Thursday, November 21, 2019

Don't Let Grandma Down


Part 21 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

It’s unfortunate that we haven’t found a way to bring more people onboard without succumbing to the ways of the flesh. Cloning has limited value because of the randomness of the families they draw. So there's still a ways to go. Seeming to reinforce the old adage, “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, six of damned one, half a dozen of damned other.” We're stymied, because we want friends and family and they have to come from somewhere. Yet we know there’s death in them thar drawers, and it'd be great to be principled and consistent in our convictions.

The fact is very few of us are as good as we want to be. Even a sweetheart like Grandma and every traditional grandma I’ve ever heard of. There’s a whole new breed of grandmas, consisting of younger ladies. I question their legitimacy. But getting back to our traditional grandmas, I believe they came by their children as a necessity, mostly to repopulate the farms when the other farm hands were away at war.

So there’s some circumstances where sex has a positive side, very rarely. If your goal is something righteous -- repopulating the farm -- it appears to put aside some of the pain and guilt, the death in them thar drawers. But there's always a terrible nagging sense that you’ve let someone down. Which was clearly painful for Grandma, always torn by the issue. One side of her loved us dearly, and the other, naturally, resented bitterly our very birth; I for one never aspired to be a farm hand, so that was another mark against me.

Thankfully, she kept a lot of her bitterness to herself. In a passive-aggressive way she went about her sewing, her legs demurely covered with a blanket for warmth. It also helped her fight any natural aggression against us before we learned the rules of a decent society in regards to nature’s so-called “ways.” They drilled it into me, and I’ve never forgotten the lessons. I can still recite it: “Sex makes farm hands in case of war!” Which was strangely contradicted by the fact that we had lots of other people around. Cousins, aunts, grandpas, in addition to the dominant class of society, far and away the majority of the population, unemployed farm hands. Frankly, we could use a good old-fashioned war to use up some of them!

I myself vow to keep my chastity. With Grandma long gone now, it's less an issue to her here on earth, but I know somewhere up there she’s looking down, and I fear to let her down by foolishly siring a few unemployed farm hands of my own. So far, then, there’s no death in mine har drawers, unlike the drawers of others in which thar is lots of death in them.

Wednesday, November 20, 2019

Ma & Pa's Gettin' Down


Part 20 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

A hundred and some years ago society was a lot different. The roles of women and men were different, but the basic nature of what they did, functioning for reproduction as the obvious example being pretty much the same. The stork had been replaced and that was final. I'll try not to be sociological because it'd bore us all. Suffice to say, they were "getting it on" in ways that would still be a turn-on to us, depending which parts of the act they minimized (billing and cooing) and which parts they went fuller force on (getting down).

You probably know that birth control was more rudimentary, consisting of prophylactics and willpower. If you’ve ever checked out your family tree and find that it had many more limbs -- households with 12-15 kids ranging from newborn to college-aged -- that’s why. The old man, if they were in a town to small or uptight to stock proper protection in the general store, was left with his willpower. Which may have been enhanced, to give credit where credit is due, by five or six kids under seven bawling their heads off while he tried to concentrate.

Without getting too graphic about the other solutions, let’s just throw this out there in the nicest way I can. Say it was mid-afternoon and the old man and the old lady were preparing a nice time later that night -- once most of the kids were asleep and only the newest newborns were squalling -- he might choose to take the edge off, blow a little premature steam, allowing him to embark upon a later excursion in which they could patiently enjoy the extent of it, being longer. He wouldn’t be as red in the face, his eyes would not be rolled as far back in his head, he’d be present in the moment for the moment itself. And she with corollary feelings, coordinated in such a way to meet him halfway, wherever it led.

Naturally the buddy system would be a thing in this, maybe a little assistance, clearing some of the crying newborns out of the master bedroom, taking them down the hall with the older newborns, giving him time and psycho-physical space to stretch forth and allow the plumbing -- the system of pipes and tubes and sac containers -- a wider berth for its natural exertions. It’s a good lady -- dear Mama -- who can understand and perhaps pitch in when the going gets tough. Little Petey down the hall bawling his eyes red, a fever pitch, would be such a situation.

“Your love buddy’s on her way,” Mama might call out to Dad, “Keep up that head of steam, dearest, and know I’m near!” Then she gives the baby a little more care.

[This post is not meant to give the readers any ideas that sexual things are normal or allowed today, especially if you aren’t married with those years of experience in how a relationship should function. Any encroachment prematurely on these sacred implements and sanctuaries -- and that includes even thinking of it -- is liable to raise up nature’s own judgment, death and/or deformity and/or disease, for, yes, there’s death in them thar drawers!]

Tuesday, November 19, 2019

Alone, Do Not Disturb


 Part 19 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Who's the real men among us? Is it the foolish man always looking for a “night on the town” and experiences of the flesh up the yin-yang to the point of settling for sloppy seconds, thirds, fourths, perhaps twelfths (!) -- anything over 10 indicates a disturbance -- or the wise man going demurely to his room alone, declaring proudly that he’d rather not be disturbed?

I know the one I resonate with, Mr. Clean Living, Honest Abe, Ole Fraidy Cat, Everyone’s Friend, Nobody’s Sucka, Proudly Abstinent, Johnny Nothingseed, Chas Tity, For whom even cable TV’s a country mile too racy. Who needs something not quite as strong as the mint on the pillow. Who orders white milk and says “Make mine a double.” Who long ago forgot the only dirty joke he ever knew. Who wouldn’t know a boy from a girl without the dress or pants. Who climbs the walls just to keep in practice. Who double-locks doors against the temptations of others, not himself. Who orders vanilla pizza. And who when he craves a tight one means a chastity device.

If you want to be like me -- and there’s no one happier -- you start with the very common sense affirmation: “There’s death in them thar drawers!” Everything follows from that. Then you develop (cold turkey, so develop isn’t the right word) the ability for zero physical contact with any partner. And if you can manage that, it’s downhill from there. You’re a happy social outcast, no one wants to talk to you, etc. But there’s lot worse things. Take it from there and every temptation will be your sweetest enemy.

But of course you've got the power, you’re a sitting duck. 1) The power to resist, obviously; and, 2) the power to substitute joy for sorrow, turning your sorrow into joy, just like the Boy with the Midas Touch did with everything he touched, turning it into gold, giving him a whole new way of doing good, making gold and giving it to charity. For you now, when it’s the foolish "pride" of other guys to spring for a night on the town, then waste their night and their substance, you’re well refreshed, giving a pillow "the what-for," let’s say, while keeping your mind as pure as mother's milk.

Play your cards right and they’ll all be saying: “There’s death in them thar drawers, but that guy’s the first guy I’ve seen in like-forever whose drawers are a wonderful life all their own, no death, not a trace of death to his name, not even the barest whiff of sulfur. In fact, he walks by and smells like a garden from mythology, where everyone holds their heads high and greets one another with a smile and a hardy "How-de-do!"

Monday, November 18, 2019

The Town Painted Red


Part 18 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

By now we’re sharing at the heart level, you and I, as we've joined forces against an overly-sexualized society. I know I’m completely worked up, my boldness enlarged, beet red, engorged by the confidence I have in your alliance, you with me. And how many of you I’ve heard from, so willing -- bending over backwards -- to join in intimately, whether it's whetting knives, swords, blades of every form; then rallying men, women, loved ones, hated ones in common cause; then to charge forward with a battle cry for the ages, the rancor in our bones, the rancor in our marrow; all of us as one by now so stoved up that to merely lance the thing is to make it spew.

Let me put before you another reminder of the outrage around us being perpetrated on a daily basis. Right there it is in full view, such profligacy, such wild abandon, the shamelessness of it all! It gives me pause. Let us take it in and clear our heads. Lean out the window and catch our breath and try to comprehend what horrible force has been loosed, what this reckless swinging from building to building means, people with paintbrush in hand, buckets of red paint, and fearlessness, a unknown boldness that drives wanton men and women to expose themselves in every way. This is nothing to mess with.

“Painting the Town Red.” Of course I’ve heard that phrase a few times, but in my sheltered life I never really thought it through. Somehow we’ve all absorbed the phrase without fully taking it within ourselves as serious. Red’s a nice color, we might think. Honestly it’s one of my favorite colors. Red, green, blue, yellow … just some of the colors I can list off the top of my head. Dig a little deeper and there’s purple, lavender, chartreuse, caucasian, afro, blonde, black, curly, straight, cheese, toast, in a nutshell the entire rainbow and more.

