea! -- I could splice in some spoken references to French silk pie in the original recording. I have the audio software! Making it sound like this:
I only want FRENCH SILK PIE for Christmas.
I need no other presents under my tree.
You're all I want -- FRENCH SILK PIE.
And that would be ... the world to me.
As far as I can tell, Santa doesn't have to load his sleigh,
He can mark all my gifts "Return", or give them all away.
I only want FRENCH SILK PIE for Christmas.
The rest is only tinsel and show.
You're all I want -- FRENCH SILK PIE.
And mistletoe ... at candle-glow.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Editor's Note: I was reluctant to post this on my blog, because of its obvious lascivious nature. We have a guy telling a series of females to "Get those panties off!" But I shared the whole story to a woman friend of mine, who thought it over and now has been repeating it back to me -- certain aspects of it -- for over a week. When it comes to her I'm afraid I created a monster, since this thing about the panties is all she wants to talk about. As for me, to keep it going, I was rooting in her dirty laundry and had a pair of her panties in my back pocket .... Well, you're probably not interested in what happened next...
We had some serious discussion about it, and for me that's good enough. I'm not expecting any major favors. All I want, frankly, is to move on. But not until I likewise infect your mind ... corrupt it, really ... with the lurid tale of ... The Guy Who Said "Get Those Panties Off!"
What a bastard this guy sounds like, to me. Like the cock of the walk, the man of the house, policing everything they did, the women. Who honestly were doing their level best. Of course they wore female underthings, which then on occasion would need to be washed and dried, the whole bit. You wear panties for a week, yes, they're going to get dirty. That's only logical, to my way of thinking.
They were all under the same roof, and who knows if things started out in a more egalitarian way... But certainly with the passage of time -- and perhaps it had to do with the way the relationships went -- the guy became more demanding, much more demanding, to the point of ... telling them, in no uncertain terms, what to do! Just the sound of it rankles me: "Get those panties off!"
And to make it worse, think of who these women were: One was his own mother! Terrible, but true. He went right up to her and demanded, "Get those panties off!" I know if I'd ever said that to my mom she would've decked me, and deservedly so. But with his mother -- and maybe it had something to do with his demanding tone of voice -- she ran from the room and down the stairs.
The second woman was his girlfriend, who must have had her own reasons for being with the guy. But I don't know. All I know is once he saw his mother running down the stairs, it must've given him a real sense of power. Because he didn't hesitate for a second but went directly to their bedroom and confronted her, issuing the same blunt command, "Get those panties off!" Of course she was aghast, running from the bedroom, leaving him there clenching his fists.
For me, the third one has to be the worst, since this wasn't even a woman, in the strictest sense of the word, but his 11-year-old niece, just visiting for month. Still, he had the same attitude and gave the same brusque order: "Get those panties off!" She must've been frightened, running down the stairs like the others, escaping the big bully. I'm glad she got past him.
He grimaced, one of those very determined grimaces where you get a fat lip, and rolled up his sleeves, heading down the stairs. They would get those panties off or he'd know the reason why! And just as he got down the stairs, here came the women in from outside. Obviously each one had had a hand in the task, what they were doing, but the girlfriend carried the basket, heaped over.
It turned out the big lummox hated to see panties that by then had been dry for hours hanging on the clothesline. Whether through absentmindedness, neglect, or just shear laziness, they hadn't brought them in. And there they'd been, flapping in the breeze. Every time he looked out, there they were, leading to his demand, "Get those panties off!"
Friday, December 6, 2013
I hope you like this post, as always, although, frankly, when I think of it, it won't make a groatsworth of difference if you do. It'd give me some temporary satisfaction, probably -- it's possible -- especially, you know, if you wrote in with your opinion to that effect. You might say, "Thanks for the laughs. I love your blog." Of course I'd like that, even though it'd quickly wear off, and in the end wouldn't make a groatsworth of difference.
I'm resigned to life like that. I really am. I'm 60 going on 70. And when you're that old one of the things you've had driven into your head is the idea of vanity. I'm getting pretty damned good at it. I see kids walking out of the stores with the latest shiny crap and I remember back when I did the same thing. The latest album, a new change of clothes. Then it goes on your shelf and in your closet and you're looking for a new high. The things you crave eventually don't make a groatsworth of difference.
Just the fact that I'm writing this doesn't really make a groatsworth of difference. I was laughing it up earlier this morning. It's been 12 hours, or just a little over, since I thought of it, and I was laughing like a hyena. Does laughter help? Yes, doctors say so. Laughter's the best medicine, helps extend your life, they say. But let's say it extends your life an additional 10 minutes. Yes, that's an extension, but does it make a groatsworth of difference in the whole scheme of eternity? Fat chance.
I've been thinking a lot about eternity lately. Again, I'm getting old. I used to pray, "If I should die before I wake..." back when I didn't really mean it. Now I'm praying it sobbing like a baby, sweating as it were great drops of blood. Beyond just the process of dying, I've been dwelling on what happens to dead people. Even going so far as to look up (Google) information on the decomposition of the body, how long it takes, etc. Look it up, you'll never sleep again. A body liquefies! And the resulting "soup" they call "corpse liquor." I'm not making that up! They go to exhume you and you're just a puddle of slop in the bottom of a casket. One of the junior cops is puking behind the tree, but to you, measured now in fluid ounces, none of it makes a groatsworth of difference.
