I watched a commercial for personal lube and it was quite funny, all things considered.
A couple in bed wakes up and the guy thanks the woman next to him.
"Wow, that was a great birthday present you gave me at 4 in the morning," he says to her.
"You liked that, did you?"
"Oh, yeah. I wish I could get woke up at 4 in the morning more often!"
"Well, that wasn’t your whole birthday present," she says and reaches over to the nightstand and gets some lube.
She sets the little bottle of lube on his nude chest and positions herself on her stomach.
I’m not even kidding. This was a TV commercial. I know we’re, like, all modern and “enlightened” and shit and that porn is so mainstream even our kids watch it, but aren’t there limits? Subtle anal and oral sex references in the afternoon while watching a cooking show?
Maybe I’m getting old or something.
Immediately after this weird commercial, there was one for Gas-X, a pill you take to prevent farting.
I burst out laughing. Our civilization is clearly doomed, but at least the death throes are fucking hilarious….
Sitting here at the state fair, sitting here in the German Tent at the state fair, listening to polka music, watching people dance to it—hop to it, really, for polka dancing, near as I can make out, is complicated hopping—I can’t help but ask myself, “How did we, as a species, get to this point?”
My lady friend is bored. Her beautiful turquoise eyes glazed over long ago. She’s here with me, though.
What a trooper!
She is only 37, which makes her younger by 50 years than everyone else here (excluding me). She is a trooper, yes, but somehow I don’t think an end-of-the-night blowjob is on the table.
"You took me to a polka dance? Seriously? Suck your own dick, pal."
Alas, i am not that flexible. If I were, I’d never leave the house.
Accordions, lederhosen, giant gluttonous beer—blowjob or not, I’m having a fucking blast.
It is such a barren and lonely place, even if you are with someone. Even if they are touching you. When I watch on a tv or in a movie someone going to bed, it seems so brave to me: They get into bed, they lie down, they adjust covers and self, creating comfort somehow, then they reach out with a steady hand and turn on the dark.
If you shut off the light, you turn on the dark, the bulb working in reverse, sucking in the light till it is all gone. Darkness is the natural state, a burning lamp merely temporary and not very effective, a fleeting darkness sponge.
I leave the light on so I don’t start screaming and wake the dead, who will then come after me. They will find me, they will take me with them. The dead, who are the ultimate dark, the end and beginning of life.
I will sleep when the sun is up. I will be vigilant against the night. I will keep watch for what I know is coming, for what I know can’t be avoided, and, like Dylan Thomas before me, I will rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The conservatives over on my Facebook page are confused. They wanna hate the government because OBAMA is the government. OBAMAOBAMAOBAMA! But at the same time, these were militarized white cops beating up on a black community for being angry about and mourning the shooting of an unarmed person.
The poor things are truly torn. Whatever will they do?
At least that’s what I can make out from studying Protestant theology, or, rather, Protestant theologies (there’s one for everyone!). Granted, I’m being a bit facetious—not every Protestant is a denomination of one. They move in groups, like bikers or reindeer, each group adhering to what amounts to some dude and his particular interpretation of scripture. Many of them don’t even seem to have a clearly defined theology. It’s just PRAISE JESUS!, sing a hymn, and go home and watch Fox News.
I hate to be a party pooper, but that ain’t a religion, my friends.
For the record, I’m a Catholic (the best religion EVAR!), but a fallen-away one. I wasn’t reared Catholic, but secular. As a kid growing up, the only time I went to church was when someone died or got married. Over time, these two strange practices got connected in my mind and I entered adulthood terrified of commitment. Eventually, looking around at the Universe and realizing television and mindless consumerism wasn’t cutting it for me, I thought: Wouldn’t it be hysterical if I just, all of sudden, became a Catholic?
So that’s what I did.
I do a lot of things like that: Wouldn’t it be hysterical if I just, all of a sudden, started smoking a pipe? Wouldn’t it be hysterical if I just, all of sudden, shaved my head? Wouldn’t it be hysterical if I just, all of sudden, got rid of everything I owned and went and lived in a tent?
It’s as good a decision-making process as any other, as I’m sure anyone over 35 knows and you young folks will one day find out.
I’m not the type of guy who does something half-assed. I’m all in, no matter what I’m holding. I studied up on Catholicism big-time. I’m a compulsive autodidact and excellent student of anything when there are no teachers involved. I went into the little becoming-a-Catholic shindig as well-versed in the multitudinous nit-picking that is Catholic theology as the priest himself.
He was impressed, but not overly.
I knew the nuts and bolts but he opened up a can of insight on my ass that made my jaw slack. There is a difference between knowledge and faith, I learned. Even though I knew everything he knew, I still didn’t know jack shit.
So I did that for a while, the whole Catholic thing, then they started stashing all those pedophile priests in the nooks and crannies of their religion and I got all “Fuck this shit” and quit. Tore up my membership card, threw away my funny hat, and just stopping going.
A few months later, I was sitting around my tent, bald-headed and smoking my pipe, when a thought a occurred to me: Wouldn’t it be hysterical if I just, all of a sudden, become a Buddhist?
So I’m reading the paper, see, and it’s an article about all the great success we’ve been having overturning the stupid gay marriage bans. State by state they’re getting struck down, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Even my state’s ban (South Dakota) is working its way to inevitable and correct doom.
But the ban has been upheld twice in Nebraska. What the fuck? Upheld? And you wanna know something else? It’s one of the most far-reaching, draconian bans of them all. The article was telling the story of a couple who had married legally in Iowa, right next door to Nebraska. Two ladies, with a young son, who had been together for years and then finally got hitched when Iowa legalized gay marriage (one of the first states to do so, by the way). Like many, even most, married couples, they wanted the same last name and one of the ladies took her partner’s.