Red, though, is the color where none is the number. Denoting that all restraints, all limitations are exceeded or surpassed. The number none means no boundary is sacrosanct, no consequences are worth considering in surpassing or bypassing them. The man, at least symbolically, swings from landmark to landmark in the Big City, his paint brush a’wash with red in thick coat, obscuring or replacing the tamer colors of tamer society. Meaning the most carnal behavior is now the norm. And, yes, There Is Death In Them Thar Drawers and, you know what? Only few of us care. That guy doesn’t care, he’s simply pissed away all concern, and as the red flows freely, prepares himself (society itself) to bring society and the whole social pact down.

Well, I for one do object. Is there anyone, just one witness, to agree with my lone voice of revulsion and shame? Hearing none, we're done for the day.

Sunday, November 17, 2019

Dies Of STDs, Returns


Part 17 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

This is a true story -- it is truly a story -- of a guy I once knew. Many of the details are fiction or close to fiction to drive home various points. Plus, I’m trying not to be so explicitly accurate that he thinks he's entitled to compensation, and of course I don't want him suing me for damages.

That's the way stories go, too. They’re either so boring you can’t do much with it. Or so interesting that they want a piece of the action. To which I say, if they wanted a piece of the action they should’ve stayed in the relationship, freely letting it all hang out and getting it on, instead of demurely withdrawing and then bragging to me about their experiences sexually and now with their abstinence, as though I haven’t got enough problems of my own. If it makes you feel good, take the whole thing with a grain of salt. And if it does you any good, that’s my joy.

Anyway, my friend’s experiences, the sex stuff, was so foolhardy, so completely demented, and for a guy with a high denial IQ so lascivious, that he literally died from pleasure (1) mixed with (2) the diseases attendant on certain unapproved, unwise practices. To get any more explicit than that would make me physically ill, and I’ve already had the dry heaves three times just with the intro.

But to literally die, that does something to me, going really the whole gamut, from physical sickness to spiritual euphoria. It’s either completely true about the afterlife (which is what I hope for) or the disease he contracted gives that illusion (six of one, half dozen of another). The last time I checked on the guy, and I occasionally see him at the pharmacy getting his various pills, he was still having all the symptoms, afterlife tales and the more cautionary stuff of back alleys. Still chasing that high and that low.

What would that be like? I often wonder, to be supine in the tomb, then to be ascending to heaven? All because you’re too much a horn-dog to forego a little bit of pleasure? One thing’s for sure, with my fear (which is my native saving grace), I’ll never know, unless it hits me the way I hope it hits me, when I die. The sensation of alpha jerk that Hendrix may have had. (Google “alpha jerk” and you’ll see the link.) In short, there’s two sockets/holes, death and life. In the experience of being there, in this surmise of Hendrix, he may have said, “I wonder if I can die.” So he supposedly tried it, the alpha jerk came on him and he 'slipped on out.'

My friend has apparently already been to the afterlife, but he keeps coming back, getting it on with various people, and maybe catching another virus or disease and going to the grave, over and over, world without end. Someday I’ll tell him goodbye and that’ll be it. But I’ll never know it’s it till he quits coming back. And if he keeps coming back I'll have to reassess.

Saturday, November 16, 2019

The Secrets Of Abstinence

 
Part 16 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

What are the secrets of abstinence, something more dependable than welding your zipper? That's a great question, thank you to Joey from New Orleans, the self-confessed young former horndog who sent it in. And he's right, welding's no good as long as we can still, by hook or crook, cut our pants off with a simple pair of scissors. What would work? When you’re young it sounds practically impossible. You’re so hopped up on temptations, then hormones -- stimulated or out of whack -- and of course you want to be cool with the In Crowd. But just to ask the question, like Joey did, is a giant step in the right direction!

The secrets of abstinence aren’t secrets in the same sense that you tell your friends secrets, like “I went out with Becky this last weekend and oo-la-la! Don’t tell my mom or anyone, cross your heart and hope to die.” Those are secrets you just don’t want anyone to know, although, to be honest, they're are also the hardest secrets to keep. Because your friends are just dying to tell someone, then that person will tell someone, and quickly even your mother knows, your grandmother, all the way up to the oldest grandmother in town. Joey did what?! Is Becky pregnant? You think so, with triplets!?

These are a different kind of secret, something virtually unknown because it takes discipline and determination. With some intermediary steps that are key, as unbelievable as they sound. More about that later. If you can get it together, though, it'll be great. But you have a ways to go!

The secrets of abstinence don’t primarily have anything to do with chemicals in test tubes. Although I’m sure, say, you’re in a foreign military elite corps they might fix you chemically, zapping you once and for all, then following up the original fix with progressively stronger doses to kill any last traces of virility or libido, until you’re not only limp as a noodle but cloistered and with the sexual appeal of wallpaper, But let’s say you don’t want anything that strong. You might want to save your sexuality in the possible event that you might want children someday. Farfetched but possible.

The actual secrets of abstinence are a matter of conditioning your mind and having the killer instinct to say “No! No! Hell no!” Then, in metaphorical terms, to run fleeing out the door, making your escape across hill and dale toward the horizon, kind of like what you used to see at the end of cartoons. In short, you don’t give in. You take a strong pose, you have a scowl on your face, your will is iron, you plant your feet, you’re a brick wall, impervious, impenetrable, and additionally not willing to penetrate anyone else.

In any conditioning you need to go over it again and again. Until they're about ready to throw you in the loony bin. The key is not to assume you've made it when you've lost your libido for a short time, say a month. But to make it rock solid, wearing a sign on your neck, "Stand back, 99% abstinent." Not only that but you want to condition others to want to stay away from you. So make sure you talk about your revulsion to sex with everyone you meet. As far as they know, that's all you can talk about. You accomplish two things, 1) You make the point clearly; 2) No one wants to be within a mile of you.

Then, by now you're a complete pariah with no friends and no chances for action. With no one being near you or wanting to be near you, you disappear into the wilderness, perhaps going as far north as possible. You'll be in good company, because up north, Minnesota, Canada, everyone's naturally frigid because of the weather. Even if you were to briefly lose your mind and pull down your zipper, they'd only laugh at you. Before long, they'd take pity and have it professionally welded shut. All temptation would quickly vanish.

But if you still haven't sealed the deal in your own mind, there actually are chemicals. I only mention it in a wink-wink way, never actually endorsing them. No, no, no, never! Anyway, there's this guy. An alley in a particular town, a former doctor, non-certified, and you can buy the stuff by the case, if you know the password. The password is "Grandma Slump." You didn't get it from me, OK?

Friday, November 15, 2019

Sex? Harumph!


Part 15 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Any one of us, were we to come near a live wire surging electricity, 100,000 volts, capable of powering a city for a year, would keep a wise distance. I can see myself to be the first to discover such a thing in my path. Then I'm standing there wondering what to do. “Do I run for help and leave it exposed for others to touch? Do I wait for help, someone who could run for help or would stand and watch the wire and warn others away? Do I cover it with a bushel basket and post a sign saying "Danger"? Right there I’d be fearful, maybe it’d spark, the basket would catch fire, the fire would blow into a park (on an autumn day) and next thing the city would be ablaze.

You can see the dilemma. A live wire's nothing to mess with unless the times, the hour, the moment has somehow chosen you. And that’s basically how life happens to me. Everyone else has missed the danger or urgency of any particular moment. You’d think just in terms of statistics that some other poor soul would be the first, but, no, it’s always me. As an example, I was hiking near some tectonic plates one day. I put down a blanket to have a picnic. When suddenly my basket was 10 feet in one direction and my plate 10 feet in the other. An earthquake.

As the meal went on the whole kit and caboodle spread over a small acreage. I’d sat my phone down and now had to run a mile to find it to call the geological survey or whoever. They said, “Thanks for reporting it. We’ve been monitoring it shifting for the last day.” Then the big one happened. Everything went to hell and I was flung back home to the Midwest, unharmed but mentally shaken, even more than usual.

The sprite in the picture is the sprite in all of us, right at the center of everything as it happens. In this case it’s the dawn of sexual understanding, naming it and touching its power. And while I cannot say I was a deep thinker in those days, unlike in the graphic, I was definitely a willing student, a willing learner of the magical forces, the tides rising, the tides falling, the oceanic feelings of [clearing my throat] bliss, my eyes rolled back in my head. The magazines not only promised such a rush but delivered it, until the pages were worn thin and the model’s had all packed up their bags and retired. Leading to bolder, more explicit pictures of hideous detail, open like a garage.

The sprite has it right to puncture the pretensions, the power of those perceived-mystical forces, wisely upon examination reducing it to the mere mechanics of it. Its power with this naming, this reduction, is minimized and now within control, domesticated. "You are nothing more than a phallic symbol. A snake standing for something else. Slither your sorry ass out of here, go haunt someone else. Because now I know -- and I raise my washed hand to swear to it -- There’s Death in Them Thar Drawers. Neutralized, tamed, defanged.

