Thursday, September 19, 2019

You Gotta Hold On

Part 19 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I seriously don’t think we have any newbies here. Raise your hands, if they’re not already occupied, if you’re a newbie. Seeing none, I'm assuming two things: they're otherwise occupied and so not newbies.

OK, then, since we’ve all been around the block enough times to map out the entire city, the lessons of this post might not be the lessons you need to learn. However, if you’ve been around the block that many times, that could also be said for everything else here. You’re merely reading to be able to say such things as, “Amen,” “Yes, I’ve been there,” and “Riding a horse like that is bad for all living creatures and their crotches.” Why cowboys do it, no one knows. The best guess is it has to do with attracting partners, but if there’s an injury there’s only nostalgia to take the place of actual practice. Once I was a stallion, once I was a bull, now I’m retired, waiting for the cure to foolish rodeo injuries.”

As worthless as rodeos are in fact, they do serve as an educational tool for teaching what not to do in life. And for that we salute those brave foolhardy souls who take part in those cow-infested displays, tipping a hat to them for what they teach. One of the big lessons you see here immediately. If you strap a leather belt around a horse’s sac it’s going to jump with all the craziness and force of a horse with a leather belt around its sac. Which comes first, it’s no mystery. The sac’s there, the belt's a foreign addition, the jumping’s a violent anguished reaction. Anytime anyone tells you the bull likes it, that’s a guy to depants and let him try it. If he doesn’t literally kick you to death, we’ll refund your money.

The interesting thing about rodeo cowboys (based on confidential interviews made when they’re drunk and missing their mothers) is that they don’t really enjoy the whole racket. I might be working on a rodeo series so I don’t want to empty the entire portfolio, but they have feelings like the rest of us. To me that was a “Who knew?” moment. The less said, the better, I know, but we went out in a field for a cleansing ritual of self-abuse and were virtually stampeded by angry bulls. This is no joke. Once we were safely back to the fence, those bulls circled slowly the spot of our reverie as if in some cleaning ritual, then built up speed, around and around, until they literally turned into melted butter right on the spot. It was like a mystical moment and I spent the next hour throwing butter over my head and hooting and hollering. A prophet appeared and said not to tell a living soul, an injunction I’ve diligently kept.

That cowboy and I became friends for life. I’ve even dedicated some episodes of self-abuse to him, the more meaningful times -- Christmas, Easter, etc. -- and he’s been blessed by that. Whether he’s ever dedicated any to me, he hasn’t said. Cowboys like warriors don’t always talk about their experiences, defeats or conquests. And that’s why they always die young, they're too stoved up with pride and/or sorrow to let go. They feel the end coming on, but instead of breaking the spell, like Jimi Hendrix* they ride the alpha jerk field into oblivion.

*In a 1970s film about Hendrix, some guys speculating what his death was like.

Wednesday, September 18, 2019

A Guy You Shouldn't Oughta Be

Part 18 of 30
Self-Abuse September

We’re always talking about the glories of a life of rich self-abuse, and it’s truly a life that can’t be beat, but we’re not always talking about the alternative, forbearance, celibacy, the penalty booth, cold showers, holding out on yourself, potholder gloves, being a good boy, etc.

Of course, being a good boy is what they try to instill in you, to the point of making rules, constructing the mental fence, to confine you forever. But how well I remember real freedom, the glories of wearing suit pants to school with no underpants. No obstruction between you and your leg. It’s not like it’s going to hang out the bottom. 

Naturally, now that we’re grown up and it’s truly considered normal to make a playground out of your body -- there’s a whole industry, sex toys, trapezes, belts, stimulant cream, celibacy cream, cages, traps, enlargers, weights and measures, molds for duplication, and dirty joke books -- you really never have to leave home! The critical consideration is how much you want these things present in your house. It means new shelving, nasty things on the coffee table, on your nightstand, or maybe hidden away, which is probably preferable so others not so lucky won’t feel jealous.

I can see how there’s some guys -- not morons but as smart as us -- who would forebear. At first you hear about them and you’re suspicious. But I say, “Give me 10 minutes in their house and I guarantee I’ll find their stash, hidden floorboards, wall safes behind pictures, etc., and I don’t care how tricky they are, hidden in fresh Jello or on the roof or down the chimney, it’s gotta be somewhere!" Then you come to realize, Yes, it might be rare, but there's guys out there, pent-up, out of their mind, their spirits a bit out of kilter, who truly do forbear.

Take this guy for example. Dick head, standing erect, acting out his condition, wearing his diagnosis on his sleeve. Look how sad he is. This is a guy that somebody led down the primrose path toward destruction. Not only did he take that path, he now embodies it. He’s sad, forlorn, stifled, depleted, and prickly, not in a good way. He’s dangerous. Like TNT (This No Touch), with a short fuse, even though he didn’t start out so depleted. But someone got to him, some hypocritical do-gooder going door to door talking about “sin,” then going back to their own home to a trapeze, where they hang upside down watching porn on an upside down TV, until eventually they blow it so hard it’s no trick to hit a floor target every time. Stupid pride.

Our main lesson for today is Don’t Fall For It. Yes, it sometimes helps you to reset if you take a break for a day, half a day, an hour, 3 minutes if you can manage it, just so you don’t make the break a way of life. Look at the guy again, standing erect but every inch of him depleted and dead to the world, his life and person a prison of his own making. With the testimony of his life now being, Abandon All Hope You Who Approach. If my warning is a lesson that you’ll heed, strip now and give me the equivalent of a four minute mile! Go for it! Faster, faster!

Tuesday, September 17, 2019

Another Day, Pace Yourself

Part 17 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I guess most of us would agree, this looks like our usual 2 o'clock slump, the afternoon downer. 6 o'clock was a long time ago, top of the morning, leaving our system enough time to take on enough baggage to father an island. Where, by the way, every native dancing girl is happy to give her instinctual all in sync with the coconut trees waving seductively in the tropical breeze.

There’s not much you can do, if you can’t beat 'em, join 'em. But if they’re not here to join in, as in this sad struggle to walk through even the simplest of halls, then you have to beat 'em.

And what a look! From the looks of things, that’s one sad sack dude and a half. I hate to think that's how I'd look to others. Good for nothing, a painful halting gate, vastly bowlegged, maybe he’s been in a long meeting, everything's definitely crunched together in a sweaty morass that’s just crying out for attention: Feed me, a huge serving of stroganoff, anything but an empty plate.

Just like Superman ducking into an alley, our guy eyes a nearby bathroom. And with this kind of load -- his hips are dislocated from what started as a swagger -- he can be in and out in three shakes. There’s no line, no hint of turn-off bathroom smells wafting in the air, it’s truly a great place to clear your head, and definitely keeps him from being muscle bound; this won't take much exertion. A thing of beauty as it is, it’s the gift that keeps on giving. And it never asks much.

The "before" picture, though, looking at it closer is kind of painful. That guy’s old before his years. He’s bulky, square, and his suit no doubt stinks. He's a guy who’s forgotten the first imperative, take care of yourself, or he's put it off too long. And, naturally, there aren't any ladies lined up to do it, or guys for that matter, because let’s face it, the world’s a selfish bastard. And he's as good as anyone. It’s all basic equipment. They should be lined up to do the things that are socially called for. But the spirit of volunteerism isn’t what it used to be, back when people had families of 10. Now it’s every man for himself. And this restroom's as good as any.

I can happily report that when he emerges five minutes later, he’s a new man. With a new sheen and healthy glow about him, and all the confidence in the world. He’ll show the world! He thinks, “For the next few hours, I’ve got what it takes! I got a lot done here, and later I'll see what happens at home.”

Monday, September 16, 2019

Semenon Comes In White

Part 16 of 30
Self-Abuse September

Well, here he is, the man himself, a god really, Semenon. I’m just going to trot him out for all the world to see. At this point, what’s the mystery? We’ve all been around the block, we know how it goes. So let's just get right down to the real nitty-gritty and not stand on ceremony. This is he, the antecedent, the seed itself, the impetus, the power to engines, turbines to speed that roars into the cave at night but is ready to leave on a minute’s notice.

Among the forces of nature -- the bubbling waves meet the beach, the knuckling under of roaring cascades, the purple headed majesty of mounting peaks -- against all of that, even the ocean comes in a distant second. For there’s power, power, wonder-working power in the flood of the limb, although it's something you’d never guess if you confronted him off hours, say, when his force sleeps, with nothing more on his (or his tool’s) mind than a midnight plea, “This really is abuse, let me sleep.” But there’s more to come.

