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Penises have been around for a long, long time - ever since anyone can remember, really. My grandfather, before his death, spoke of the days when there were no penises but we’re reasonably sure he was in denial. My father says he grew up too poor to have a penis, citing genital deprivation. Says he couldn't afford a penis until he got his first job.
Sure thing, dad.
Scientists believe that the penis started out as a heat-sensing device, and not a tool of propagation, in our earliest ancestors. The theory is, were there a fire or an exceedingly hot mineral spring in the area, the tiny organ would alert its owner with a little twinge at its tip. The primate would then go scurrying off in the other direction. Even today we carry the genetic remnants of this reflex in our own much-evolved bodies. Want proof? Try this. Fill your bathtub with steaming hot water. Do not so much as look at the cold water spigot. Now, undress. Once naked, dip the tip of your penis (should you have one, no fair using someone else's) into the blistering bath water. Believe me, just like our ancient ancestors you too will go scurrying off in the other direction.
The earliest recorded history of the penis dates back to approximately 7000 B.C. In a deep cave near Hütsebergen, Norway, archaeologists found a cave painting that featured a crude rendering of a large penis with a bright red tip. Next to this phallus painting the archaic Norwegian exclamation "Och!" was scrawled. To the right of "Och!" was the likeness of a commonly occurring medicinal shrub of Scandinavia called the Üngenvøld. This plant was known to ancient Norsemen as a powerful anesthetic. Anthropologists who have studied the painting speculate that these cave dwellers of yore were trying to send a message; warning others of their kind that there were hot mineral springs in the area and that they had best be careful. Their alerted landsmen would, say it with me now, go scurrying off in the other direction.
The earliest recorded name given to the penis is "nichtpin" which comes from Middle Anglo-Saxon, meaning "night pine" or "nice pine" depending upon which Middle Anglo-Saxon scholar happens to be manning the phones at the Center for Anglo-Saxonism in Wallmuscle (pron. "walm´-sul") upon Phlegm, England. I called twice for verification and a lot of good that did me. As it appears, the Anglo-Saxons were just as fascinated by the penis as anyone else and held festivals in its honor.
Men of this hearty race would festoon their dingers with pine needles kept in place by a mixture of sticky tree sap and whatever other sticky stuff they had lying around the hut. They then paired off and from a distance of 30 cubits, (about 45 feet) and would run towards each other using their pine-needled penises as the crudest of lances. I mean, these guys were TOUGH.
Following a series of elimination rounds, the "winner" was allowed to take the village virgin as his prize. What he did with her after all that thrusting and bumping with the pine needles and the blood and the sap and other sticky stuff is anybody's guess. What IS known is that this custom led to the medieval sport of jousting; at least, this is what the first scholar I spoke with told me. The other scholar said it was all a bunch of hooey.
Since then it's been straight downhill. The Bible chronicles our earliest accounts of begetting and begatting and all attendant penis-related conflicts. Ensuing empires rose and fell at the fickle tip of our most personal plenipotentiary. When you stop and think about it, the very boulevard of human history has been paved in the residue of an appendage so capricious, it hardly knows whether it's coming or going.
I’ve lived in this neighborhood, off and on, for several years. I’ve seen it change, I’ve seen it remain the same for a while and then change again. It just does its thing. I try to remain a good citizen (a good neighbor) and do my very best to ensure that, Rodney King-like, “…we all just get along.”
I would say this is one of L.A.’s most integrated neighborhoods. Every day when I head out for walks with my dog I see Asians of every stripe, Black folk, Latino families and plenty of people who look closer to the way I do, from tan to pink to alabaster white. I like it here. We’ve also some of the best restaurants in the city within three blocks of my place, including a new vegan place, a nice, gentle breeze from the ocean, some interesting architecture and a very central location. These elements conspire to make the area just a fine place to live. Nothing fancy, mind you, but fine.
There’s a very nice lady around the corner from me whose sole (soul?) purpose in life is to pick up after people who’ve littered. As a result, this block is amongst the better maintained in the city. Every day, from dawn to dusk, she’s out there with her broom, a bag or whatnot, doing battle with the ever-propagating garbage; picking up cigarette butts, discarded bags, papers, what have you. I saw her out last night with a market basket full of stuff around 10 o’clock after having seen her on our very first walk of the day around 7 AM. She’s amazing.
There are some elderly ladies who can barely walk that go around and feed the feral cats in the neighborhood. I have one living under my building (a cat, not an elderly lady). For some reason, the ladies call him Jeffrey. Bella, the 3 leggéd female who used to live under the building with Jeffrey died recently of some odd scaly skin infestation. Poor thing. We could not catch her to take her to the vet. These are cats I took in to get spayed and neutered after a grueling week of attempting to capture them in humane traps. I felt terrible about it afterwards (not to mention feeling just plain terrible due to the fact that I’m pretty allergic to that sort of pussy) but someone had complained and the City demanded it or they were to be destroyed. Fucking City. Now they want my dog’s balls, citing that ridiculous new ordinance. Gook luck ripping out my dog’s ghoulies, L.A.