May the same be said for all of us, harumph.

Thursday, November 14, 2019

Hands Up! No Sex!


No. 14 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Once you’ve made up your mind that, indeed, Thar’s Death in Them Thar Drawers, you’re well on your way to foregoing everything of an unpleasant sexual nature. See that, I’m just putting it on the line, a kind of test. Of my assertion and your discipline. Obviously we’re not messing around here but shunning entirely all drawers and their contents!

It is, of course, less harmful to picture in your mind the perfect arrangement within drawers, all pristine and certifiably so, according to the best standards and the closest most trustworthy presentation. But, then, if  you're not careful, that's the exact point when your fantasy life takes on a whole new layer of fantasy to deal with. You’ve taken a step in the right direction, starting with the fantasy, but the real challenge is to avoid the reality. You might choose right.

As for myself, I know the comfort is pretty good, certainly in the beginning. Let me encourage you, step back! Practice makes perfect, they say, but your lack of practice will make it very challenging. If you don't stand back, I can't be responsible. It's like the old clergyman said, "If you practice to fail you fail to practice (abstinence, cold turkey eschewing, the heroic stance with a difference)." Again, I encourage you. You want to be perfect, pure. Any morals entirely ignored are eventually forgotten. Consider the monks and nuns in religious orders who've taken a vow to a higher love. They've done it. They’ve cast off chastity belts, other devices, and even the buddy system, and are at long last perfect. Nothing shakes their resolve!

I have to say, as to myself I’m not quite there, but almost. I’m definitely not tempted by every sweet young thang. Being older, I look like a gnarly battered potato, so they’re able to run away without me even getting a good temptation on. Take it from me, the worse you look, the easier it is. Which brings up a good point of advice. If you look good, you're probably doomed. You should quit bathing, changing clothes, and even combing your hair. No one’s forcing you -- that’s my disclaimer if you object, but it’s your ideal, realizing at long last the truth I'm putting forth: There is death in them thar drawers. And you, just like me, don’t want to cross the line where death will get you!

If you are still influenced by the police, that’s good. If you’re the kind of person that hates crime and adores law enforcement -- this is the way I live -- you can picture in your mind the police watching your home day and night. (They're not really, but you’re picturing them!) You go outside, you walk up the block, minding your business. You know the police are watching so you don’t vary in your behavior, you're strictly good all the way. Then you walk home the same way. Day after day the same thing, till even the imaginary police assume you’re good enough to ignore, and very soon even the imaginary car is gone, never to be seen!

Now widen your scope to include any and all sexual temptations. Think of the worst criminals you can. Lee Harvey Oswald, John Dillinger, Bonnie and Clyde, The Penguin. Now bring your fondest temptations to the fore. You see they're hideous, like things done by criminals as sick as crap. You don’t want anything to do with them! The police are gone and you’ve still got your integrity. A job well done, they won’t be running you in for encroaching. You, my friend, are a winner!

Wednesday, November 13, 2019

Upside, Downside of Passion


Part 13 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Now there’s a ripping hot scene I can identify with, scorching, scalding, a nice flicker of red flames and a lot of dancing, like the Old West when a particularly phallic-suggestive cowboy gets you dancing to a banging gun -- dance or die -- topped off, in spite of your dancing, by one of the worst deaths, immolation.

A scene like that -- are you with me, brothers in arm? -- has to put you in mind of fairly common experiences over the years. Burning with lust, burning with passion, red hot afire in the loins, the flicker of flames kissing, licking everything in sight. I really see it here, with a lot of basic whooping and shared glee, outright happiness with clasping hands, tossed hats, and getting that big look of wild contentment and celebration of the moment. And to think they each have a wife sitting at home, by now in full mudpack to the hairline, hair in curlers and checking her watch: “Where's that son of a bitch!? Why’s he so late!? If that scoundrel comes in smelling like the campfire with char on his shoes, I’ll know why!”

But I don’t actually say any of this to celebrate this kind of wanton behavior. Because now I already know how crazy it is. Pairing off with his buddy and jumping the flames of passion with a hotfoot isn’t where either of them should be. Because, 1) There’s death in them thar drawers, which should go without saying; 2) That ball and chain with the rolling pin waiting at the door, each one made vows to his respective ball and chain, and there’s more honor and value in keeping those vows than can be found in all the campfires and all the burning with lust and passion get-togethers and frolics you can find, even with male friends.

The upside of passion, though, is something to touch on. That there even IS an upside might come as news to you, because we’re so used to being out there, and everyone leaping about, then the massive communal ‘ending’ to it, and everyone slinks off feeling a little guilty to their respective mudpacks. So let’s touch on the downside. The downside is that you need this upside. Instead of finding the contentment within. Some guys find it, some don’t. Or they find it when it’s easier to find, when they’re too old to cut the mustard. Then they just morph into it and live happily ever after, assuming the death in them thar drawers didn't take them prematurely from the world.

I think the real joy of the thing is when you’re able to set it down at the height of your powers. Because upside and downside leads to no side. It’s simply a negation, not that hard to shun, swear off of, dispose of, relegate to the trash heap of other experiences with friends, and finally surpass. You see your old buddy in a meeting somewhere, you’re strangers when you meet! Or, who knows what, you fall back into the same trap. He asks “How they hangin’?” And one thing leads to another…

Remember, stop! Because for sure there is death in them thar drawers!

Tuesday, November 12, 2019

Underwear Models Gettin' Down


Part 12 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

I’m feeling conflicted with this one. I know underwear models (supposedly) perform a legitimate service for society. It’s all arguable, of course, and I may give some of the arguments pro and con, I don’t know yet. Just let me say, though, I hope the graphic isn’t too explicit or out of bounds for you. I really debated whether to obscure the racier parts, then didn’t. And I also almost separated the models by gender to individual posts, but thought it better not to stir up your passions in feverishly waiting for the next day to see what the next underwear shot would be. Better to just put them out there together and get it over with, if they’re presented at all.

Let me say, just as a matter of personal privilege, and to offer what I hope is an exculpatory note, we know what’s going on here and these images are not intended to rouse any feelings, urges, longings, or temptations to get down and get off, now or in the future. In fact, just the opposite. You should look at these wicked people and their open-to-the-world underwear as illustrating the overall cautionary theme we've had this month: There’s Death in Them Thar Drawers! If you take the theme as expressing a bitter outcome, then you'll see in the picture wise caution, certainly nothing to long for but something to shun. Let me say with all the solemnity I can muster: If I can save one person from the death due to them thar drawers, I'm happy. On the other hand, if I find out this explicit post actually led to a hundred, a thousand, or even a million deaths, I’ll be sorry.

OK, we have Dad over here in the orange union suit. He stands proudly, displaying his underwear as if called to sell it, copies of it. He has all the vigor you want in a dad, apparently a non-smoker, a man about town, friends with the guys at the coffee shop, and probably volunteers with the Scouts, Little League, and the church youth group. Just wait, though, till the youth group gets a glimpse of that reinforced triangle on his drawers! I pray that doesn’t happen.

Next to Dad there’s the shrimpy son, although for being shrimpy he seems good and stout. The muscles on him suggests someone who works out. And his look of vigor suggests someone who’s had the personal self-control to forego touching himself or worse. Instead, he’s channeled whatever libido he claims into building appropriate muscle-mass. The look of his biceps says he’s made active use of his arms, again, all very appropriate, which I’d imagine would be from playing the piano or carrying a bass fiddle home to and from school, the thing taller than himself!

The daughter, she looks almost too frisky for comfort, posed in relation to the mom like someone competing for affections, and even possibly plotting to take over the family, whether that’s simply the kink of her mind or an actual nefarious plan, maybe to abscond with the family’s financial cushion and make her way out of town with a high-spending mustachioed, tattooed ex-serviceman (dishonorably discharged) on his motorcycle, springing for the gas.

Leaving us with the mom, who looks like a halfway decent mom, certainly no one I’d kick out of bed for eating crackers. She know how to get right down to the real nitty gritty, MEOW! She’s Mrs. Crocker with meals, but some relation to Joe Cocker when it comes to putting on a show and getting down. I don’t think I should describe any of my other feelings, except to merely hint at them by saying, in my book she’d be Mother of the Year … every year!

If any of that strikes you in the least bit lascivious, please make note, nothing’s changed, there is now and ever shall be death in them thar drawers.

Monday, November 11, 2019

Married With Renewed Virginity


Part 11 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

In these days of boldness, of people putting it right out there, even in your face, and daring you to object, we have to tread wisely. “Forgive them,” we might earnestly implore the forces above, putting ourselves in some pretty holy company with words like that, “Forgive them for humping everything in sight, be it consenting, be it nonconsenting, be it alive, inert, a hole in a tree, or some filthy device found secondhand in a used devices store.