No one has the final answer on the denouement except, naturally, Semenon himself. Whether our guesses shed true light, or whether it’s hidden from our grasp, without an independent, objective place to stand, we may never really know. My own belief is that the world is split into two essential divisions, the front side and the back. When there’s light on the front side, the back side’s in the dark. Then when the back side’s in the light, the front side rests. Of course none of this is final and definitive, because you might find you’re perfectly capable of going full force with the front side, a little self-abuse, only to learn -- dammit -- the backside suddenly needs to go. “Excuse me, dear, this won’t take a minute,” lick your finger, mark your place, and you’re off.

Do not doubt for a minute that Semenon -- “In so white, in so bright” -- can keep all the biology square. He knows your needs before you do! But he wants you to wisely coordinate your mind with his, to know the signals, when the time’s right and when you should wait. Who among us hasn’t jumped the gun and revealed Semenon’s glory before his time? You were excited, the inner man babbling such foolishness as “Sexiest dom in the world! Humpa humpa!” Semenon says, “You have one chance to get this right or get it wrong. There’s no second act. Think of gardening. Not planting, but the drudgery of turning the soil, carrying the buckets, yeah, that’s it, terrible evil work. Enjoy yourself, of course, but not to the point of desperation. Coordinate yourself with her moods, read the signals, and if she’s filing her nails you've been hitting it too much. But I believe in you, and when it feels right, I’ll let you know, and that’s when you’ll really go to town, roar down the straightaway, hit the game-winning home run, and shoot the moon!”

Then, of course, there’s solo flights, and that’s really what we’re here for this month. But in the end it all flows together as one, the same principles with company or just some bare assed knuckledragging schlub on his lonesome. It’s all in the synchronization, with the knowledge of when it’s right to set down the landing gear. Look to the master: Semenon is occasionally late but often early. When he comes he doesn’t retreat. Put everything you got into it, screaming, thrashing about, arching up, and of course that very dramatic moment of silence when you’re gathering your euphoria and making sure there’s not a piece missing -- in heaven that’s equivalent to a half hour’s silence -- just before everything is revealed in its full foaming, boiling over, glory glory hallelujah, yes, yes, eternal peace, eternal bliss ... eternal till tomorrow, (checking my watch) about this time, maybe a little earlier depending on game time.

My testimony, given by personal prerogative: Semenon made my teen years worth living.

Sunday, September 15, 2019

The Beguiling Love Theme

Part 15 of 30
Self-Abuse September

Rather than focusing on particular porn stars and their work -- and this is the same tact I’d take with great composers, famous politicians, amateur night strippers, and men of God who have been lured away by the flesh and having knuckled under have found themselves pulled deeper in the morass where that and the other fleeting allures of life have hooked them and left them floundering on the beaches of wasteland -- I’m taking a whole different approach. Bunching them together in the aggregate, and going as deeply as we can before our time and space is spent, should pay good dividends in the end. We will cover the territory, but lay bare the understandings that are their actual claim to fame, important and lasting legacies up the yin yang.

Of course I’m prone to conceal my own association with the industry, insofar as it exists -- I learned the facts of life from these flicks -- and ask with vulnerable supplication that no one pries any deeper than that to relieve your curiosity. (I believe all amateur films of my exploits -- which were messier than I'd like -- have been burnt.) Any appearances I may have made in any of the major films were literally no big deal, usually being incidental to the main action, one of the sidemen shunted aside in favor of the star.

But follow the bucks, that's often the main focus, the central approach in films of this magnitude. The sidemen are important and get important action, if it amounts to nothing more than to serve as a contrast to the more endowed star. The same happens in nature, an giant erupting volcano gets center stage, putting to apparent shame the smaller hills in their repose. But wait a few years and it's they who alone abide in majesty while the volcanic action, exciting for a brief moment, is gone, its glory cratered out, now a hole. The real life's now on the slopes. As to the stars, I won’t even guess what dysfunction they have when they find an actual significant other and have to limp along, the shaft a shadow of its former self. A crotch is a terrible thing to waste.

If you see it differently, let’s agree to disagree, but as for me I will keep things free and clear to perform their natural function alone, promising a better life. Think of how great it is to live and whatever you're doing, don’t do it again. Yes, with lust things can be bumpy depending on what’s going around. They say tomorrow never comes, yet we know the facts, it always arrives, and there awaits the pain. Playing the piano may be fine to a certain extent, your fingers lightly tinkling it, true for either black or white, but what may be fine for a concerto will not go well in the annals to be told.

Most music has its fans, whether it is "Seka Does Dallas" or "Kitty Does Earp." But once kitty does enough earping, that’s when you need figs to cover it, because that’s nasty business, not fit for man and we shall leave out beasts. Such an outcome renders complete disease in my members, from the brain down.

Saturday, September 14, 2019

Chugga-Chugga Motion

Part 14 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I’ve had a few newbies-to-the-nasty reading my posts this month, which I hadn’t expected, and a few of them made inquiries about basic techniques. I thought nature covered most of that, but then remembered, yes, a little initiation goes a long way toward one’s outcome. And not everyone has first cousins close at hand or near them.

So let's get down! I’ve always said it’s in the grip. But how many ways can you insist it’s all in the grip while avoiding the gripes of those who needlessly insist on details? I’ll just repeat what I heard long ago: If you’re right-handed, hold your hand in front of your face. Make an O with your thumb and first finger. Hold that up like you’re a pirate looking through a telescope. Survey your immediate surroundings, be on the lookout for landlubbers, hornswogglers, sightings of booty and cutlasses. In other words, parents and responsible adults who don’t approve of sex. OK, that’s good. If you’re left-handed, I have no idea, but I would suggest the opposite.

OK, maties, the coast is definitely clear, and you’re very sure, so drop your five finger discount to One Tree Island -- the happy native awaits his coming -- and embrace him in camaraderie -- less daintily and more insistent than if adults are near -- and see that he comes to life before he dies. And think, you’ve been a handful all your life, you just never knew that night after night you were tucking in a monster that at long last would manifest himself and his evil ways. This is nothing to rue, for good fortune is now at hand and before you know it you’ll be celebrating skyrockets in flight.

Shh, I thought I heard someone pull in the driveway. Gotta check, just the mailman turning around. You have to look out for everyone, certainly anyone who'd blabber everything in addition to censorious adults, who think it’s their life's mission to be killjoys. So I can’t run over everything in detail now. You have to feel your way through this.

But we do have time to review: 1) Grab a handful; 2) Be familiar with the different names of the apparatus, dick, etc. 3) Picture something that’s especially pleasurable to you. This doesn’t have to be body parts and actions of others, dirty words, etc., but you’ll completely fail if it’s not. 4) Go to town. 5) Be prepared for a distinguished aftermath, the arching fireworks of life. Tissue is preferable, although if you’re planning test tube babies now or in the future, any standard test tubes -- not recycled -- will do. Any other details you’re not certain of, again, just feel your way.

Friday, September 13, 2019

Meat Monster Strikes Again

Part 13 of 30
Self-Abuse September

First, my hat's off to this wonderful counselor on staff at the police department. Very few men would do what this good man did in empathizing with a man both down on his luck and feeling the bitter remorse any man feels when his libido and love-making prowess has been not only been criticized but attacked. If I were younger I would love to snag a counseling job like this, except with the bad luck I've been going through there would probably never be a case involving a Meat Monster and her brutal proclivities raging in a murderous hormone-crazed spree. Rotten luck.

The police counselor, seeing Dan’s arm injured and in a cast and godawful sling, literally and admirably dislocated his own arm from the socket and sat there while sadistic attendants pulled it completely out of place. Think of the pain he suppressed while remaining so easy going just to be a comfort to his fellow man. I’ll tell you right upfront I’d never be able to do that, but one time I was similarly generous when another kid didn’t get a May basket and I gave him one of mine. So I hope I can still be proud?

OK, the Meat Monster woman killed the other guy yesterday because his lovemaking skills didn't rise to match those of a ham loaf. Then the very next day she challenges this other guy with the same terms. Right away I would’ve said he had the advantage. The meat loaf by then was certainly worn and disheveled from its prior exertions. But whether Dan was afraid when he found himself in the pinch or assumed the ham loaf had its full manhood still (I didn't pry beyond the preliminaries to avoid embarrassment), it didn’t go well.

Part of it must have been the Meat Monster’s expectations were high. She knew the loaf was strung out, two days in a row being a real challenge for that grade of loaf. Plus, having killed Glen, she had a rush of progesterone and testosterone giving a greater natural sense of beauty and desirability. And I probably shouldn’t say it, but that type of chick's always horny. Dan saw the problem and was immediately limp as a noodle, as most guys would be. The guys who would naturally be most attracted to her would be mostly bodybuilders hopped up on body- and mind-altering chemicals. The hat freaks us out.