Anyway, fast forward a few years, and the family made a move, for career reasons, to Nebraska, which, as I pointed out in the title, is an asshole. They were there awhile and it came time for the lady who had taken her wife’s name to renew her driver’s license. Well, they wouldn’t let her. They insisted that she do it under her maiden name, which, legally, was no longer her name, so they wouldn’t let her even do that. In Nebraska, her VERY NAME was illegal because she was gay.
Think about that.
Then, to top it all off, she finds out that she has no legal rights to her own son, who is, biologically, her wife’s offspring. So, like, God forbid, if something happens to her wife, she very well could lose her son, simply because she’s gay—and, of course, the kid could lose both his parents, simply because of their gayness.
100 miles east of where she is living, none of this would be true. Isn’t that weird?
What part of love your neighbor as yourself do these fuckwads not get?
True Story: One time I was in Ismay, Montana visiting relatives,
and everyone had gone to bed. I was up late on the internet illegally downloading commercial-free episodes of Project Runway, when a pop-up appeared that said there were dozens of lonely women, right there in Ismay, waiting to connect with me.
Ismay has a population of 19, 5 of whom I am related to….
Full disclosure, though: We are in the middle of the Sturgis Rally.
Our homeland has been invaded by hundreds of thousands of middle-aged leather-clad bikers. They are all rebels. You can tell by how they all dress exactly alike and have, gasp, tattoos.
I think tattoos stopped being cool when the pope got one: “Powered by the Son”. Shit, even my grandma has a tattoo: “Born to Quilt”.
They ride around on these comically loud Harley-Davidsons, slowing me down on the way to the liquor store. They stand in all the lines, adding precious minutes to the beer wait. Every single restaurant is packed and all the store shelves are empty.
There’s stars out but no moon the sky seems empty or lonely like a clown funeral attended only by mimes or cowboys and indians getting along
It sparkles but is blank like the eyes of a politician when promising a lie during a debate discussion that rattles and hums in the ovoid of understanding in the lacking of angular momentum. Or like false positive truth serum soda sliding down your throat, the cold jizz of a deadened demented lover
It’s a curved vault of black high above me freezing and weighing down inaccessible and far close oppressive as every stupid rule (and every smart one too) heavy, haunted following me with cackling implications of Nothing
So yesterday my cat had a seizure and it totally scared the shit out of me. She had been very affectionate with me while I was laying on the bed. This is not unusual for her. When she wants love, she takes it. She will actually get under my hand and move back and forth, petting herself. She will climb up on my chest and ram her head into my face and also try to kiss me on the lips, which I won’t let her do because her tongue is like sandpaper and who knows what she’s been eating. For example, a few days ago, I saw her walking proudly around the yard with a bunny head in her mouth. So her behavior before the seizure was not at all out of the ordinary.
After I gave her a bunch of love and she was sated, she curled up in a ball on the bed with me and dozed off. I was laying on the bed, too. I put earbuds in and was listening to music on a low level and practically dozing myself when I heard this horrible howling. It was my cat, writhing around on the bed. I had never heard such a sound come out of a cat before, even cats who were fighting and screaming at each other. It was almost mechanical sounding, like honking. I just froze and watched her. She was craning her neck. It looked like she was trying to turn her head all the way around, ala The Exorcist. She writhed and honked and finally fell off the bed, which got me moving. I tried to touch her but her body movements were so weird I was scared to. Her eyes were open and darting around, but I could totally tell she was not “there”, that she wasn’t conscious.
I got my phone and tried to call the vet, but I was having trouble because I was shaking so hard. I thought she was gonna die right there before my eyes.
Gradually, she came out of it. I put her back on the bed. Her respiration was a hundred miles an hour. Her tongue was out and she was panting like a dog. Over the next half hour, her breathing slowed and she became conscious again, though she was exhausted.
I made an appointment with the vet, then looked up cat seizures on the internet. Did you know there’s a whole bunch of videos on Youtube of cats having seizures? Weird. I watched several of them, but none looked like what happened to my cat. They didn’t really look like each other either, though. Apparently, cat seizures are as unique as fur markings. Not one of them were howling, though. Just mine.
Needless to say, watching cats have seizures on Youtube is not a fun activity. Very difficult to watch, in fact, but not as difficult as watching my cat have a seizure IRL. Of all the cats in the world, mine is my favorite.
The vet tests turned out fine. She was also behaving normally, though totally exhausted. She ate, then slept the rest of the day. This morning she’s moving around and no longer so tired. There was one test I didn’t get her because it was thousands of dollars: a cat CAT scan. All it would do is tell me if she had a brain tumor, which there’s nothing you can do about anyway.
The vet gave me a rectal syringe of valium in case it happens again. I simply stick it in her butt and depress the plunger. I have to keep it out of the light, so it’s under my bathroon sink as I type this.
I hope she sticks around. I’ve had her since 2006 and totally love her. She was a stray who adopted me. She’s about 9 or 10 years old and in excellent physical health, according to the vet. Well, except for the whole having a seizure out of the blue and practically giving her owner a heart attack thing.
Here’s a picture of her in a box:
Everybody go love on your cats. We are very privileged they have stooped to live with us.
sparkgrrl658 said: drinking most booze with a mixer (other than water/ice, or a few olives) these days is largely unappealing to me, but this sounds rather good.
It’s not bad, I tell ya. Can’t directly pick up the vanilla but it’s better than whiskey and coke alone. Hmmm. It ain’t my choice, but my son’s. He has a bottle of of Ancient Age and the only pop I got in the house is vanilla coke. Thus, a drink was born. Me, I think I’ll run get a 6 pack. It’s the last night he’s in town, the last night of my vacation. I HAVE to drink, right? It’s, like, the rules.