Some rather odd stuff happens here too. This morning, for example, I was hit by a falling pinecone. Now, I’m sure pinecones are falling all over town and, indeed, all over temperate parts of the world. I have been through 4 decades + of life and never been hit by a falling pinecone, here or elsewhere. I’m telling you, it’s the neighborhood.
Last week my TV up and died. I was thinking about buying a new one and then thought “Why?” as I do not watch that much TV. Every once in a while though, I DO like to fire up the ol’ xBox and kill some aliens. Fucking aliens. So I thought “Gee, I think I want a new TV set.” That was in the 3300 bock. As I walked south, in the 3400 block, there it was: a large, perfectly fine Panasonic TV and remote, on the curb, with a note on it that read “Works well!” I’d toyed with the thought of removing the note as the taking away of a TV with no note certifying good working order can prove a very chancy enterprise, indeed, but I figured I was spitting distance from my home and who’s going to take the TV in 5 minutes? I raced back to my place with my dog (I’m in the 3500 block) deposited him in the apartment, ran to my car and drove the half block back to the TV. Two gentlemen, one tall one not-so-tall, were already standing there and eying it. Fucking gentlemen. I did not wish to cause a “But I saw it first!” scene, so I sat in my car and waited to see what they would do. Sure enough, a few minutes later, they were carrying MY TV across the street, I didn’t stick around to see where they took it. I then drove to Trader Joe’s thinking “Easy come, easy go.” The aliens, it seemed, would enjoy a reprieve.
So, I’m driving back from T.J.’s and who do I see at the bus stop but these two same guys. They were waiting, as is the custom of people waiting at bus stops, for a bus. The TV was nowhere in sight and I reckoned they’d hid it somewhere near where they’d found it. Heeding not the fragility of my perishables, I drove back to the environs and poked around a bit. Didn’t find it. Damn. Thought I’d get lucky.
So a few days go by and I’m walking my dog near the original scene of the crime and there’s the GD TV! It’s on a lawn across the street from where I’d seen it originally. NOW there’s a note on it that says “$25, please call…” and then the number. Fucking 25 dollars. I was in a quandary. What should I do? This was a free TV from the get go and, by all rights MINE, and these two gentlemen (ostensibly) are now selling it. Ugh. Well, my conscience always seems to get the best of me and I figure I’ll feel like a common thief every time I’m killing the aliens if I just run off with the set. I called the number and left a message, telling the whole story about how I’d seen it and the fucking gentlemen and all and, on principle, telling the voicemail thingie that if they do not secure a buyer for this amazingly wonderful TV set, they should call me and I would be happy to come and take it off their hands for free.
I get no call back until two days ago (several days after my voicemail message) when some lady calls and says someone at my number had phoned about a TV she knew nothing of, then advising me to recheck the number. Fucking way-too-late-calling-back lady.
The upshot is, I was walking by the same area today, there was the TV, the note had faded and indicated absolutely nothing but I took it off anyway. I, once again, deposited the dog in my place, ran to my car, drove to the site and you are now reading the words of a very happy 22-inch Panasonic TV owner. The remote wasn’t there but what the fuck? This TV, I am convinced, was meant to be mine from the very beginning.
There’s an EXTREMELY dangerous intersection a few blocks up from me. I actually saw a hit and run there, last year, but sensed something much worse might happen in the near future if something weren’t done about it. People speed, you see, from a rather wide and open road into a very narrow street, probably because the freeway offramp is just a block or so up from there and their recent trip had accustomed them to driving way too fast for the newly-residential circumstances. I called the (fucking) City to report the awful situation and they referred me to my district congressperson. I lodged a complaint with that office. A few weeks later, no shit, there are construction crews at the intersection. I asked one of the guys what they were putting in and he told me they were fitting the intersection with traffic lights. Good gawd I was happy! It takes these guys about a month to install the lights. Better late then never. That was about a month and a half ago. YESTERDAY the lights were finally turned on. I, to myself, said “My job is done here,” and thought if I died then and there, my life’s purpose would have been fulfilled as, perhaps, the life of some Asian, Black or Latino child might have been saved and they would grow up to become a latter-day Mohandas Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr. or George Lopez.
Lord how strangely this world worketh.