It’s funny, though, about Dan’s focus, his spirits being low, etc., so bad that even the police detective had to counsel him. "I mean, it’s stupid. You escaped the Meat Monster with no more than a broken arm and your ego's still bruised!? Give me a break." The detective spelled it out nicely, "'It was you against a ham loaf and you lost. Stick to your fantasies, Dan. It’s not such a disgrace to be a worse lover than a ham loaf." Since then Dan has regained his self-confidence through well-measured self-abuse. Hope his arm doesn't hurt too much.

As for me, I'm halfway tempted to look for a woman and see if I’m better than a ham loaf. But I better not.

Thursday, September 12, 2019

Two Lovers Tonight

Part 12 of 30
Self-Abuse September

The story of this meat monster lady was covered locally but as far as I know was not picked up by news sources outside the county. Why that is, I can only guess. I suspect it has to do with the meatpacking industry and their “in” with journalists, always giving them meat to kill negative stories. And it's true, if you’ve ever visited journalists at home, the first thing you notice is the stand-alone freezer and plenty of meat. Which doesn’t just happen.

So I’ll sketch it out and hope you believe it, because every word is true and easily found in reputable dictionaries. OK, the meat monster was a mentally disturbed lady -- as generally understood --  with a side issue of being overly abusive to innocent ham loaves. With a prejudice. And say what you will about these conditions not being her fault, something she would've never brought on herself, that tired excuse only goes so far. She knows the value of a decent ham loaf, so she's fully capable of discerning right from wrong when it comes to killing lovers. The only mental issue I see definitely is the incongruity of thinking a lover's performance can be judged by the same standards we use to evaluate ham loaves. On that point I won't budge.

Our first victim (the other guy tomorrow) is this guy Glen with the penis nose, who actually should be head over heels the front runner in love-a-thons. If his downstairs is anything like upstairs, he's got an immediate advantage in any romantic standoff. Yes, he's of small build, but if he plays his body right, he could take care of her from both ends, depending on how her midsection fits on the mattress when spread-eagle. And were he to throw his voice, and with a nose like that he probably could, she’d think it was a menage a trois, which, if my French holds, means he’d be nailing her once but equivalent to the skills of three men.

Obviously, though, he had concerns, a downer most guys get, whether or not their nose is hung, when confronted with a woman as tough as Barbarossa and built like the proverbial shithouse. Part of her menace is the hat, with the word MEAT stitched in gold, again similar to Barbarossa, his crown.

Glen started back with a fear so real that had he fled in terror no one would’ve blamed him. But as she set out the terms, he froze. Whichever lover of the two -- Glen vs. Ham Loaf -- prevailed would see tomorrow! Glen went first, which wasn't too great but, frankly, a normal person would’ve given him a passing grade while not desiring sloppy seconds. The ham loaf went next -- it’s always best to go second in these kind of standoffs -- and it took full advantage of Glen’s blood, sweat, and tears in paving the way. With the ham loaf winning. Fully nude except for the hat, the monster woman strode over to Glen, and ... I'll just say his outfit's at the thrift store if anyone wants it.

We mourn Glen, of course, but sincere congratulations to the ham loaf.

Self-Abuse Challenge: Mentally put yourself in Glen's place.

Wednesday, September 11, 2019

Family Nagging, Badgering

Part 11 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I’ve always treasured the love and understanding of grandparents. They’re different from your parents, not quite as strict, but strict enough to give you plausible deniability in spite of their various indiscretions of leniency. You’re staying with them, you get home late, and they pretend to be asleep as you crawl through the window, huffing and puffing from someone’s father chasing you across town, then honking his horn for an hour challenging you to come out for a duel.

The next morning at the breakfast table there’s not a word about it. Just Grandpa demurely saying he has a few bullet holes on the house to patch up, no big deal. They pass the eggs and give you nothing but the look of love and pride as you stuff your mouth and stow the rest in your jacket pocket before dashing out of the house to god knows where. “That’s my boy,” I imagine them saying, “he’s going to sire a lot of babies and make sure our family name lives forever.”

Not a chance in hell, of course. He could never find anyone to answer the question appropriately, “Who gives this woman to be this man’s bride?” And even if he did there’s always the question about someone with a reason why they should not be joined together. And if no one else speaks up he has enough ventriloquist talents to fake an objection from somewhere in the room. "She got me that close just to be unceremoniously dumped at the altar..."

The wise and restless spirit of man knows he can’t be tied down to any one person for more than a day or hour. Hence the constant cheating that goes on everyday, making a sad mockery of the vows wedding guests think are sincere and meaningful. And if partners to cheat with are absent -- the sad aftermath of nuclear wars and pesky attacks -- there’s always self-abuse, forever one’s truest devotion in the face of ever-present enemies and family hangers-on and their whole selfish approach to family, the nagging attachment that has a tight grip.

This grandpa’s certainly the wisest most lenient grandpa I’ve heard of, even in the face of knowing that their grandson Jim can hardly wait to get out of their sight to spill his seed somewhere else, who cares where? Indeed, Jim thinks, "I'm a man of the world. I can't stand to be tied down. I could spring into action at any moment. These guys are cramping my style, the old folks of home." He's dying for a wild session of self-abuse but somewhere else is preferable. On an infestation of thistles, on broken glass, somewhere like that where he'd be alone in nature. “Get me out of here,” he whispers to himself, even as Grandpa offers the solitude and freedom of the bathroom, presumably for as long as it takes, which would mean the rest of the family sitting all day in the living room, stoved up, turning blue with backup, while he idled his way through the underwear section of an old Sears catalog.

Yes, we’re all blessed with family. Whether they themselves were an accident or actually wanted, no one remembers the full story. Those secrets were taken to the grave long ago. But if we had to guess, they would've been just as content if we’d never been born.

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Linda Lovelace For President

Part 10 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I hope the Linda Lovelace advertisement doesn’t stir up anything. I mean of a negative vibe, that kind of thing. As for stirring anything else, in a series on gratifying self-abuse, I suppose it could, although the taller you are the more farfetched it’d be. I’ll go first and say it doesn’t stir anything in me except my memories of seeing the film in a theater during its short run. And at this distance in time I needed Wikipedia to remind me what it was even about. My biggest memories of it were 1) Micky Dolenz was the bus driver; and, 2) There was a bus.

In my moments of research I made note as well that Ms. Lovelace has since passed away. I probably heard about when she died -- it’s vaguely familiar -- but my retention of who’s alive and who’s dead, unless it involves traumatic assassinations or loved ones in their last throes (Grandma or my various dogs), is faulty. Be that as it may, I didn’t mean to bring everyone down. This month, more than any month in history, September being Self-Abuse Month, I want everyone to be flying sky-high! Like in the Tom Jones album, “The Lead and How to Swing It.”

If you’d like to get off here, I would understand. Anywhere a guy can get off -- say something hits your funny bone just right -- that’s something to treasure. Here’s an assignment. Take the titles of the songs from that Tom Jones album and think of something lascivious about each one. Ready? 1) If I Only Knew; 2) A Girl Like You; 3) I Wanna Get Back With You; 4) Situation; 5) Something for Your Head; 6) Fly Away; 7) Love Is On Our Side; 8) I Don’t Think So; 9) Lift Me Up; 10) Show Me; and, 11) Changes. I think “Changes” makes a good last title, if you’re thinking of changing the sheets. And “Lift Me Up” more naturally fits either before or after “Something for Your Head.”

The lasciviousness of it writes itself. "If I Only Knew" I was going to blow out the bedroom wall I would have gone to the bathroom. "A Girl Like You" needs to find how how Grandpa used to start his car, with a crank. "I Wanna Get Back With You," that is, as soon as I doublecheck if I have a better offer. "Situation..." A situation's what we're gonna have if your dad walks in. But I'm packing heat. And it's not a gun.  "Something for Your Head," but I'll aim lower. "Fly Away" but don't mess up your landing strip. "Love Is On Our Side," rightside up, upside down... "I Don't Think So," but a couple more minutes and I'll be done. "Lift Me Up," hope it's not too heavy, I've never had complaints before. "Show Me," but don't show me up. And, "Changes," because occasionally the sheet's ... as aforementioned. 

Then examine the hand: Quality, Variety, Service, Comfort, Saving. Just to be brief, on quality at this point, personally, anything will do. As for variety, let's touch on the basics first. Service, it's that time of day. Comfort, I'll make myself at home. And Saving, pretend the world's ending tonight, let's go for the moonshot!

Going back to Linda Lovelace, the point of mentioning her is only because she was one of the more famous porn stars. Porn is one of those weird things that you don’t really need or want a long drawn out story, or even that much length to the film. Unless you plan to watch it in installments. But then the bus scenes and Micky Dolenz would be an unwelcome distraction. Certainly it’s good to have a scenario, but beyond that ... who cares? "Get down, humpa humpa, slurp slurp, eeee-yaaa, shit shit, The End."