If it's going to make something close to a groatsworth of difference, you have to tackle the problem now, while you're alive. Which is one of the big reasons I've underlined and bolded and red-asterisked the word "CREMATION" in my final arrangements. Put me to the torch! That's what I'm saying. Line up some fagots and put me on top. Douse it all with lighter fluid and be done with me. Actually, honestly, the crematorium has an oven strictly for cremation. I saw one one time when it was brand new. True story. I toured a new funeral home before they had their first body, even though, to be completely above board they had pre-sold several vaults in the wall. They said it went up to 1500 degrees and you were ash and bone in a flash. Like a microwave, only much hotter and faster.
Sorry about veering off into death. I know a lot of my most faithful readers are either so young none of this matters to them, or essentially brain dead, only looking at my site to bone up on their ABCs, so none of this makes a groatsworth of difference to them.
How about me? Should I go on? Is it going to make a groatsworth of difference? Would it make a groatsworth of difference if it did make a groatsworth of difference? Nope, not a groatsworth.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
DISCLAIMER: I have to be careful the disclaimer isn't longer than the post. But I know this is where a guy needs to tread lightly. You can't be positing illegal activity without giving at least a passing nod toward warning people from actually doing it. In this particular post, I am only imagining what a person might do, not suggesting anything that anyone should actually try or do. It's just like the ads on TV that say "Do Not Attempt." No one, for example, has any reason to think that you would mimic the actions of "Mayhem" on the insurance commercial and fall off the top of a garage backwards. But it's still necessary to say "Do Not Attempt" to be legally covered against that one idiot who might try it. Similarly, I am going to write about sleeping in a thrift store, which I in no way endorse as an activity that anyone should actually do. To conclude, please don't try this, and if you do, don't tell me. There's a place downtown where they sell smoking paraphernalia, but they say they won't sell it to you if you so much as hint around what you're going to do with it. That's my disclaimer as well. Do not even read this post if you're so much as tempted, even slightly, to actually try it.
It's cold again, with the coming of winter. Leading me to think about what I would do if I didn't have a place to go at night. So far I've never been very homeless. But I always wonder ... What if?
I was near a thrift store today that I know sells mattresses. They're stacked up against the wall. I don't think the place has a 24-hour security system, but if they did this idea would be totally out. I was thinking of the obvious scheme, that a guy could go in there and insinuate himself between the mattresses and wait for everyone to leave. Follow me? I figured you would.
OK, here's where it gets good. Once I'm totally sure everyone's gone, then I picture myself lowering the mattress and sleeping on it. Which is what anyone would do, of course. My big difference is I do not make any movement in the store, unless it be very minimal and then done only by crawling, shimmying along on my belly, or just up on my hands and knees. This keeps down shadows in case any traffic is near the door or windows.
You figure they have a bathroom. So I go crawling along the floor till I get to it. At this point, most bathrooms don't have windows so I might feel comfortable enough to stand. But I do not turn on the light. That might be disastrous. Then I crawl back to the mattress.
At this point I really have to rely on my ability to wake up on time, because if I'm still there when the manager unlocks, like Goldilocks in the well-known story, he will catch me. Once I wake up, I assume there's an alarm on the doors. So I can't just leave. Instead, I have to prop up the mattress and stand there till the place opens, PLUS 15 minutes.
Voila, a decent night's sleep!
Have you ever stayed in a roomful of other guys? Like a youth hostel, something like that. I remember one time sleeping in a room of guys. The snoring and farting were unbearable, and that was just me.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Here's a picture that packs a punch! Don't get too close or you might find out how literally true that is! Struttin', clickin' my fingers, an occasional thrust for good luck. The only thing I'm lacking is a stripper pole. And, dammit, I saw one at a garage sale just three weeks ago! But how does a 60-year-old man carry a stripper pole up to the lady with the cash box and buy it? It'd be like, "This guy's a pervert."
That's her opinion, obviously, since I already know how normal I am. It's exhausting to be so normal, but I don't mind it, since I get eight hours of sleep almost every night. Then the next day I'm back up, looking for new opportunities to express my normalcy. Which occasionally do include attaching huge leaves to my pants and taking pictures for the anonymous internet trade.
But there is an upside, no pun intended. As here, it gives me a little something to share with the lady readers of my blog. And a few of the guys I know. This is the kind of erotica I like, the best kind, leaving lots to the imagination. A handsome man covered only with his shirt and jeans and a well-positioned fig leaf.
I personally think modesty is very sexy. (I hope that's not "too much information.") It's better, in my opinion, if someone is modest, better, say, than just letting it all hang out. And in my case, to be wearing underwear in addition to blue jeans and a fig leaf ... what could be more modest than that?
That's one of the biggest thing I remember from church when I was a kid. How Adam and Eve each had fig leaves over the pertinent stuff. Adam with one big leaf, Eve with three. At first they didn't know they were naked, then when their eyes were opened it occurred to them. That's pretty damned modest.
Maybe what I need to do is parley the anonymous internet trade spoken up above into a money-making enterprise. Get subscribers to see my latest leaf. Video it and make my thrusting somewhat more interesting. Different colors of pants. Spandex or my jogging suit that I use for pajamas. Anything for a buck, as long as it adheres to my modesty and normalcy, of course.