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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Jones

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I'm Shutting This Party Down

Part 23 of 31

They Found Another Body

I hope I’m not coming across too moralistic in this series, a goody two shoes kind of guy. I’m trying to cut everyone a lot of slack, really. Engaging everyone’s proclivities, trying to see the good sides as well as the bad. And even though they always end in death, there’s still some degree of good in getting there. And whether death is the only outcome, I don’t think I’ve claimed that. For every 20 people who die, I have no doubt someone survives. Only to die another day, having built up so much false self-confidence by the apparent escape.

If you want self-confidence, and if you want to live, just don’t take part in anything dangerous. Exercise moderately, not to the point of working up a sweat. Drink a little if you want, just make sure you nurse the bottle along so you’ve drunk one whole bottle over a period of three or four years. Do everything with such discipline and reserve, and you could be like me, living till you’re old and gray, losing your memory, and wondering to yourself — with no survivors around to remind you — who am I and why am I here?

We’re looking today at a full scale bacchanalia. A long table and enough ugly ass characters lost in reverie and drunkenness to the point that they’re not going to make it. Yes, some will make it. For every party like that, there’s always survivors. Giving hope to other idiots that it can be done. Instead of what should happen, which is that the sky would open, a beam of light coming from as many directions as there are people that would lift each one up to the ceiling and give them a stern warning: “If you want to live, you need to settle down. Your place in life is to exercise moderation. Going whole hog is for hogs, not men. The things you are laughing at hysterically are not objectively funny. You see your mate drooling. Or passed out. That’s not humorous, but detracts from his worth in your estimation and makes you look bad. You need to shut the hell up, get back in line, and march it out of here single-file, one by one, or you'll be judged harshly and put in your place.

Then whoever’s left witnesses the spirit of Carrie Nation, well-known enemy of drinking and carousing, stepping in and breaking every one of those rotgut bottles against the sidewalk, overturning the tables, and airing the place out. With each of the merrymakers sat down in a stern place and given the talking to of their lives. If you want to live, here’s how it’s going to be done. 1, 2, 3. Any questions? Hearing none, you’re off to home. Do not stop anywhere for a nightcap. We will know about it and we will destroy you.

Well, you know this crowd. No self control. They’d rather die crooked than go straight. And that’s exactly what happened. A candle was overturned and burnt the place to the ground. Those who survived the longest, their eyes bulged out and it was a hideous sight for the poor guys who cleaned it up. In fact, those guys were so repulsed that they also went out for drinks, became alcoholics, and died later in the early morning hours. The funeral directors for those guys also became disillusioned, took up drinking, and a little bit of dancing. It was disgusting.