Monday, September 9, 2019

Dreaming Of A Bigger Cannon

Part 9 of 30
Self-Abuse September

Every guy has his own feelings about what he’s packin', and knows how those feelings factor into his contentment or lack of contentment. I think they’ve gone as far as they can in terms of supplementing length, but honestly that's never been an interest of mine. So of course surgical augmentation would be a hard sell for me; I'm just not going to do it. If you're like me, it’s time to be content. Restore contentment! If there's any way we can add length to our contentment, in regards to this or any other subject, that's more welcome.

That said, naturally each of us is in our own place about applying the available methods for greater length, either way out in front of others or lagging behind. If it's your thing, it's also your decision. You alone know your circumstances and how much you can stand, and the pros and cons. I would counsel, however, that unless you're involved in tribal dances around bonfires and think the tribe might be about to name you their king, it doesn’t matter. What about impressing others in dressing rooms? It's so much easier to duck behind some lockers to dress, or do what I do, get your exercise riding a bike. Where greater length is actually a hindrance. I've seen big guys swerve into cement walls and die.

But in the end, if you’re really so sensitive, there's truly no law that says you have to refrain from supplements, medicines, and every ancillary thing that hints at or promises relief. Read up on the subject, talk with non-judgmental friends, and of course run it by your priest and friends who are nuns, and search your own heart. And let it be a matter between you and your partner. If your partner is a woman, you can fairly well gauge her feelings in the ordinary course of time. Is she raising the roof with cries of delight, pounding her head on the headboard without injury? Or is she doing her best work knitting or working crossword puzzles and speaking in a dull monotone? Were her fingernails long before you started and nicely trimmed when you’re done? It’s time for help. If your partner is a man, ask him point blank, "Do you like me for my smile or what?"

But augmentation? There’s always trade-offs. You need to be mindful about drugs and their side effects. I'm not a health professional so anything I say about it is for entertainment purposes only. If my words depress you and don't entertain you, remember, they were entertaining when they left my mouth so there’s probably something wrong with your ears. And if there is something wrong with your ears, your wife’s probably been trying to clue you in to your inadequacies for years. Look into ear enlargement drugs and/or surgery. Once they’re the size of elephant ears, then you’re on to something. You’ll be able to hear what everyone’s saying about you, and, once that happens, you might need a middle-finger enlargement.

I truly think, though, concerning what we're dealing with down there, that seeking contentment apart from drugs and unnecessary surgery is the way to go. For those of us who have been content and weren’t getting a lot of action anyway all this might've made us feel inadequate, but we’ve adjusted, we're fine with slim pickin’s. Take me, for example, I’ve aged nicely. I have the usual bruises, but nothing that has any long-term danger as long as I take it easy on off days. In addition, there are chastity devices for men who have trouble forbearing, but -- and this is a weird part of the conundrum -- it might be such an enticing kink that you’ll end up with even more bruises! In which cases, if your doctor prescribes them for you, sleeping pills might be the cure.

Again, if at the end of all these conundrums your doctor is still speaking to you, and your budget allows for all your rather trite nitpicky complaints, please continue to seek further professional help. Until when? Until you've exhausted all the options and no one wants to deal with you ever again.

Sunday, September 8, 2019

Girly Pix Purrfect for Lust

Part 8 of 30
Self-Abuse September

What a hot day. Isn't September supposed to be halfway warm? I've been scouring the Big City for aluminum cans for money to email copies of today’s graphic to servicemen and prisoners for their personal use. I definitely have a humanitarian side, something I'm proud of. Because I honestly believe no matter what servicemen and prisoners have done, they still deserve to "get off" as much as the next guy. And I have to tell you, today's graphic is one of the best I’ve ever worked on, both for the simple utility of the thing and the long lasting psychological benefits of quality sexual objects of lust. I appreciate the photos some of you have sent in, your sweaty foreheads, mussed hair, and of course your upturned eyes rolled back.

I immediately saw the graphic's potential, and you have to believe as soon as I did I rushed it into service, and have found that it’s the perfect combination of lusty imagery and words of adoration, meant to send you over the edge time after time. Caution, trust me, you must never view this image while driving unless you've picked up a hitchhiker to help you steer. I ran it through testing and even an hour after test crashes, when you’re in a loaner car, it’s still hard to drive responsibly, the images even then coming to your mind in a picture perfect clarity, memories you can’t forget. I myself believe I’m a guy “who’s seen it all,” but even I stood tall through three straight hours of Mr. Pillow commercials, zero diminishing through even that. But attempting to drive, it was hard to find the stick shift, and only after a series of nine accidents, and several warnings from law enforcement -- picky picky picky -- did I finally get home

At the risk of embarrassing myself -- I’m not temperamentally given to public displays of lust -- let me touch on each lascivious presentation. “Do ya love me? I love U!” OK, that’s it for that one. “What a slice!” Looking at the cake and agreeing, indeed it is! Then there’s the satiny wedding gown and an absolute knockout’s sensuous purr to the reverend, making even a holy man reach for a hankie to daub his forehead, “I do! I do!” As for the little doll saying, “Yes, this is she!,” she knows she’s playing with fire. But that’s nothing like my favorite girl with props, a life sized clock and a serious grip on an erect pointer. “Guys, ohhhh guys, Is this how little ole me’s supposed to hold it? Does that feel … about right?” She ad libbed some of that. Then we’re back to adult supervisor Dr. Killjoy with a pointless statement (that I actually agree with), “Guys, words fail me.” Still, too bad they didn’t fail him three minutes ago, enough time for him to vamoose and let someone of a sexier persuasion to take his place, perhaps a purring Catwoman.

It’s funny how it works with captions. Captions are labels that set the tone, and long after the picture has faded from memory, you can still remember them, and the time she was reaching down to scratch your thigh -- persistent itch in mosquito season -- and accidentally veered somewhat off course and asked, possibly without irony, “Did I get it?” Oh, baby, baby you got it!

It's a hot day, off to take a quick bath. And this time in the nude!

Saturday, September 7, 2019

Ted's Trying To Unwind

Part 7 of 30
Self-Abuse September

Some marriages are very open. Not that I would know personally, being the world’s oldest bachelor and at this point not looking. But I’ve known a lot of guys, and since they know I have a listening ear and discrete mouth -- keeping their secrets, not to the grave yet but it could be anytime -- they tell me what’s going on.

And what is going on? you’re wondering. Well, pull up a chair -- quick! -- and promise me you won’t tell another living soul. Tug your thingie and hope to lose it? Join pinkies, brother to brother swear? Screw karma and all future prospects for a full and meaningful life if you squeal? Now point to your elimination system. Butter butter blister, yeah, I’ll take a fist there. ‘Cos that’s what’s gonna happen to you if... -- Swear it on a stack of Adam magazines -- ...if you so much as breathe a single, solitary, licentious, lascivious, objectively horny word of what I’m about to tell you... OK, I took the vow, too, but I have a special dispensation to squeal, by which I mean reveal for academic purposes related to the medical or psychiatric field. One-time privilege.

Well, you know Ted up the street? Past the Butler's place. Other side of the road, the guy with the bad fence, not overly protective of his place, the vandals always getting the best of him. That guy. Well, since he heard that I’m one of the world’s biggest experts in male sexuality, he’s been over here asking my advice what he can do about his old lady continually finding him, discovering him, catching him, and at times even tripping over him when going about his necessary (his opinion) fits and feats of self-abuse. This is a guy I just naturally take under my wing, the meek, the clueless, the easily trodden on, the hopeless, a guy with few gifts up here, or down here for that matter. I'm the Statue of Liberty on this stuff, "Give me your tired, poor, easily caught..."

I told him, Ted, The Good Lord gave you two heads, choose one and think with it. He pointed to his skull. I shook my head no. He pointed the other direction and I nodded, overlapping my lips like Grandma used to do when the answer was “Duh.” Then we dove into the full slate of lessons like I used to teach them in the clubhouse: Knowing Your Needs, Knowing Your Options, Being Tricky, and of course the biggie, Reading the Clock. Yes, it’s still true if you have wives or parents bugging you, 3 A.M. Is Still Your Best Friend.

Unfortunately, Ted was still somewhat hopeless, but by some miracle it all worked out. His wife came home from church early to give it one last shot toward his conversion, when, let’s say Ted was tied up in knots, so wound up and uptight that he literally screwed himself all the way to the basement. (In fairness, the floorboards were rotten.) The wife of course waddled down the stairs as fast as she could, a weird twisting gait. Bending down, she felt around in the darkness. And it was probably a miracle, but in trying to uncoil Ted’s legs she and he both became entwined, which jump-started their relationship right there on the wet floor. She went immediately from apoplectic to a'priapic. And somehow seemed like she had the equivalent of a master’s degree in foreplay!