I know the media isn’t helping. Yes, I’m paying attention to the media. And I can sum things up pretty well. An image forms in my head and I mull it over. I don’t write it down. And before you know it, it’s taken on a life of its own, with a mind of its own. I rise up, it exposes itself to the light of day. It forges ahead, dodging and weaving, making its own path, forcing its way with insistence against all obstacles, unaware of the meaning of Stop Stop or Don’t Stop, Don’t Stop num num num. And I have pretty good control, respecting all boundaries. But here I’m speaking not just of my moral self, but the forces of existence that take our fellow beings over the line and to the moral woodshed. They can be restrained, they can be helped, even if it takes manacles.

Did your parents sleep together? With an emphasis on the word ‘sleep’? Ooo la la, some of you are saying. Of course they did. They weren’t perfect. Their restraint was like the restraint of most people, feeling fairly well entitled and not having real discipline. To the extent that I was aware of anything, I can say that mine had the superficial basics down. But they didn’t want anyone to know. This became an issue when I filled out a survey -- called Card/Pack -- that brought down the wrath of my dad upon me. “Did it have a question that said, ‘Do your parents sleep together?’" I couldn’t remember but I thought so. Well, from that point on, they didn’t. Meaning I had to file an amended return and only then escaped trouble with Dad.

If they were like the proud couple I’m thinking of today, who sleeps outside to let all the world know they’ve got the innocence it takes to have the happiest life, it wouldn’t be an issue. And perhaps it wasn’t anyway, because from that time on that’s all the kids they had. I have to think they knew something about the authorities and the scare of being socially exposed, because, indeed, There's Death in Them Thar Drawers. Meaning, the less school children were discussing it and exposing it to the all-seeing eye of the government, which you'd think would be more interested in aggregate numbers than specific hanky panky, the more they could continue their activities, but now with more discretion. Which is still no excuse.

Sunday, November 10, 2019

Chemistry & The Horn-Borgs


Part 10 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

I know I’ve been hard on sex all month, and that’s a good way to be, seeing there’s so many moving parts and so many things that could go wrong. Exacerbated by people’s sense of urgency to “get it on,” often regardless whether they’re fit candidates for the deed, some diseases spread on contact. Others are merely iffy but still dangerous, while others, like me, are disease-free but thoroughly skeptical of everyone else. You take the healthy out of the overall pool, you're left with a cesspool, naturally with death in them thar drawers.

Here’s where science could make a positive difference, and I’m sure sexual scientists are always busy with one thing or another. Some are chemists in the perfume industry, coming up with scents, fragrances, creams and so forth, to stir interest and get us to overcome our natural reticence. Other chemists could be associated with sociologists/investors, stirring up wanton desires merely to fill motel chains. Then there’s all the associated restaurants, gas stations, the fly-by-night marriage industry, etc., more or less parasites. The way I see it, everyone’s on the take.

Still, for the most part -- despite the poor track record of science in a few sectors -- our assumption is that it makes a difference for good. From which I also could hope to profit, merely from the many ideas I've had in this blog series. They could work with my reticence and help tailor solutions, knowing if they could satisfy me with their progress, it’d have to be progress indeed! And really I wouldn’t be that hard to please, as long as others were the guinea pigs when it came to testing. I’d actually be happy behind a control window, fidgeting with dials and experimenting independently with combinations. My whims are often just as good as decisions based on scientific principles.

My teachings about "Death in Them Thar Drawers" have already exploded in popularity. People are asking me, "Is the Horn-Borg near? Is the anti-Horn-Borg serum close?" I got in on the ground-floor of that, the head honcho being a guy at my church. Then he partnered with rhino farmers, scientists, and me as the propaganda guy -- preaching "Them Thar Drawers’ for three weeks, which helped empty pharmacy shelves for three straight days, guys hoarding the stuff, etc., making me the guy filthy rich. He's so rich he hasn't answered my calls for the last two days.

Meanwhile, back in the lab: The technicians are regulating temperatures, which have to be just right. Say it’s a nice 89 degrees, they then procure all the containers needed to hold the stuff. It's a precision-tuned operation with three basic demands: temperature, temperature, temperature. A mutual friend of mine and the conglomerate, who needed a job, watches the gauges 24-hours-a-day. It's a deal with multiple good benefits, not just for a world looking to get it on in a good-natured way but for the my home community when associated family friends calls on merchants to pump the money back into the economy

Everyone loves sex, everyone hates death. The combination of the two in the Horn-Borg Affair is already a major part of my teachings. I throw in a little Freud, enough to flavor it, and people are throwing their money away, giving themselves up to looseness, simply because they think there’s some psychological justification for it. They're also making money with the skeptical, principally through my “Death in Them Thar Drawers” teachings.

I'll be downtown with placards tomorrow morning; if your car's outfitted with a horn, give me a toot! Then there's mothers who are socking it to the local PTAs based on my warnings. But, alas, with the younger generation resenting their mothers and digging in deeper, the Horn-Borgs could make a resurgence. But they don't yet show up on the newer census forms, if we can trust their answers: "Check your personal identification: A) Human Being; B) Horn-Borg."

The new perfect world is dawning, its light.

Saturday, November 9, 2019

No More Public Bathrooms


No. 9 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

That’s a pretty good kink right there, a big strong woman sitting on our hero, a scrawny helpless dude looking disconcerted, with her strong display in a sweet pink dress, delightful gold high heels, tough-guy arms, and look of revulsion that’s downright nassssty. We could stop right there and say it’s goooood, but I implore you to look away, walk away, because it’s true of this chick as much as it’s true of anyone, There’s Death In Them Thar Drawers!

And how about her quote, "No more public bathrooms for you!" Comes across as a sweet deal. Punishment and denial, her edict reinforced with her soft, fulsome tush. No deal’s quite as sweet as that, those strong thighs, the aforementioned fulsome tush, and that (playful?) look of probably unfeigned disdain. If her face freezes that way she'll mercilessly flay you alive, crush and beat you to a pulp. Death indeed is in her whole demeanor, the drawers and everything she’s got going on, top to bottom, she's mean, very mean, but we still hope somewhat playful. But maybe not ... what a way to die.

And the guy -- a very bad boy -- obviously deserves the worse she can dish out. He’s done something that, at least in my mind is unforgivable, although I’ve heard of guys -- idiots -- doing it, which has to do with public bathrooms. Pardon me while I get sick! To me nothing's more unappealing than to be pealing off your clothes or someone else’s in a public bathroom. And I’m not faking here, not trying to be difficult in order to to spark a kink of my own. Because it’s not there, just the truest, strictest revulsion, which I will loudly proclaim and never withdraw! This is a point I make, a point I insist on, Katie Bar the Door, Goodnight Miss Unabashed Wherever You Are. Six of one, half dozen of another, red 30, 5 aces, I just dealt and drew a straight roulette!

It takes love in my opinion to even care about the bespectacled frowning idiot at this point. And he’s not my type. Frankly I wouldn’t give him another chance. It’s unforgivable. He’s on his own. “X” marks the spot, sex mars the pot, for sure, if I were his partner this would be his last bit of overreach, say he reached in and dangled it over the public pot, a flow’er or one already empty. Spent.

On the other hand we could’ve come to the scene just a little bit late, without the information required that would’ve set us straight. Whereby if it is simply kink, a playacting game that lovers do -- her and him -- with no reality behind it, then I believe we’d still be cooking with gas. It’s kosher that way, but no sir to the other. Keep it light, keep it imaginary, and I’m in or on, whichever would be most appropriate. At the first sight of reality, however, it’s hands off, you’re on your own, don’t call, don’t write, I wouldn’t touch the paper you wrote it on anyway. In times like those, yes, There is death in them thar drawers, ‘nough said!

Friday, November 8, 2019

Sad History of Horny Dudes


 Part 8 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

You probably picked it up in some of your history classes over the years, that things in the old days were different from today. Way back then they had to regulate society much tighter than today for the very simple reason that society was under many more immediate threats, outbreaks of disease, the plague, the croup, dizziness, etc. Even getting too close to someone then with your bad breath -- say you had pneumonia a month ago -- was a concern, and this would be equally true if the infection arose from ordinary breathing, dog breath, Italian breath, or what have you, which sometimes are never cured -- it killed entire cities right now, on a dime.

Still, obviously, you had horny guys. Who by and large were just as crazy as guys now, ever eager to get it on with anyone they could find, ranging from a hole in the wall (think construction sites) all the way down to ... I can’t even say it. But you know those Frankenstein movies where they're always digging up the recently deceased; did you ever notice how practiced they seemed to be at lifting bodies out of the ground? Whereas today we wouldn’t have the slightest clue or even the inclination to carry things that far.

