Great Granddad Had A Blast

 

Part 22 of 30

Self-Abuse September

I would be a lot more interested in the past if the records were only there to consult. Who wouldn’t be? Just to know what was going on with Grandma and Grandpa and their parents and their parents -- humpa humpa -- all the way back to Sir Lancelot and the Seven Dwarfs, that’d be a great study.

But, alas, we’re not doing much better for those who come after us. It’s not like we’re making a spreadsheet of our own lives and passing it on to succeeding generations who themselves will be spread out over the sheets. I wish I would've done it, documented everything I've put out since my formative teen years. Instead, for most of us -- Grandpa included -- secretions were very secretive, and few tales are told of Grandpa in the field, Grandpa in the shed, Grandpa in the barn, Grandpa all over.

In a way we feel like "preseeding" generations had it over us. They lived in a world still in the grip of nature. Bulls in the field, rabbits in the pen, ducks laying eggs, cocks crowing in the morning, afternoon, and evening, their beaks grabbing and pulling the back of the hens’ heads -- humpa humpa -- nature at its craziest. It was a free-for-all but somehow every one of them was faithful to the task.

It’s probably normal that we try to see our forebears as basically gods in the flesh. With an all-seeing eye for the challenges they had to face, the Great Depression, Prohibition, then later the War, and best of all, the Sexual Revolution. They acted shocked, of course, but humpa humpa. Which is where they really bloomed and blossomed. They were so stoved up from bad times that when the Sexual Revolution launched it was all-out enthusiasm, even doing it in the road as the Beatles said. By then they had all the kids they'd ever have, so they were going at it for pleasure. Together, of course, but for an equally satisfying experience, alone. Self-abuse through the years. Mental humpa humpa.

They had the “need to breed” -- and it was crazy -- with mealtime often degenerating into a free-for-all of hands and relevant body parts, all without missing a bite, the potatoes being passed and consumed before they were cold, etc. You think synchronized swimming’s a talent, I wish I could describe my grandparents', aunts' and uncles', and even cousins' wanton behavior. The turkey wasn’t the same when they got through with it, strictly white meat, humpa humpa.

The first known libertine in the family was Great-Grandpa, whose reported fantasies of showgirls single-handedly kept the family fields fertile in the midst of the world’s worst drought. See picture.

Whip The Bastards Out

Part 21 of 30

Self-Abuse September

Here’s an story of a fairly illicit relationship -- the school manuals forbid it -- Old Mr. (teacher) and two young students, both close to 21, so old because years before they'd been held back to repeat Kindergarten, 1st, and 2nd grades. (There's a blurb about them and their dubious achievement in the world record books.) Old Mr. walked into a semi-private dark section of the hall and caught them both in the act of self-abuse, in flagrante delicto, as the Latin calls it, which means something like “with each other’s business flagrantly in hand and diddling with delight, possibly involving the tongue.”

Of course he scolded them mercilessly -- cussing them up one side and down the front -- with a lot of strenuousness, really all the scorn he could muster, because, let’s face it, this is huge shocking stuff. Anyone would be disappointed and even perplexed, and in this case he had enough righteous anger to pour it on at some length, laying it on thick and with fully justified condescension.

Well, Old Mr. couldn’t be everywhere at once, so he assigned them to the buddy system, to monitor each other and keep each other accountable. Which went great for a while, but I'd say it was predictable (like moths making out over a candle) that since the act they engaged in was the desire of each, what was to hold them back from an ongoing alliance? There were certainly tails told out of class. Meaning nothing could hold them back, so they were right back at it yet again, laying it on thick with each other, then thicker yet.

But the guilt -- such brutal overpowering guilt -- got the best of them and they decided, "Being equally guilty we should go tell Old Mr. even the randiest details of our sins and seek undeserved absolution." When, what do they find, but Old Mr. himself so completely oblivious to his surroundings that without interruption they were able to witness a full program of sexual wantonness. Another case of up one side and down the other. He had both a Mademoiselle and Lady’s Day magazine and was simultaneously going through them while self-abusing first atop the piano, then by the fireplace, then sprawled on the table in the teachers' lounge, then in the teachers' kitchenette while juggling knives yet never missing even one sooooooothing, sennnnnsuous stroke.

Suddenly, then, a good half hour into his raging act for the ages -- the choreography was impeccable -- he noticed the students standing there. Oops! His rather daunting full-length doodad quickly shriveled to nearly nothing. And he knew he’d been had, that old hypocrite and reprobate. But in the spirit of making it up to them -- not as commendable as it sounds under the circumstances -- and wanting to make the most of any hard feelings, he said to the guys, “OK, boys, you caught me, and I know what you’re thinking...” Then he waved and looked at his watch and in the spirit of the moment said, “You’re now both officially 21. Whip the bastards out, let’s make amends.”

Pulling For Stubby

 Part 20 of 30

Self-Abuse September

It’d be great to have a lot of camaraderie with a group of friends, I’m convinced of that. But it’s still not for everyone, like me, who’s so into privacy, I’d hate to be searched with eye contact for when I’m lying. Since once you start fidgeting, the jig’s up, you’ve been found out, you’ve been had. Then the group -- little more than savages -- passes you person to person for whatever depravity they have in mind, everything from stealing your chewing gun to depantsing you and throwing you in the river.

Whoa, depantsing, I haven’t thought of that as a real thing for years. But I still have it in my vocabulary, because that was a real thing when I was a kid. You get enough guys mad at you and they’d literally depants you on the playground (or worse). And of course you hate it on the playground for obvious reasons, since everyone’s in on it everyone has an equal chance to deny it and escape punishment. Of course you’re not going to name names or the penalty after school would might be depantsing and maybe burning your books. They might even stick your pants on the bull in the field, and in his fury and desire to escape he’s rubbing his horns up and down the bark of a tree, trying to depants his horn. Leaving, once you retrieve them -- going through a field, incidentally, littered with thorns -- you showing up at home with a pant leg on one side and your bare ass on the other! Bittersweet memories.

Still, if you could set the guidelines liberally with this one conservative rule, No Depantsing, it’d be great to have a club of boys/men, the Old Boys’ Club let’s call it, to cheerlead you on to greater and greater conquests. Shooting The Moon, Laying It On Thick, Gentlemen’s Stroll, You’re In The Army Now, and other techniques of quality self-abuse. I actually had a hand in formulating the various moves in You’re In The Army Now, so when I’m at patriotic events and they ask the veterans to stand, even though I never served conventionally, I’m still well-known as the Soldier’s Friend and feel no embarrassment standing and even cheering my own Division, being its only member. Let me reenact it briefly: Attenhut! O soldier, let me massage your neck. Umm, you're coming to attention, big boy. And so forth, I hate to show off...

Stubby here, even though he’s been sidelined a while from his group of friends -- we're sick too, just in a better way. But he'll soon mend and leave the hospital behind. Until then, he knows everyone's pulling for him. One further note, perhaps when the doctor comes in -- say it’s a guy and therefore understanding of such things -- he might bring up his nickname, Stubby, and see what can be done about that. But it’s not necessary. Stubby is still a pro, nothing's every that bad. You still have a lot of friends. Those more gifted feel better when you’re around. And those less gifted also feel better around you, because what you have is attainable by them as well and not as tricky to achieve as what the first guys have, who only feel bad when they’re around male farm animals.

Stubby, if you're reading this, I think there's a few nurses up on the latest moves -- wink wink -- know what I mean? Something for your thoughts when you're alone!

Get well soon, spring to life, whatever's standing against you, we know you're gonna beat this thing.

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!"

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.