I regret to say self-abuse for Ted is no longer Number One ... can't win 'em all. But for such an unexpected and rare thing, he's in the Book of World Records and Mrs. Ted also reigns as a top finisher. Hornier than I would've thought.

Friday, September 6, 2019

Yes, Master, I've Been Bad

Part 6 of 30
Self-Abuse September

This one is mostly for other people into this kind of thing. I don’t have much experience with being mistreated physically (or during play). I’ve suffered mentally more than anything, which I covered a few months ago in my guidance counselor series. Of course it's all ancient history and he’s dead. My only recourse against him now, and associated therapy, are monthly road trips to the cemetery. It’s about a five hour drive one way for a good long piss. Which seems like a long way to go -- and on top of that it’s only his cremains! -- but it keeps me sane.

On the bright side, the farther the trip the more coffee I can drink, so it’s more worthwhile than might appear on the surface. My real hope is that Medicare will start covering private plane flights, since I haven’t found a direct commercial flight to that particular cemetery. They wouldn’t even have to turn it off. I’d run in, tinkle, and be back home in no time.

The graphic of the guy kicking the crap out of his partner has some interesting sexual aspects. The more interesting aspects of any graphic are psychological and you have to feel for the guy. Having to tell the supposed dom that he’s in charge and what to do. “I deserve worse, Sir,” that sort of thing. The Pink Vested One putting his foot to the unruly bottom under his command stands for the underling hinting around, “Uh, you’re not doing it right, I deserve worse, sir.” Yes, he probably does deserve worse, but if it takes telling him, maybe the other shoe should be on the other bottom. Putting pink wuss in his place!

Then comes another hint, hoping not to disturb whatever understanding they may have had before -- and to me it looks tentative and more wished for than a reality -- “But of course you know better.” Does he know better? Maybe, but our kicked friend’s calling the shots, not the other way around. You can objectively tell how lenient he is, it rates only 2 stars on a 5/6 star scale. Which, I don’t know, I’m not that into pain, doesn’t sound terrifically brutal. Worthy, I guess, of hinting around. “Do you mean business with my business or are you just pussyfooting around? Do I need to send you out to pasture, blacklist your name in the community? Exactly what do I have to do for you to take damned control here and give me the kicking of my life like I deserve?" The guy, not me.

But who knows? Maybe violence is out these days in sex play. I can see how it’d just be a relationship thing, a few slight taps and that’ll hold you. But there’s plenty of people -- I believe -- who want a lot better, meaning a lot worse. If that’s your fantasy today, picture me, a stern look on my face, mopping my brow as if to say this is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me -- the things I have to put up with, you very bad boys, very bad girls. Despicable. I’m so disappointed in all of you. If I want something done, I have to do it my damned self! You're worthless! And I don’t wanna hear a peep out of you, got that? Shut up!

Self-abusing yet?

Thursday, September 5, 2019

Gender Fluidity, Work It!

No. 5 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I’m a big fan of gender fluidity, which doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with fluids, although, ultimately, it always does. It’s one of the kinks, pleasantly defined, no judgment, that makes the world go ‘round. Face it, if it weren't for a little backwash now and then, none of us would be here.

People feel it, want it, choose it, are chosen by it. They're glad to go along for the ride, which whether it involves their choice or essential identity -- temporary or permanent -- is a good ride. Three cheers to you! You look great, you are what you feel, more power to you, you’re beautiful, you’re handsome, whatever your basic identity, let it all hang out. There’s certainly nothing wrong with it, I'd say. It’s somewhere in the biology. We are what we are, naturally, but what we genuinely are isn’t always defined by outward appearance and social categories.

OK, but this isn’t a college paper, instead a blog this month on self-abuse -- a lovely term that we should never let go, though it's dripping with someone’s judgment. Which isn’t a bad thing, I hope we agree, because boundaries are useful, because how can you cross them unless they exist? I'm saying gender fluidity is normal, but you might want me to condemn it because, “Forbidden fruit is the sweetest.” Most people, friends and lovers, want a little kink. I get that, I know the scope of things.

My own opinion is it’s perfect normal and healthy, but you might still want to keep things in a category of their own (with all that entails) so that, like self-abuse, there’s some edge to it. Grandma’s underpants stashed under the bed, anything... Keep your fantasies, keep the edge, don’t let it slip away into pure boredom, unless that’s what you're after, a square peg in a square hole, nice and tidy, six of one, half a dozen of another, Jimmy Durante, “Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are!”

Speaking of grandmothers and Jimmy Durante. I had a great grandmother who died before I was born. But one of the stories was she had Jimmy Durante’s picture on the wall and turned his face to the wall whenever she got dressed. That’s a kink right there, and while I find it funny it’s still a powerful thing. Dear old great grandma probably hoped Jimmy would find her one day and talk her into dropping her bloomers. “Turn my picture around, will you?” he says with some mock-irritation, "Well, we’ll just see about that!” And suddenly I have unknown older cousins with a big nose and raspy voice.

But we're looking at the guys in bloomers these days, kind of a renaissance of the 16th century, which were heady times if memory serves. And being the beautiful dolls our families always wanted. Softness, daintiness, made up, ready for the ball, a princess without peer, a coy blush, pretty in pink, sometimes abused by the evil stepmother, belittled and made to clean the house, with each thing out of place being strictly punished. 

Gender fluidity is a great turn-on. But there are many hidden pitfalls. One of which would be, you don’t want to get caught, and yet if there’s no danger of being caught, where’s the kink? Whether it’s truly your identity or a temporary guise -- it's all-consuming regardless -- it’s a great thing in the rich annals of self-abuse.

Wednesday, September 4, 2019

Perfect Marriage: Do It Yourself

Part 4 of 30
Self-Abuse September

Here’s a man, a real brother, who can testify to the superiority of self-abuse over the same old tired been-done-to-death "sex act" as it’s often called, the whole disgusting "going all the way" method of "getting it on." Where, unless you’re hopped up on pills and bolted down with rubbers, or unfaithful to your wife with men, or with women while using an assumed name, switching license plates and never staying anywhere where anyone could ever identify you, and somehow being able to evade DNA detection from now till eternity, you’re better off playing Solitaire. By the way, they’ve made strides with Solitaire, which is now available for your phone, and you never need actual cards, if you have some lonely nights that you want to put to good use.

But, think, when things got hot and heavy this guy could’ve told his wife, “Hey, baby, instead of that I’m going to be staying tonight at a fancy hotel, just a little date with myself. Have a good night.” Then he'd buzz off to the famous Hotel d’Luster, all by himself taking the Family Wing. And just to remind himself of the stakes, he'd go one by one past the many rooms of the Suite. “This could’ve been Little Suzie’s room, this Little Dicky’s,” etc., going past nine or ten other rooms and listing the imaginary children he and the old lady would never have. Then back to the master bedroom, where he'd roost alone and roll in the hay by himself, canoodling. And play a little game with himself called "Shoot the Moon." Caution, it’s generally messy and these days the first thing hotel staff looks for are stains on the ceiling.

Oh yes, the things he could’ve done! But hindsight sometimes being better than foresight (a bigger crack for one), none of it happened. But if he had it to do again! As it turned out, in trying to tell her where he was going he got roped into taking her and then the whole family scene erupted. She wheedled, “We need one child so we'll have someone to leave our things to.” Which naturally had to be followed by, “We need two, so the first will have someone to grow up with.” That’s honestly all you need, max! But it’s easy to justify three, four, five, and so on. Because of what might happen to the first two, it always pays to have a few spares. A despicable woman!

Well, as you can see, the idiot agreed to the wife’s plan, reluctantly, and got two right away. She’s always harder to resist when she’s hanging on him and he can see the path down her nighty clearly, not marked with warning signs. So now here he is. Making a resolution for the next time they get together: "Baby, two’s good, who needs spares? We lose these, we do without!"

Tuesday, September 3, 2019

Nudist Colonies Off Limits

Part 3 of 30
Self-Abuse September

Have you heard this weird fact, hard to believe but true, there are actual nudist colonies? I’m not 100% sure where they are, how they got there, or precisely what they do. Wink wink. But whatever it is, they do it in the nude, and that's not nothing! Right in broad daylight! Ready, set, match, they’re always ready... Jumping the bones of their next-door neighbor, their friends, their enemies, humpa humpa, it's gotta be like running through a car-wash all day long! Just crazy horny, no restraint, except for the spent people you no doubt find littered here and there. I imagine some of them so spent they crawl desperately out of town looking for a place to recuperate, but die cold and alone in the ditch. It's definitely a horny situation.

My thoughts on the situation, it’s probably just like the way our country got started. Prior, they lived in a place where the freedom of nudity was forbidden. So they looked around for a land where no one lived, or had close neighbors that would mind strangers encroaching on them without clothes. And since it was hanging out already, they let it all hang out, prancing merrily through their day. Dropping to the ground, wham bam, whatever, or just happily and freely letting it fly day after day, their own moist soggy Garden of Eden with no evil snakes, only friendly neighbors.