Another thing, those were the days right at the ragtag end of huge leprosy outbreaks. Meaning they were used to social restrictions on such things, with the bitterly afflicted having to remain isolated, sometimes on their own islands, who could only come to town after having swam a mile, the water cleansing them enough to allow them to enter the market for a few minutes. Interesting, isn’t it?, that back then there were such horrible deaths in them thar drawers! With the whole leprosy thing necessarily carrying over for other conditions, mild or severe, and guys causing a genuine panic wherever they went.

Even now, if you know where to look, in some of our better antique stores you can find these “horny horns” that horny guys without wives or access to wooden mannequins with knotholes had to blow when they were on the desperate prowl. I’m actually old enough I was sort on the edge of the time when this was happening. Anyway, I remember clearly that Grandma and Grandpa would cross themselves and seek divine mercy if they heard so much as a random car horn passing the house. And they never -- not once, the trauma was too great -- went to a band concert in the park, they were so paranoid. They didn’t like any horn, and I mean everything from the shofar to the alp-horn to the Wagner tuba! Harmonicas were borderline OK.

We’ve come a long way, baby, with what all's allowed today! But we should still be concerned, and it’s a big mistake that we’re not taking precautions. Because it’s just as true now as it was then, horny guys are still in fast pursuit of one another -- maybe even someone in your family! -- and can just as easily spread death and destruction from their wanton desires. For my part, I hear someone with even the sniffles and, sure, I'm still aroused, but I know something’s going ‘round and take quick cover.

Thursday, November 7, 2019

The Wreckers Are Coming!


 Part 7 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

We’re looking here at imminent destruction. I wake up and survey the situation on a daily basis. And with authority I can report that it's not just imminent, it’s already here and well underway. Of course being a prophet these days is unprofitable. But it's in my bones, warn the bastards!

In times like these we need a beacon, in times like these a clarion call. I'm very sure, I'm very sure, don't put me off, it could be the death of us all. I might give a signal, say, on the top of the highest building. Or in an airplane flying through the air, maybe already airborne, trailing a message behind that all could see. And nothing would drive the message home any better than “The Wreckers Are Not Just Coming, They’re Here!” If it weren’t for the public panic I’d rent the plane myself. An expense that would break me.

But if there’s a headline, a commentary on this sad state of affairs, it has to be that. The Wreckers Are Coming. With the onslaught coming simultaneously from two different perspectives, the old double-pronged sword, threatening to cleave asunder both meat and bone, straight to the marrow, gettin' right down to the real nitty gritty.

In times like these. What a refrain! In times like these all of us must be patriots to our way of life, keeping sex only within narrow well-defined socially-proscribed boundaries. It's gonna be hard, and that's the problem. Calling all of us who be patriots to our reaffirm our values, the things passed down to us as a once-rich legacy from the preceding generations, grandma and grandpa, who themselves knew no better but believed it anyway.

But I’ve got to take a break before I can stem the tide. And take a knee, bowing in solemnity to their memory. Their sex led to a mother and several siblings, who -- whether they knew it or not -- believed just as I believe. I didn’t make this up. Their marrow is my marrow, their 'morrow is my 'morrow, we're basically related by DNA, the shared connection of grandparent to grandparent, etc., etc. Get us together and we could beat this dead horse all day.

It's still important, though, so let's get to it: THE WRECKERS ARE COMING. Pulling down the walls that held society up, as well as the walls that held back the vain libido of men and women alike from over-mixing, bringing into play everything from the bone right up her maiden voyage, bon voyage; on that front the ship's left the station.

Today, then, right now, as people breach those barriers, we’re seeing them come together, flesh of the flesh -- yours, mine, and ours -- with all drawers forever flappin’ in the wind, once removed -- and all things exposed to the light of day and the darkness of the hour. Indeed, there's death in them thar drawers! God help us as they bust through.

Wednesday, November 6, 2019

Forebears & Lawn Mowers


Part 6 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

There’s a lot of my fellow men around, along with the other major segment of the population, their womenfolk, who have been careless, to put it mildly, with what they’re packing. I actually know some of the temptation of plopping out what's packed in your drawers, but fortunately I also know the benefits of forbearance without being a forebear myself.

Yes, that’s right. I made my mind up a long time ago that the older generation knew what they were talking about: “There’s death in them thar drawers.” And it was obviously true, because people were getting old and dying all the time. Including my great-grandparents, some of whom I knew! They looked at me like they didn't know who I was, that's how wasted they were. Their sins had prematurely aged them; they were already old when I was born. Then my regular grandmas and grandpas. The weird thing is this was the time of the world wars, so I beat the odds by being born at all. They were being mowed down by the grim reaper. A few more would pop up and the reaper would mow them down. But somehow my immediate people were missed.

Those were lessons I heard growing up. The street where we lived, a lot of people went to war and never came back. Which had an interesting effect on the yards up the street. Their lawns were completely neglected, one of our constant complaints. “Every time you let your lawn go, it gets weeds and thistles, and the spores and seeds come floating over to our place and we get ‘em too!” It was by thistles, weeds, etc., that Grandpa taught me the facts of life. All the way up to human beings and the conclusion, that, clearly, “There’s death in them thar drawers!” So I learned that man has children, they start a war, Man goes to war to kill the children. Then thistles take over and we need a new lawn mower.

It’s sad to put it out there like that, I know. But we can learn the lessons and be positive by dropping out of the whole scheme. Instead of having sex (death in them thar drawers) we can keep our purity. One obvious benefit of purity is not enough people to start a war. But without a war, man is thwarted in his desire to go to war to kill the children. Leaving less time for thistles to take over -- giving the survivors better lawns, but without children more or less condemning lawn mower factories. Who themselves might start a war, or encourage sex merely from a selfish profit motive, selling more mowers.

Tuesday, November 5, 2019

Messing With My Toot Toot


Part 5 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

I’m not the kind of guy that likes to give people orders. As an example, “Don’t mess with my toot toot” has been an uncomfortable thing. Even though that’s what I’d secretly have to say, it violates the old adage that you catch more flies with honey than explosives. Honey attracts, explosives repel. So I go to a lot of  extra work -- people assume I have all the time in the world to waste when actually I’m getting fairly old -- of saying such roundabout things as, “Please make every effort to keep your hands and other relevant body parts, stationery or moving appendages, from contact with my sacred toot toot.” As nice as that is, it leads to problems. It sounds negotiable.

But also, just like I said, I’m getting fairly old and now the demand for my toot toot isn't what it was when I was 25 and cute, regardless of how monstrously virile I still am. But privately. It doesn’t bother me so much, a toot toot like this, but I’ve seen other guys -- not as cool and mild-mannered as me -- rubbing theirs, exposing theirs, and thrusting their hips in inappropriate ways and places. Lunch lines, movie lines, church. “Oh, did I bump you? I’ve had vertigo since I turned 90.” Definitely, if you’ve turned 90 and you’re still thrusting your toot toot recklessly enough to bump someone, with the likely shrinkage, it’s probably not vertigo! But if it is, from your point of view, Vive le vertige!

Actually I’m a private guy and realistic. Even if they were lined up around the block to mess with my toot toot, I’d rather they didn’t. I’ve always had that  kind of reticence even when the pickins’ was easy. I'm thankful for a paranoia that’s never left my side for a minute, and if it did I'd be helpless. I remember when I was about 13 and had no idea about anything. Then, like creation out of nothing, everything big-banged into place, a tiny bit of guidance from relatives and friends. I also learned about things that could be wrong physically, diseases. And then quickly sketched out my first insights having to do with "There’s Death in Them Thar Drawers!" It bummed me out at first, but I soon invested heavily in the mission of Health Over Carnality Everytime!

Meaning Free Love was never temptation. Don’t mess with my toot toot! Rock Festivals weren’t a temptation. Don’t mess with my toot toot! Even Hitchhiking wasn’t a temptation. Don’t mess with my toot toot, and no I won’t go to a motel with you. Midlife crises weren’t any temptation, of course. My toot toot and I will be retiring early this evening, thanks for nothing. Discipline is the whole thing, along, again, with a very helpful bent from the lifesaving combination of paranoia, contemplation, and willpower. So to this day, whoever you are, Hollywood star or dude in the gutter ... Don’t mess with my toot toot.

Monday, November 4, 2019

Horndogs In The 'Hood


Part 4 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

All those years I never thought how useful it’d be if we wore a registration number on backs. Even though we’d been doing it for years on our cars, trucks, campers, and even houses. It’s obvious why we put a number on our vehicles, because it gives the government a good way to make money. And if someone steals your car, it’s helpful to know which one's yours.