Finally (and isn’t that a great word when things ramble on WAY too long?) we come to the matter of this neighborhood’s progressive leanings. I see a LOT more Obama signs and bumper stickers in this area than I do those of Mr. McCain. As an interpolative indication, and you will kindly indulge and oblige me here, I figger we’re in a bastion of Democratic sympathy. This is why I found the following so incredibly amusing, perhaps even poetic. I was, as I do 4 or 5 times a day, out with Mr. Dog when I see a bunch of tiny flags on the lawns up and down the block. They were just sticking up, coming out of (what looked like) nowhere. As we ventured closer I saw that these little flag thingies had been stuck in dog droppings. One awful feature of this neighborhood is that very few people have caught on to the notion of “clean up after your dog.” Anyway, there’s no dearth of poo, sometimes, on our neighborhood’s lawns but, ah! someone figured out something absolutely brilliant to do with these testaments to afore-ingested Alpo. Please click on and view the attached blog photo for the punchline.
I will leave you here for now. Please feel free to come by and visit my neighborhood some time.
Don't kill me with misogynist allegations. This is the way guys talk. I'll tell you what happens after the scene which makes everything, well, it makes sense.
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INT. AVERSON KITCHEN MORNING
In a pleasant home on L.A.’s west side.
DAVID AVERSON, mid-thirties and beginning to develop a slight paunch, is on the phone. He’s nervous and pacing.
DAVID Dude. I’m freakin’!
SCREEN SPLITS to accommodate ROGER GEDDES, tall, bean-pole skinny and David’s age - in his kitchen.
ROGER What up?
DAVID Hold on a second. Let me…
David places the phone down, runs to the bottom of a stairwell, listens for a moment, then runs back to the kitchen.
DAVID (cont’d.) Like I said, I’m freakin’!
ROGER Like I said. What up?
DAVID Well, Rebecca hired a, you know, one of those mobile maid services? The place is a fucking mess and…
ROGER I know.
DAVID Know what?
ROGER That your place is a mess. I was there yesterday, remember? I love you. I love your wife. You’re both slobs.
(CONTINUED) DAVID Yeah, yeah. So she hires this service, Merry Maid or Minute Maid or…
ROGER Millie Maid?
DAVID Yeah, that’s it! Wait, stop interrupting me!
ROGER Just want you should get your maid services straight. Everybody uses them. They suck.
DAVID Okay! Well, so, Rebecca went out about an hour ago and the maid just got here and I’m fuckin’ freakin’!
ROGER What is it?
DAVID She’s hot!
ROGER Yeah? So?
DAVID So she comes in the door and she, like, looks up at me with these humongous brown eyes, she’s kinda Mestizo looking and right off the boat or whatever, and she looks up at me all innocent and all and I mean, this girl is fucking gorgeous…
ROGER Yeah?
DAVID …yeah, about twenty-three, maybe, hair like black cornsilk and what a body!
ROGER Okay, so why don’t you fuck her?
(CONTINUED) DAVID Shut up, dude! It gets better! So, I was just looking around for my goddamn Philips head that I can never find because this place is such a fucking pigsty and I head upstairs to the TV room.
ROGER TV room?
DAVID Yeah, you know, at the top of the stairs where the TV is.
ROGER TV room?
DAVID Come on, man. It’s, like, the only remaining vestige of when all my friends were black.
ROGER We white folks be callin’ that room the ‘den.’
DAVID Whatever. So, I go up there looking for the fucking screwdriver and I’m turning the corner, and I look down the hall, and there’s the maid, right? The TV set is on…
ROGER (interrupts, kidding him) You mean in the TV room?
DAVID Stop it! So, the TV’s on and, I don’t know, it’s got some fucking soap opera or something on and she’s watching it and…
ROGER (interrupts) Wait. You’re paying someone to watch TV… in the TV room?
A toaster POPS in Roger’s kitchen. (CONTINUED) He pulls a freshly toasted bagel out and begins to slather it, meticulously, with peanut butter and jam.
DAVID Fuck you, dude! Will you let me finish? So, she’s in front of the TV, right? She’s got one leg up on the couch and she’s got her skirts, that’s right, skirts, like she’s gonna smuggle chickens or something, she’s got all these skirts hiked up and…
ROGER (interrupts, chewing) Chickens?
DAVID …and, you are not going to believe this…
ROGER She laid an egg… in the TV room?
DAVID No, I’m like shaking here. Check it out. She’s got the middle finger of her right hand shoved all the way up her butthole…
Roger (CONTINUOUS) begins to choke on his bagel, runs to refrigerator for some juice, begins drinking.
DAVID (cont’d.) …and, I’m not sure of this because she was facing the TV and looking away from me, but I think she was jerking herself off with the other hand!
ROGER Christ, Dave, you mighta stopped at ‘butthole.’
DAVID I swear. She’s grinding and moaning up there and, oh, dude, I’m a fucking mess!
(CONTINUED)
ROGER (deadpan) I’ll be right over.
DAVID No! No! Stay the hell away! Wait, can you hear her? Can you hear that?