But some of this is stuff they don’t want you to know. Here’s how it works. They want to keep it quiet. The way they do that is publish small black and white magazines about their supposed lifestyle, making it seem like the most boring thing on earth. No one’s ever having sex. Instead they’re standing next to a volleyball net limp as a noodle, nothing perky, nothing hot. They’re cooperative, though, and very fair about scoring an honest game. The ball lands in bounds, there’s rarely even the slightest quibble concerning the referee's calls. It’s all docile. They still go to ordinary male/female bathrooms, demurely do their business, then gather for pottery crafts in the pottery craft annex.

Seriously, glance through their literature. They’re surely non-breeding themselves out of existence. How anyone can make hot nudity null and void, you wouldn’t think it possible, but it obviously is. I asked one of the guys how they get off, and it’s just the opposite of what you expect. They look through fashion magazines where everyone’s full dressed and minding their own business -- filing their nails is a hot one -- and that does it. Are they kidding? That’s what we suspect at first. Thinking then when night-time comes, they’re ducking down alleys, going at it, single and alone as well as the basic vanilla couple, boring him and boring her, and I suppose hot and heavy wicked orgies without a volleyball in sight.

I'm likening it to the elements of the graphic above. The serpentine servant is busy spraying on the fires that arise in their midst, the life-giving libido does its eternal thing. But when the public, unwelcome enemies, come calling everything shuts down. The libido apparently dies, the life-giving stream is staunched, and, checking out the graphic one more time, the whole colony has fled to find their clothes and volleyballs.

Monday, September 2, 2019

E Pluribus Pumpin'

Part 2 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I’m so grateful for the founder and enduring mascot of our great United States of America, Uncle Sam, to make an appearance here. And it’s only fitting that he should, with his motto, “E Pluribus Unum,” literally, “He comes massively, then sleeps.” Unum is an interesting word, coming from baby talk, taking their bottle and dozing off, chomping drowsily on a pacifier. It’s Pluribus that’s the super soaker, meaning coming in buckets, big winding flowing undulating turgid rivers that forever run, wind, wrapping their wet selves around the dry land begging for moist favors. By the way, it’s never nice to come till you rive 'er, unless of course it’s that time of the month.

She’s welcome, by the way. But at my house if I had an uncle like Uncle Sam, he wouldn’t have been all that welcome. Because they were always looking out for our well-being and morals, although childhood frankly was a little more on the wild side than you tend to think. You have a lot less reserve when you don’t know right from wrong. But then, like Adam and Eve, you learn right from wrong and immediately get dressed.

Still, it seems OK for kids messing with kids, but you have to leave the uncles out of it, of course, especially an old reprobate like Uncle Sam. The last thing we need is for Uncle Sam to be choking chickens from sea to shining sea. And making off color insinuations or asides to unseen but happy parties somewhere just out of the frame, presumably behind him and with just the right angle, about which he’s able to lasciviously ad lib, “I Feel Ya Back There Pumpin’.” Some uncles are like that, none of mine, thankfully.

It’s a funny thing to say, though -- “I Feel Ya Back There Pumpin’” -- and if it’s just between yourself and your partner(s), it can be a great encouragement to them, sort of synonymous with, “You’re doing a good job” or “Your performance is gratifying to me in ways I can’t completely … No! Oh!" Or “The fish are spawning!” Or “I’ll give you exactly 24 hours to zip your pants! Or “That’s right! Right there! Yes, yes, yes!” And so forth. Which is the same kind of climactic calling out we used to do before we had cable TV and someone on the roof was adjusting the antenna and the picture suddenly came in clearly. “Right there! You got it! Perfect!" "Ooooh baby," I'm purring like Barry White.

From sea to shining sea, do your part, then, to let it shine. Let me feel you back there pumpin'. And don't forget to clean up after yourself, if that's something that is part of your routine. I hope it is.

Sunday, September 1, 2019

Biff's Story -- Rise 'n Shine

 Part 1 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I suppose all of us know there’s something inexorable about the passing of time and how it relates to our lives. We live in a huge system that itself is a singularity of which we’re also from. The sun appears to wander through its daily course, rising and shining, sinking and vanishing. The mountains are happy or sad. The cattle get a four-way mechanical rub and tug, so we have the opportunistic milk man pulling down a living at their expense. The birds desperately sing for a mate instead of just crawling in the nest and taking care of the problem themselves and getting on with their day. Life is a vast conspiracy that keeps you guessing, “What will today bring?”

Then you add up enough of those days -- at this point constituting the past -- and you and your history are the consummation, the conclusion, the happy or sad verdict of what those days and years meant. A tale told by an idiot? The arc of life skewing toward good? Or just another day, another whack at self-abuse, much more likely and a truth ever at hand. Is there a meaning to life? You wonder as you drink your coffee, maybe the coffee itself is the meaning! A few horny people in South America got together, grew some coffee (like the milkman did his thing), sold it, etc., etc. And they’d be flat broke if your own parents had self-abused you out of existence. Is there anything to learn from this?

One thing you can learn is that no matter how beautiful it is out the picture window, everyday life is at your mercy. You and millions of selfish bastards like you. Will there be workers to till the soil? Will there be farmers to raise the cattle? Will there be milkmen to gather the milk, disinfect it, put it in containers -- thus enriching the container industry -- and stores to profit by selling it? Will there even be birds and bees learning about themselves and thereby having the knowledge to do it? Giving trees the joy of life when they sit on their branches and sing a beautiful good morning song? By your example would you yourself even be here? No, of course not, but you also wouldn’t have known about it. Everyone’s potentially a sad mistake or the next self-abused emission without a trace of rugrats, no regrets.

Biff, Jr. -- this isn’t Biff but his son -- has arisen and shone. Happy to face another day. Being alone isn’t so sad. No one should feel sorry for him. He potentially could’ve put down roots and found someone to love -- it wasn’t in the cards. But no matter, as long as he lasts there’s still one way to go. Exactly what he forgot as he got up to look on this beautiful different day. It’s Self-Abuse month again, at long last. How long can he be, how long can he last? The longer the better, within reason. Every great musician respects his instrument, and this gets mussier than that.

Saturday, August 31, 2019

Tobacco Day In World War I

(No kidding, this was in the newspaper during WWI)
Part 31 of 31
They Found Another Body

World War I was a long time ago, and most of us probably don’t remember much about it. Even though I was briefly a history major and took coursework in college that included things about the war, I’ve forgotten most of what I didn’t really know very well at the time. Maybe if I'd heard they had a drive to get more cigarettes to the troops, I would've stuck with it.

The great thing about this public service ad is how much our fellow citizens on the home front — if you’re from America — wanted to support the troops overseas. And what better way to support them than to make sure they weren't lacking for something to smoke! That’s a little different from what our concerns for the troops would be these days. I can't think what we'd send. Bubble gum, adult magazines, what?

But take a look at the old movies, the '70s, '60s, and well before that, and you’ll see everyone was smoking. It was the national pastime. And especially dear to the south, Virginia, which was/is tobacco country, their best known crop. The boys in France were dying for a smoke, a taste of home, the old south, and it's to the south's credit that they came through.

How terrible it’d be for a bunch of them — a battalion — to have the enemy, the Huns at the very door (or on the run) and run out of smokes. What would they do? If they had guns and no smokes, of course they’d be able to do as much as they could with the guns. But how long could they just sit there with a noisy gun jumping all over the place, trying to put up a respectable fight, without smokes? They could only do what they could do and try to better their best, but the disappointment of not having smokes in a dire life or death situation might've been too much. 

Then it goes on like that for a while. They're just itching for a cigarette. "This foreign air tastes terrible without something to flavor it. And I was on edge as it was. That last volley of shots came in so close I don't need to shave for a week!" Plus, factor in they've only got a limited resolve and morale. Pretty soon, without smokes their will to live would surely dwindle to nothing. Buddies calling to each other, “Fight, man, fight!” And that rouses them for a while, until, finally, it's all in vain, like if you tried to slap mosquitoes with a limp noodle.

The Huns are coming in for the kill. And without the right tools at hand -- smokes -- that’s exactly what happens. Our guys, without smokes, go down for the final count.

Friday, August 30, 2019

Once Lost, Always Lost?

Part 30 of 31
They Found Another Body

Rivers really are great things, no matter how toxic they appear to those who come in contact with them in the course of being dumped by criminals, or those unlucky enough -- alcohol? -- to find themselves thrashing and dying apart from crime. It's a bitter thing that what was set before us as a great blessing — rivers, the channeling of water, water accumulated, a good home for fish, turtles, frogs, etc. — is so often a heartbreaker for people.