We never thought we’d be wearing personal license tags for our personal safety! But with the whole imbalance in the sexually active washouts, diseased to the point of unpleasantness, and those of us who are wisely chaste, we have to be safe. The desperation on the streets is so terrible, any one of us could be kidnapped and made to work as studs. I hate to think of it, since, indeed, there is death in them thar drawers. Right now I’m huddled in an undisclosed location, about six layers of clothes for protection and my own license tag, which I keep with me even at home. Never know when some horndog's going to swoop in and take me.

You really have to admire those brave enough to spend their days on the street. I’m kind of glad they do, because it gives the horndogs someone else to prey on, taking the heat off the rest of us. It could be their chastity is optional, just claimed so they’ll get more action. Whereas my chastity's the old-fashioned kind, again, the six layers of clothes along with chewing garlic in my waking hours. I open my mouth and people fall dead.

Oops, be right back! … A jalopy just went by with some horndogs, whooping it up, perpetually horny. Stopping in front of houses and blaring their horn for marks to come out. I put out the light and held my breath. The least little sound and they’d be on me like a pin cushion, and of course the garlic might give me away as much as protect me. Second oops, a caravan of jalopies just went by so I had to turn the lights out entirely. Sort of a scary night.

The morning is now coming on. The jalopies have ground to a halt. There’s bodies piled up in the yard. The horndogs have apparently died of some fast-acting sexually transmitted disease. I might need to hold my breath when I go out to get the paper. Neighbors who’ve been had are crawling up the street shouting, “Unclean.” I’d love to help, but unfortunately they’re not wearing a registration number. Which is actually fortunate for me, since I have other things to do, read the paper, have breakfast, burn about 90 bodies from yesterday, and just relax and enjoy the day.

Sunday, November 3, 2019

There's No Get-A-Way


Part 3 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

There’s no sadder words in the English language -- and I’ve considered every word associated with grief -- than a muttering, threatening voice on the phone, saying, “We know where you go and we know what you do there…” With a long pause and the inevitable sketching out of the steps you need to take today, next month, the next month, and as long as you're alive. They might relent when you're in the nursing home and have lost your mind, but don't get optimistic.

You flail away, trying your best, “I don’t go anywhere, and I never do anything there, nothing every other guy in town isn’t doing...” It’s a real fear, I’m sure. It's hard to breathe, you wish you’d been a monk all these years. It’s certainly more fulfilling. And you've tasted the cheap thrills and they weren’t fulfilling.

Still, time stops for no man. And the man doesn’t stop either. He runs, it rains, he stumbles, he’s observed in a frantic pickle, there's a pit in his stomach like a peach, his outlook's dim and his eyes blink in the rain, barely seeing. A car honks and splashes water against him, not that he was dry anyway. And pretty soon if he doesn’t play ball they might hang him out to dry.

It’s all so sickening, that cornered feeling that I can only imagine. I’ve actually never been in that pickle, but there’s other times in everyone’s life where you feel like you’re boxed in and full of regrets. Like you didn’t study for the midterm exam and bomb it, knowing what it’s going to mean for the future. Repeating the class a second or third time. Which isn’t as bad as being marked for life because you couldn’t withhold your personal favors or expectation of favors and got sloppy.

But there's good news! The whole thing touches on and fleshes out the premise that "There’s Death in Them Thar Drawers." Life can be very tragic when you’re boxed in, surrounded, and left without hope. Every car whizzing by is the enemy. Because, really, what’s the chance that you’re out there alone if you’ve already heard the threats? The message becomes so terrible and with the terror so clear. You’re never going to get away, never going to escape.

How’s your breathing about now? I bet not so good. It’s making even me sick and I’m 100% innocent. And actually, you know what, with my own problems I might be free and clear. After all, I’ve moved probably six times in the last couple years. The only problem is I didn’t go through the rigamarole it takes to 1) Fake my death; 2) Assume a different identity. 3) Etc., because thanks (no thanks) to computers and everything online, it’s not as easy to do as when we were kids. I disappointed my parents one time and changed my identity and it wasn’t a problem. But that was before computers. Now you’re in big trouble and have to accept it. Those dismal blackmailers are simply the price of living.

Good luck. It's a nice thing to say, so a few compassionate points for me.

Saturday, November 2, 2019

Great Goddess, Totally Soaked

 
Part 2 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

If you gaze at and meditate on the Goddess in her purest form, realizing her in your mind in perfection, and it's not a rainy day in Egypt, you'll be sent over the edge in terms of psychic experiences, resulting in everlasting bliss. An orgasm without stop, presumably till you drown or find access to an upstairs window.

One thing I’ve done to negate some of that -- say you're uninitiated and want safety -- is to layer it up with captions and shapes, getting rid of its raw purity. Many of my readers have already gone on to their heavenly reward one other time I posted this -- resulting in angry threatening letters from their nitpicking survivors, which made me uncomfortable. Certainly I wouldn’t again post this most auspicious graphic of all time without precautions. Even with the precautions, however, you could edge pretty massively, and if you're positioned in a particular way you could drown. The key is to prove yourself worthy or keep your head above your privates.

I myself can heartily attest to the Goddesses’ power. I have one room in my house, the walls entirely plastered with this one picture in its full purity. Just getting within ten feet of the room, even when I can’t see it, I swoon. Then when I’m actually there, what a trip! I’m alternately swooning and passing out, periodically transfigured in the sahasrara chakra to the precincts above, full of bliss, dizziness, colors, and many sights and sounds. Even old black and white TV shows look color to me. Then I have a secret mantra and disengaging graphic that brings me back to normal, the picture on the blog of Grandma, but the more  powerful original print. No one brings me down like her, and that’s a compliment.

I’d like to stress one more time, in case you’re able to edit the graphic, deleting the disengaging captions and photoshopping it back to its original form, that even with the Goddess, as great as she is, There’s Death in Them Thar Drawers, and a powerful death, a translation type of removal of the spirit from the body. Did you ever go fishing as a kid, then when a fish is biting you’re so anxious to pull it in that you yank with all your might and it flies over your head and about 50 feet behind you? That’s essentially the downer the Goddess performs on you, the death in them thar drawers. You’re always better off waiting for your full initiation, which seldom ever comes unless you wait long enough, and even then you never really make it.

But if you ever do attain it -- with the chances on a scale of Now or Never are 99.999983% never -- you indeed will be transformed (have an extra pair of undies handy) because it'll be so irresistible that you won’t be able to resist, and if you die -- virtually guaranteed, particularly when uninitiated -- it will be such a sweet pain that you’ll be happy to go.

But your relatives won’t know any of that, and just to be sure I’m safe, let me put my standard disclaimer here: The writer and publisher of this post disclaims any responsibility for the death and/or translation of your loved one into the Goddess’ loving arms and afterlife. The writer and publisher claims only to be a conduit, but all blame and glory belongs to the Goddess alone, who, while being good is also inscrutable, therefore necessarily assuming all responsibility for devotees' deaths, disfigurement, persistent headaches, and loss of underpants. It's all the result of “them thar drawers.”

Friday, November 1, 2019

I Choose Safety 100%


Part 1 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Friends, you know me: I’ve been here for years, laboring away through blood, sweat, and tears, and a good deal of anguish putting across my important teachings. I'm very happy to share and I'm glad you’ve come to trust me. I cherish that trust. And I know you, most of you by name. For years we’ve “shot the shit” over my blog, your great ideas for it, and of course you've honored me with many harrowing testimonies about how I’ve helped you, especially when times were tough. Keep putting the cream on it, the infection will go away, but it may take years.

And now as I think back and remember your real world problems, and how it was always something I’ve said that affected you deeply, leading to new understandings and a path forward, I'm glad we're still together. Recall, in turn -- because I’m a nice guy -- how I’ve claimed that you’ve also helped me, which in certain respects was true. Some of your stories, the things you’ve tried and failed at, have strengthened my natural paranoia and easily triggered in me a wise caution. And for that I’ll forever owe you a debt of gratitude, which I know I will never repay.

Among the precious memories I always have dealing with you are your hair-raising tales of sexual conquest and disappointment. For a guy nearly bald, my remaining hair always stands on end when I hear those stories! For those of you who live and love a little too close to the edge, too close for comfort, you’ve helped me double down on my natural proclivities toward scared abstinence. Every woman I see and also every man, the few who are actually good enough to “do,” I still judge not good enough to risk it. And I’ve maintained disciplined abstinence so long now that I don’t know any other way!