Naturally it didn’t have to be that way. Humanity could’ve found better ways of dealing with the river, going for safety and security. Huge fences. Guards posted every hundred yards, etc. Personally, I'm a big believer in the buddy system, which makes us responsible for one another. There's a big difference between that and going it alone. If you're bobbing and about to go down, at least there would be a witness.

But we as a species had a choice and blew it. The good news, the silver lining, being this: You can always do it differently starting whenever you like, now! We shouldn't be making the same old mistakes as if we haven’t learned a thing. Of course not everyone who goes to the river alone ends up dead. I actually like going to the river alone. Fishing, reading, whatever, and so far I’ve always come back alive. The real lesson might be as easy as be more like me.)

There are times though when bad things happen. You’re at the river and just happen to meet up with a murderer. He’s not doing anything so he murders you. And throws you in the river. I'm thankful that's never happened to me, knock on wood. Must not have happened to you either. We, apart from our brothers and sisters who’ve had bad luck, are the survivors. Could they have survived too? Yes, had they not been there, or had they been like me. Everything seems to come down to this: If you have no business being there, stay the hell away. Let your sad ending be a lesson for the future.

Now I live in the Big City. Back when I used to go to rivers I lived either in a small town or something other than the Big City. Which isn’t to say the Big City is crap. But there’s a lot more desperadoes in the Big City, each one looking to carve another notch on his belt in honor of you. He reasons it out like this, “I’m killing all the people I want and just hope my belts hold out." This is why I have not yet gone to the river in the Big City, and probably won't.

Let us turn now to our friend with the map, pointing his big stick to the rivers of the Big City — which is a very helpful map; I’ll take a photo of this with me next time I go to the river just in case I get turned around. This guy evidently has a nose for news, knowing about our various sons and daughters who’ve been lost in the river, and an interest in bringing them back. I think he deserves our thanks. Because whatever grief we're facing, it could've been worse without him happening along as he did.

Thursday, August 29, 2019

A Merman I Should Turn To Be


Part 29 of 31
They Found Another Body

“Tommy, you must stop chasing that minnow this very instant!” Takes me back, way back, to a time when my family tried an underwater lifestyle. It was popular a few decades ago, and was a kind of natural reaction — seems foolish now — after we first heard we are made up mostly of water. Of course we could never breathe under water, so we sucked breath from about $4,000 worth of air tanks. Think of Jimi Hendrix’s 1983 (A Merman I Should Turn to Be), about living and breathing under water; that was the last edge of the movement. When a guy famously died trying it, but he was stupid and wanted to show his "faith" by wearing cement boots in the attempt.

By comparison my own family took only baby steps in the attempt. Because we were hyper-realists even then. Yes, we might be on the cutting edge in one sense, but we had enough reserve to let someone else give the cement boots a go. So instead we opened an aquarium store and sat there studying fish, memorizing all their moves and seeing if we could discern their secret in having water for air. It actually is beautiful, all the goings on in an aquarium. But there’s a few downers. Even fish die, so they obviously haven't perfected the breathing technique either. They were floating. And they get diseases just like we do. And occasionally jump out. You’d think a fish would be smart enough not to do that. Unless they were just doing the opposite of us, trying to live out here.

The whole thing went by the wayside when a few more people drowned. The breathing wasn't working out. But the basic problem was it was just the local river, a thick dirty quagmire. Whereas water runs free in its channel most of the time, other places have big concrete blocks and lots of mud. You dive into a muddy patch with a concrete block two feet from the surface, it’s going to hurt your head. We’d be gathering upstream for dinner, and suddenly there was an empty spot at the pier. “Swim upstream and see where your brother is.” I did that and didn't find him. “Swim downstream and see where your brother is.” Off I went downstream. Then I came back and there he was, hovering lifelessly behind the concrete block. Kind of ruined the meal. My dad pushed away from the table in outrage, “Those goddamned concrete blocks! They’re ruining my appetite!”

And you can’t disagree with that. The solution turned out to be as simple as this: Stay out of the dirty river and forget the concrete blocks. And if you’re going to live underwater, do it the smart way. Put plastic over the windows of your house, have everything vacuum-sealed to not let water in and not let water out. The water being clear as a bell, no one gets lost. The air spigots worked fine, and you get so much air in the water, the breathing’s great. And it’s pretty too, the wavy patterns you see. Man, the patterns! For instance, if you were looking at one of my Mom’s “Mona Lisa” paintings -- She collected Mona Lisa prints and had them in every room -- you really saw it's true: Mona Lisa’s smile is particularly lifelike in a house full of water!

Our happy family in today’s graphic shows the quality of life we can ultimately expect when someday at long last we’re finally out of the dirty filthy air that everyone else seems to think is so good. It's not good. It’s crap compared to water. To me water's the ticket, water. The whole scene. And along with that, immorality. The whole scene's my cup of tea.

Wednesday, August 28, 2019



Part 28 of 31
The Found Another Body

Let’s go back to where it started, with people getting sick and tired of it, fed up with bodies being found in the river. Then it so happened that a guy whose actual name was Jones was a victim. Whether it was by foul play or his own personal date with destiny or the Angel of Death, Jones’ body was found in the river.

One thing seems certain: Jones never had an enemy in his life, unless we’re talking about the normal scuffles and fights we get into in school when we’re very young. In this case they did go back and talk to all his playground enemies and most of them could barely remember him and the ones who could remember him had watertight alibis. "I live in the other hemisphere of the world" was one of the best alibis, but maybe a little too convenient, but they let him go since he's lived there since 1959.

Closer to home, friends and relatives said Jones was generally a happy man. Being average in every way, how could he not be? He had the standard wife, the standard 2.4 children, a house with a roof, a job that was good enough, cars, trucks, TVs, etc., basically everything you need to make life a decent thing to behold, and something you’re glad to get up everyday to face again. Most of us wake up hoping our life will be as good as it was yesterday or better. And whereas sometimes we wake up and it isn’t as good or better, we keep going. Jones’ story was like that, but according to the reports he hadn't seen a negative thing in years, not even ordinary potholes in the road. We've had hail and his shingles are fine.

There was literally no reason Jones shouldn’t be with us still. Could it have been a fishing accident? He didn’t fish. Did he owe someone money? No more so than the usual guy whose credit is impeccable. You pay your bills and it’s not fun, but if it’s too much you cut something, one of the streaming services, the grandkids’ ballet lessons, your wife’s towel budget. Think of the cuts we could all be making. I watched a movie on one of my streaming services that I didn’t enjoy. If that’s the kind of movies they’re putting out these days, bare bosoms and hanky-panky, to heck with it!

Well, how ever it happened, it happened. Jones was found in the river. No apparent foul play, the water wasn’t any higher that day than anywhere else and it’d been a dry summer. And we covered his childhood acquaintances; they all live in another hemisphere, another state, or are above suspicion.

Again, there isn’t a single legitimate reason for Jones to be dead in the river. And that’s why the outpouring of sentiment has been 100% in his favor. The crowds are having fits, they're outraged as well they should be. And something’s got to be done, short of diverting the river, because we need the water. The mayor threw up his hands. The police shrugged their shoulders, saying, “Don’t blame us!” No, no one’s blaming anyone. We just have to be more vigilant. And keep our eyes wide open. Because if someone throwing our citizens in the river for no reason, we consider it our business to find out why. And once we’ve found out why, we’ll put a stop to it. And do what it takes to bring justice to Jones.

Think about it, fellow citizen, if it was Jones this time, next time it could be any one of us. Perhaps even you.

Tuesday, August 27, 2019

Get A Check-Up Or Else

Part 27 of 31
The Found Another Body

If my blog ever gets a Nobel Prize — and it’s been nominated more times than I can count — it’ll very likely come from today's post. In which I seriously advise my readers to get regular checkups. I'm very afraid for them. I believe a liver checkup is directly warranted, if not on a daily basis at least once in a while. You'll be healthier for this reason alone, because once you open the door to necessary checkups, the sky’s the limit. There’s really nothing on your body — very few exclusions, maybe calluses are no problem unless cancerous — that can't be actively monitored by you and professional caregivers.

As for me, I get periodic checkups with my doctor. I pull down my pants and cough, that’s one of the ones I remember. Someone checks my blood pressure, my pulse, essentially all things pertaining to blood. And someone’s there to tap my knee to make sure my legs still bend. So far, so good! Every time they tap me, I react, nearly kicking the crap out of them. It’s painless for me. And something I recommend.

From today’s post, to reiterate, the essential point of it is to have regular liver checkups. That I didn’t know before recent study. When I heard of it I adopted it as one of my causes, right up there with the dangers of exposing yourself in public. But, really, it never occurred to me that looking into someone’s eyes could give you an insight into their liver! Which is no laughing matter, and just to be on the safe side I’m not even smiling. Just sitting here like someone with a distinct tendency toward an incipient turning-to-stone condition. Not cracking a smile.