In this series of posts I hope to relate the lessons I’ve taken from that paranoia, which are actually comforting to me with the strong exception times when I’m wired on coffee. It’s then that I most often question my choices and motives, but after peeing maybe 25 times I’m as good as new and ready to face the day. Thanks to you, no matter how many times I behold appealing and possible paramours walk by here in the Big City -- and for some reason they’re always walking in the street and never the sidewalk -- I face absolutely no temptation. My choice of 100% safety has done me a lot of good. And by now, that choice, so strongly reinforced, is technically not even a choice but a way of life.

That will be my point of view this month in these presentations. For denying myself has done me a tremendous amount of good -- it's its own reward -- and I know, with the common fits and starts that accompany any generally disapproved path, which abstinence certainly is, it can do you good, too. I invite you to repeat my mantra if you’re serious, this most precious wisdom: “There’s death in them thar drawers.” And picture me watching these oh-so appealing people walking back and forth in the road! Yes, they look great, but, dammit, there’s death in them thar drawers! And even if they go home and change their drawers as many times as they want -- a thousand times! -- I’m no one’s judge but it’ll never be good enough for me.

Wednesday, October 30, 2019

My Beautiful Future Lumbago


Part 30 of 30
My Fragile Self-Esteem

After this whole month, I can’t honestly say my self-esteem has arisen to new glory, nor can I say I’m still that green blob of long ago in the first fits of arising. But that’s life, fits and starts. You’re sitting there innocently and --zap-- a nerve end twitches. Ever get that? Just as suddenly a single solitary nerve twitches and perhaps it means your hand jerks slightly. It’s those times, always so unexpected, that gives me the realization that, yes, I am a creature of unconscious impulses.

Unconscious, that is, to what I typically see as my consciousness; I’m aware (and happy) that there’s a vast unconsciousness beyond and above, and ultimately ungovernable by the individual mind. I'm not happy when it happens to others, necessarily, because it can be dangerous. So, I guess I’ve said too much already. They’ll be here to get me in the next ten minutes. I’ll have to type fast.

I’m on the way out today, though, anyway. This is the last part of this groundbreaking series. That explains my easy pace along the various paths of life, with my tote of clothes, toothbrush, etc., and my suitcase of a few books for the journey. Whatever self-esteem issues compelled me to bare my soul, and on occasion my fangs, have been smoothed over or overcome, and now it’s a new day. And, yes, I may be in the pits of despair tomorrow, but if I am, I need only believe, I made it through this month, now very much refreshed, it's not impossible that I might make it through the cursed future.

It’s notable, though, that my path is leading me not toward my home, my place of predictable comfort, but toward the green horizon toward a green sky along a green-tinted path. Green is good, right? Trees being green in season, yes, that’s good. And grass. But tinting everything? That’s sickening, right? Maybe I’ve got an infection! This feels like something like the onset of lumbago, preceded as it is by fragile self-esteem issues. Then you rally a little, then you start seeing green. The green green grass of lumbago. You picture yourself … that way. Until, yes, yes, now I remember, the lumbago locks on like this, digs in, the lumbago starts making merry with its lumbago henchmen, till all is overwhelmed!

I'm uncomfortable. Now I'm comfortable. I'm drifting. My path is a hundred feet wide, being just a cow-path minutes ago. This is lumbago. Did I mention this is lumbago? The lumbago's talking.

Lumbago, yes, master. Rest little man in the field, lumbago, dream, it's so warm in this field, but still with a cooling breeze. Lumbago. Put your bag down, little man, you won’t be needing a bag. Lumbago … you’re becoming sleepy. Rest, sweet rest here in the beautiful lumbago … there’s no one to hinder you, no one to bother here, no one, just you and me. Creeping lumbago, mothering lumbago, hardening lumbago, power-giving lumbago, wonder-working power, your arms and eyelids are heavy, lumbago heavy. You’ve found the joy, lumbago. Let it go, lum ba go, go lum baba life limb lumb ages ago a’goo go goo a’lum a’lum a’lum merry meet

...

Tuesday, October 29, 2019

Father Time, Unstable Moron


Part 29 of 30
My Fragile Self-Esteem

I suppose I really should have good self-esteem, and, who knows, maybe I do. It could've been like a month-long headache. One month you have a headache, next month you don’t. I keep hearing about chemical imbalances and how they change your moods. My presumption is you have your basic self all the time, what it is. Then the fineries -- like tinsel on a Christmas tree or frost on a pumpkin -- change day by day. You’re up, down, you're moody, euphoric, you're lost, you're found, etc.

As time goes on, you experience so many variations that you’re not always focused on it in the heat of the moment. And when you realize it, it hits you like something terribly wrong. If the problem's self-esteem, maybe you could just go back and see what you’ve accomplished, nicely presented, and maybe there wouldn’t be these downers of fragile self-esteem. Everything would present itself a part of the continuum, not merely brief moments with their constantly changing qualities.

What if I could recall what it was like to be a baby, getting my milk as a kid and being patted on the back to burp, my Mom saying, “Good job,” and me saying “Goo goo ga ga.” She thinks it’s baby talk, but really it’s my limited vocabulary and I'm trying to say, “Tell Dad when the computer revolution gets here to found Google. You’ll be rich.” I don’t tell too many people that I actually have some time-traveling experiences, the beauty of which is that very few people believe me!

I’m not going to say I tried to save any dead presidents back in the day. Since obviously I failed. And the Vietnam War, I came that close to preventing it, but they cranked the damned thing up anyway. The most interesting one was to leave 2008 and come ahead to 2017 and copy everything off my blog, then head back to 2008 and start posting it sequentially. It saved me having to write it. I still can’t figure out how that happened, except it was extremely easy.

I’ve really only been doing it live the last couple years, not that I’m not lazy, but I’m trying to stave off Alzheimers. A guy named Alzheimers, who thinks I’m copying his stuff. This part is true, someone’s been checking my blog for where it may have been plagiarized from and the real answer's time travel. Other than that, the only plagiarism I do is from the auto-correct for particular words.

One other time travel thing. I caught wind of it that in 2030 I win the Medal of Freedom. Being modest, I went ahead to 2029 and took my name out of the running. In addition to modesty, just to be frank, I don’t want that kind of respectability; it’d ruin my street cred, which I acquired by saying “Yo” to the right guys.

My self-esteem has been rising lately, after starting the month pretty fragile. I have a lot of people to thank for that, but I haven’t taken names. And those of you who’ve introduced yourself to me (saying “Attaboy” and “Way to go” and “Thank you for your service”) I heard so much of that I got a big head and forgot you already.

It did mean a lot to me. But, clicking my fingers, “Easy come, easy go, daddy-o.” Time to shove off.

Monday, October 28, 2019

Self-Esteem & Teamwork


Part 28 of 30
My Fragile Self-Esteem

Toward the end of my life as I am now -- hitting the golden years is already a dim memory in my rear-view mirror -- I’m getting to that place where family members are writing down my fleeting memories of the old days. (One of my precious memories is how we used to buy TVs, by going to the store and exchanging money for one.) Along with that I’ve also got the Midas touch when it comes to vast scraps of knowledge on all subjects, even arcane stuff like the way monkeys interact and socialize. Which takes a little longer to summarize.

But it’s not really such a big deal. Anyone could do it. If you’ve seen monkeys at all, cartoons, movies, you know what they do. Some of them drag their knuckles, or they have a lot of fur or a little fur, they scratch their heads like they’re perplexed, and they swing from tree to tree, with lots of arm strength if you factor in those arms are lifting the weight of their whole body. And so forth

According to what I heard, additionally, God created man by making them go through a kind of trial as monkeys first. It was brief in terms of cosmic history, something like a few hundred million years. As far as I can tell, it flew by because it was completely done by the time I was born. All these species of things, they spent all that time being born and dying with breeding in between. And absolutely nobody was keeping track of it. Which might be how we should live now. They let things happen as they needed to happen and no one gave it the least little attentioin. It was the best way to evolve then, and it still would be now if we only had the sense to ignore it. We frankly wouldn’t be missing much. If we're able to catch up on eons of time, we could completely ignore it again and catch up in millions of years, no problem.

I hate to lose that point, so let me put a finer point on it. If you have the good sense to ignore life for eons, think how much more interesting it’d be when you finally dug in. Monkeys were happy with that system. They started out as whatever, evolved into fish, and from there crawled on land and eventually starting monkeying around. There wasn’t one complaint in the bunch. There wasn’t one fish bitching about it, “I never liked that side of the family,” etc.

So in part that’s why I’m not too worried if this trio of monkeys gets eaten by the alligator. But if they get away that’d be fine too. They’d live to be eaten another day, same difference. The first monkey’s thinking, If I can shake these two I’ll be fine. The second’s thinking, If we can shake the guy behind me, we’ll be fine. The third monkey’s self-esteem has diminished substantially since the alligator’s got him by the tail. Tailbone connected to the hip bone, hip bone connected to everything else. Bye bye world!