Anyway, I was reading the comics one day, thinking, “This'll be good for a laugh,” when I was suddenly brought up short. It took my breath away. “Yes, you should always be looking for things wrong with people when you meet them.” Which is true, I believe. Even bad breath has medical terminology pertaining to it. It could be something in your mouth, your throat, or on down, your stomach, physically rotting away as we speak. Basically, brush your teeth or you could be dead this time tomorrow. (If you are dead this time tomorrow, that’s just an expression; don’t blame me; you should've brushed well before now.)

“Tell me what you see in my eyes … darling!” So far, so good. Maybe this was a first date. It’s been a while since I’ve had a first date, and I've never had a second date. He apparently didn’t know she was a doctor when she said she saw his incipient liver condition. He’s startled to hear the news. Then he fails to get it taken care of. Then, I hate to give his full fate. Even an anonymous comic strip character we’ve never heard of deserves his privacy, particular concerning his fate, and the awful death he ended up dying the next day. It was so soon they didn't have time for another date. He died a horny mess with a bad liver to boot.

Monday, August 26, 2019

Crushed By Longest Babylonian Idol

Part 26 of 31
The Found Another Body

Remember the stories of Babylon and idols from church? I sort of remember them, not the nitty-gritty details. Somehow the details have evaporated or there never were many. But I do remember the basics, that idols are bad and not having them is good.

It was even one of the basic commandments — out of 10 or 20 — having no idols. Then later you find out that the idols weren’t always just statues, but whatever you may have been giving your life over to. Too much bubble gum or roller skates or anything that kids happened to do. When you’re a kid, of course your sins are never too serious, although I shouldn’t say that because these days kids can go hog wild and take out half the school. Thankfully it's only a few times a week, a tolerable risk.

But the idols back then that everyone wanted to destroy would actually be worth quite a bit of money now, and not just because they were gold or had gold on them, but antiquities with historic value. I went to a museum years ago and saw some of this stuff, which if the Sunday School teacher had her way would’ve been immediately melted down and made into thimbles, or pretty pins for the ladies to wear on Sunday morning. Same gold.

I wish I would've known more about it back then so I could've spoken up for the antiquities market, history, and the value of other cultures. But my objections wouldn’t have been appreciated. They had us over a barrel because of our great ignorance, when not one of us uttered a peep that showed any intelligence. Just listen to the lesson, maybe get a sucker, then go home and watch cartoons.

I'd like to think we were all wrong. That these enormous golden cows really were the pipeline to heaven but we were too stupid to know it. If only we had our own golden cow -- and I did live in a place that had a lot of cows -- the whole world would know the cycles of life. A cow lives such and such long. People live this longer period of time. Therefore, yes, God loves people more than cows. But if you make people statues it's always going to look like someone. And you don't want worship to go to that guy's head. But if it's cattle, cattle don't care as long as they can graze in the grass.

So let's look at the specs, the longest golden cow stretched five blocks, about a quarter mile. The only thing greater than the cow itself was the wagon they needed to hold it. Try building a wagon that big, and all the wheels you need to support it. And if it makes you feel better — and I’m interested in this point as a student of weird events — say there was an earthquake, and everything was rumbling like crazy, tilting everything, the greatest confusion, when the earth literally split right down that street, toppling the golden cow, and fortunately or unfortunately crushing the Babylonians, wiping out 50,000 of them.

Yes, that’s a lot of people for one cow. But look at the cow, they made it themselves, it’s super huge, and it crushed them. Be careful for what you wish for. So it's kind of tragic, but no matter. It was a long time ago and they would've died of something else by now anyway.

Sunday, August 25, 2019

Murder House, House of Horrors


Part 25 of 31
They Found Another Body

Now that I live in the Big City — quite a change for a small town boy — I realize there’s more Murder Houses and Houses of Horror than you can throw a machete at. A far cry from some of the other places I've lived, tiny towns and midsize cities, when occasionally someone dresses up their house in a scary way for Halloween. Very spooky! That was fun, but these guys are playing for keeps. If they're even in there. Sometimes you don't know.

It appears some of them are playing for keeps. They're in the news a few times a week. According to several victims — some of them with only mute testimony — they wish they hadn’t gone in or even become acquainted with the residents. I myself do NOT go in, not that I know where any really dangerous places are in particular. I ride my bike around about a six block radius and otherwise keep to myself. Would I like to go in? Sure, I have an exploring nature. But going in doesn't seem wise, and, anyway, there's nothing I need.

The way to do it, naturally, would be to stand outside behind a tree and listen. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything going on. And simply wait them out. If they’re in there, being as quiet as they can be, just hoping you come in, they can’t keep it up forever. Because everyone moves sometime. And you’re outside, watching and listening. There's going to be some noise.

But it could be a stalemate, if you don’t go in and they don’t make a noise. One way to flush them out would be to heave bricks toward the windows. The glass is usually broken anyway. A brick comes through the window, if someone’s in there, they’re going to react. As for you, you’re in the best spot, because as soon as they react -- the rat-a-tat of machine guns -- you’re going to fly!

OK, let’s advance a little bit. You're outside, and you're satisfied there’s no danger. Even though the visitor’s guide — or the picture in your head — has a gun-toting murderer at the front door, a veiny claw hand reaching for the world’s most dangerous wrench, and one story up there’s two gnarly boys either joined at the hip or hooked together in some other way, forever at odds. Then the front room upstairs, there's a gun pointing at you and a man rolling a boulder down a cliff. Even the attic isn’t safe. A man with a bandaged head, bleeding to death, a boy throwing a banana peel on the road, and the world’s biggest bagel or foot-long bun toted under someone’s arm. This could be a game like Mousetrap, with all the moving pieces!

And you're still out there. Finally you decide, No one’s made a peep. So you go to the front door and rattle the handle. That’ll flush ‘em out. Still not a peep. You try the door, everything’s fine as it opens. You walk in, it’s all OK. When suddenly the door slams, and the procession of people already described, one by one, attacks you! You’re virtually dead, when out steps the boy with the banana peel and stuffs it up your nose, cutting off your breath, and the arm with the bun finishes you off, pounding, pounding, rancorous pounding with a piece of bread so hard he could pound nails all day and it'd never soften!

Think I'll stay home at least today.

Saturday, August 24, 2019

Raging Hormones, Then Inferno

Part 24 of 31
They Found Another Body

How could something that felt so right turn out to be so wrong? Who among us hasn’t asked that a million times, every time we get involved with someone? Then, inevitably, nonetheless, we're running through the conflicts, the potential suicides of other loves ones, and bringing the walls down because of our momentary lust for … wanting it all. When we probably should've heeded the warning and simply said, "I’m old, I’ve had my fill. It’s the same thing over and over, humpa humpa, big whoop, pay the hotel, let's go home."

Of course it's worse if you’re out in the wilds somewhere, where adventure lives. Then you’re up against the primal elements, not just the niceties of a motel, but the slouching matron at the front desk who could care less what you’re up to, just so you don’t drag it to the hall, and leave the light shades alone. I remember one particularly hot weekend — I’ve denied this episode in court several times, so please don’t report it — that one guy got his business stuck in the vacuum cleaner and that was painful for him. I’m only happy I wasn’t also drinking, because there might not have been anyone to get him out. As indeed it seemed painful, but thank God when I'm sober I can wield a crowbar with some precision.

In the wild, though, everyone’s wilder. And the things of primal lust lead to primal behavior, being macho, being outrageously feminine, or what have you. I know they weren’t using rubbers, so how much more primal can you get? That’s right in the open pure lust, hanging low, springing high, showing off, anchors away, not coming up for air, basically making a buffet out of things when you don't even know their expiration dates. My personal policy on that is a strict No, thank you!
But not everyone’s me. The world would be a better place if everyone had my adamantine self-control (patent pending). But since they don’t, they're at the mercy of animal lusts, which of course know no boundaries. They’re down the hall with their Tarzan yells. Their doors are wide open, there's various mobile adult bookstore devices hooked to them, and they’re even running up and down the hall. It’s rustic enough, of course they can get away with it. Until the matches and gasoline come into play. That's when I left.

Thank God this was other people and the rest of the story's secondhand. But in the end there was a fire, and (head bowed) none of the couples or extraneous horny singles involved made it out alive. Which way could they turn? There was fire down that hall, up that hall, fire going vertical through the elevators, then at an angle and down the stairway, and of course at another angle and up the other stairway. The only thing the fire didn't touch was a flower pot by the back door.

What a terrible disaster. So many charred bodies found, one for each victim. But they had put up a brave front, and I can only console myself with the thought that their last words -- reportedly shrieks -- comprised an earnest heartfelt prayer.