My self-esteem is more fragile than that. But fortunately we’re people and are able to change people in and out quickly. Like a football game, some guy’s smeared on the field like a gooey paste, obliterated. Put a little cornmeal on it, vacuum him up, and you’re ready to go again. But look, I’m on my own here. At least the monkey and athlete had the promise of his buddies forgetting him immediately once they’re safe. If only I had that luxury, I’d be content.

Sunday, October 27, 2019

Self-Esteem vs. Cosmic Battles

 
Part 27 of 30
My Fragile Self-Esteem

I got an important badge the other day. I hope you don’t think I’m bragging, but if I don’t toot my own horn no one else is going to. And even you, my favorite reader, probably won’t be too impressed. I ran it by my Facebook friends, who celebrate with exultation every milestone anyone has -- a guy I know collected his eighth stamp the other day -- but my “big news” was a dud.

The milestone is  -- and I want to drive home this point if for no other reason than the sake of my fragile self-esteem -- I watched my 200th YouTube video on the mysteries of outer space. That’s a lot of watching. And learning, whew! The learning’s been crazy. I’ve had to transfer several years of other memories from my brain to an auxiliary desktop brain just to make room. And some of those memories were childhood stuff, everything from the ABCs to what my parents looked like, so if I lose that … I better not lose that.

So far, though, so good. Outer space is a big deal for me. It’s vast. There’s no known end in sight. It’s fascinating. But it’s also a little stifling, especially the distances. Talk about fragile self-esteem. I’m top dog in the world as it is, our own little world. But there’s no limits to the vastness of space. And even now somewhere in that vastness there’s the cosmic equivalent of a punch press punching and pressing out baby planets. They spring into existence and in the first five seconds they go from the size of a seed to the size of the earth! Which would be like you being born, then a second later fully grown! Or even bigger.

As for me now, the scales I’m dealing with day to day are a lot more incremental. Say I’m reading a book. It doesn’t just explode into my mind already read. I have to read it syllable by syllable, “Chapter One.” Then I think, Wonder how many chapters there are. I see there’s 50 or 60 and get tired. I lie down and take a nap, then everyday I'm thinking I should get back to that book, but there’s always something else I need to do. Finally, I forget the book altogether. My room’s in a jumble. A year later I pick it up and realize I forgot what Chapter 1 was all about, so I about have to read it over.

The sad conclusion to that, then, and I’m extremely humble for admitting it, is outer space is a lot smarter than me. It’s also a lot meaner, or more accurately it’s quite the rough and tumble place out there. Seemingly infinite space, billions of galaxies, stars, planets. But none so far has been discovered that’s entirely like Earth. Making us extremely lucky we picked the one we're on! That should do something to your self-esteem, and, hey, in a way it bolsters me a bit. I don’t remember the whole situation, but obviously I did one thing right in choosing to be born in the one place we know sustains life!

As time goes on, however, we’re still not in the clear. Because there’s a lot of collisions in space. You can find videos on the end of life as we know it. Meteors, whatever. A new Ice Age is coming perhaps, a world of Ice Age creatures replacing us, big sloths, ungulates, the works! Plus comets smashing into everything and black holes gobbling us. There’s always that danger. Being at the mercy of things like that, like we are, our self-esteem doesn’t stand a chance.

Saturday, October 26, 2019

My Personal Cheerleader

 

Part 26 of 30
My Fragile Self-Esteem

With the strong emblem of self-esteem on my side (yesterday) and my self-esteem growing at a rapid pace, I want to consolidate my gains. Because if you haven’t got self-esteem, it’s hard to get. And once you get it you know the difference; you don’t want to lose it immediately. Any and all encouragement -- mostly of an inner origin -- is welcome and also does you an amazing amount of good.

You can consider your own best cheerleader! That’s certainly what I think anyway, the way it works. No one else knows your depths or heights. You alone know it, and need to get in there and stoke the fires, hold the fort, open things or keep things on lock-down, it all depends. Having some internal cheerleaders, imagined or with the faces, and more lasciviously, the great bodies of cheerleaders you’ve known in the past, helps greatly. (Except for Cindy Lou, my own memory of cheerleaders is vague and unusable, so I'm always thinking of a one-member squad.)

In terms of self-esteem, having it or losing it, things like Cindy Lou can be a good crutch, useful as that for a while but in the long run just another hindrance. The more quickly you veer from concrete cheerleaders into conceptual replacements, the better. I like masked images myself, because I might get tired of Cindy Lou's face. But like those old time African masks that tribal leaders used to wear, it's always interesting. Say your head is yea wide, yea tall, the average head size. The masks I’m recalling are about four times bigger than the head. And shaped more or less like a shield. Huge eyes, painted features, orangeish, brownish, maybe some yellow thatch design, and may as well throw in a small goatee on the point below the chin.

The whole communal scene would be good for me, which in my experience is best viewed in its stereotypical form. Scenes beyond the stereotype have too many moving parts to keep conjuring actual scenes on the fly, plus you’re worrying, “Is it stereotype? Is it not stereotype?” And obviously you’ve created for yourself a whole new raft of problems. This is true for all of life. Stick to the stereotype and you can’t go too far wrong. Stereotypes were set in place for a reason, because on the average they’re true. And we’re not looking for particulars, we’re not looking for lifelike portraits, we’re not looking for something to bolster some imaginary person’s ego. We’re looking for the life-giving assistance we need for our own self-esteem.

Fragile self-esteem has its own worries, there’s no dispute about that. Bring in, then, the stereotype, use it however you need to to raise your self-esteem. It could even be -- and this is advanced stuff, beware -- that ultimately you will pile all these help aids into a bit imaginary pile and make a soaring bonfire of it, standing back and out of the way so as not to get burnt yourself. When that moment comes for, be bold, be courageous and do it. Just, please, don’t do it prematurely. Because I’ve seen a lot of people live to regret it. “All my African masks (or whatever) are gone up in smoke and now I’m lost!” Be bold, yes, but also beware!

This post is dedicated to Cindy Lou, who married a real jerk.

Friday, October 25, 2019

Kicking Doubt, Taking Names


Part 25 of 30
My Fragile Self-Esteem

I was so touched by the Parable of the Giraffe -- it’s a giraffe whose qualities and spirit reminded me of an allegory -- that I couldn’t stop thinking of it. And I don't usually like gory stuff. This time I focused my mind on it, basically involuntarily, to the point I was feeling ill. I can never quite manage to turn my mind off, then it goes into Code Red, all circuits overloading, and I either have to suffer it or search the house for knock-out drops.

Anyway, none of that unpleasantness today -- I’m not an addict, I can stop any time -- the giraffe touched me for good. And gave me at long last the courage to consult with a particular organization whose focus is on Self-Esteem. One big reason I like it is they feature the eagle prominently in their literature, one of my favorite birds. Consider the eagle, if you will. It’s so majestic that entire countries adopt it as their symbol! The eagle’s got it going on. With its magnificent size and strength, it can raid every other bird’s nest and make off with the goods and no one can stop it!

This is true. When you’ve messed with an eagle the first time, you’ve messed with an eagle the last time. Because it’s going to be on you like a ton of bricks. And that’ll be the last time you mess with an eagle, not to put too fine a point on it. I myself, for all my other failings, have strictly avoided messing with eagles. Other kids messed with them and were pecked to death. But I was raised right, hearing, “You don’t wanna be pecked to death do you?” It seemed like the answer about had to be no, so that’s what I learned to say.

Anyway, the organization, the way I picture it, has several dozen buildings full of counselors, guides, secretaries, spokespeople, accountants, and guys who travel the country bucking up guys with fragile self-esteem when they’re down. The main thing about them, I fear, is that they’ve got it down to such a science that if you don’t immediately respond to their demands to have self-esteem they’ll drop you. And even if you’ve paid the membership fees faithfully, they can still neglect you if you’re too demanding. Fortunately I always know how to moderate myself so I’m not too demanding. But the huge unknown in doing that is you don’t know objectively how demanding everyone else is. So there’s no definite target to hit. You could be minimally demanding and still be relatively very demanding. Then they drop you.

But that worry's for another day. Today we’re celebrating their fine work -- helping to buck us up in our self-esteem to the extent that we need it, within reason. And it's really to the organization’s benefit to be somewhat generous, because we could all quit en masse and jump in the river, getting what we and they deserve. Then where would they be? But since it’s all so obscure -- one member never knowing what the other members are doing -- they're aware we can’t organize in an effective way. Actually it's in the fine print that we shouldn't even try.

But I’m happy. As long as these unknown counselors are “Kicking Doubt & Taking Names” it’s good enough for me!