The SOUND of a woman’s MOANS is barely audible through the phone.
ROGER Wait. You’re not making this up?
DAVID Nope.
ROGER Holy Christ, dude. What are you gonna do?
DAVID I don’t know! I’ve never heard of anything like this before.
ROGER Why not head up there trousers down and tackle out and see what happens? I won’t tell!
DAVID Well, I don’t want to scare her or anything…
ROGER Dude, we used to shower together in high school. You’re not gonna scare anybody.
DAVID No, I mean, and fuck you, I mean I don’t want her to think that all Americans are, like, perverts or something.
ROGER Hey, numbnuts, let’s examine the situation here, shall we? And make no mistake, this is a situation.
(CONTINUED) ROGER (cont’d.) You’ve got a gorgeous service professional whose never been in your home before in your fucking TV room or den or whatever and she’s got her fingers shoved into every available below-the-equator orifice and she’s trying to get herself off, right?
DAVID Yeah, I guess.
ROGER And she’s jacking off and there are chickens flying everywhere, right?
DAVID Yeah, I… I mean, no!
ROGER And you’re worried that she’s going to think you’re a fucking pervert? I say, go up there, your miniature tubesteak firmly in hand, and ask her if she needs some fucking help putting the fire out!
DAVID Dude, she doesn’t even speak English I don’t think!
ROGER Hold on.
Roger walks to a nearby counter and begins typing on his laptop as David vamps nervously…
DAVID What are you doing?
ROGER Okay, say this: “Yo…”
DAVID Huh?
ROGER Say this, “Yo…”
(CONTINUED) DAVID Yo?
ROGER No, I mean you say this to her. “Yo…”
DAVID Yo…
ROGER “Soy…”
DAVID Soy…
ROGER “Muy…”
DAVID Muy…
ROGER Uh, “hornitos.”
DAVID Hornitos? Isn’t that, like, a tequila?
ROGER Babel Fish doesn’t have the Spanish translation for “horny.” Just say “hornitos.” She’ll understand.
DAVID Fuck you.
CUT TO:
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Turns out the housekeeper has been forced to run drugs for the Panamanian Mob and prssured into concealing a few ounces of of contraband in her lady's parts. David winds up taking her to the hospital, they become friends and, eventually (though haplessly) bring the evil brigands to justice. Yay, justice!
This will not be easy and I have never written about it. It was 1994. I'd left L.A. after the earthquake due to all those 5.5 aftershocks (nature's own peculiar form of terrorism) and flown to Marin County - yeah, great place to go to get away from earthquakes, Andy. I took a unit in the lower floors of an immense A-frame in a small hamlet called Woodacre, 250 people, a post office and a small store. There was a woman living in the unit next to me who called down aliens, but this is another story for another time. I figured I'd give myself 6 months up there. My purpose was to write and illustrate a book, compose some songs and bother people in Silicon Valley with an invention idea I had. My father had somehow insinuated himself into the invention part and had insisted he come up to the Bay Area to help me in my dealings with the tech companies. I'd scheduled a meeting in the San Jose Area and we met with a company that, ostensibly, might be able to manufacture the chip required to run the device. The meeting did not go well (the chips were still far too expensive at the time) so we decided to enjoy a nice weekend up in San Francisco. That night I met Dad in Chinatown at Sam Wo. We had a great dinner, during which he perked me up with a "We'll get 'em next time" pep talk. We decided to walk up Grant Street to check out all the $1 shoes and fans and red silk jackets and stuff. I'm not sure exactly what happened before a certain point, but I know what happened after. It's seared into my mind's eye. I was in a small shop, looking at the merchandise, when I saw my father, all 6'6" and 250 lbs. of him, backing up and yelling at someone as yet unseen. Now, my father was never one to back down from a confrontation. His size, a Coney Island upbringing, and a natural in-your-face attitude had always helped in this regard, so when I saw him in retreat I thought "Whoa..." and I ran out to help. He was still backing up and shouting when I burst out of the shop door. I looked in the direction of which he was slinging the foulest language (I'd never heard my father speak this way) and saw a bunch of people, mostly Chinese scurrying about and not paying any attention. Then my eye caught something very strange: Some fifty feet away stood a woman, MAYBE she was 5 feet tall, skinny, dark, like Asian dark, standing in a pink outfit (short jacket and skirt, think early Jackie Kennedy) and a pillbox hat. She stood there, looking like she'd just come from church, not moving, clutching her little pink purse before her midriff with both hands. The image was perfectly symmetrical. As my father moved back, she came forward, a few steps at a time, then stopping. As she grew closer to my position - my father now screaming at the top of his lungs at this woman but still in retreat - I saw that she was moving her lips, her eyes intently fixed on my dad. I could not hear what she was saying, but the buzz racing up my spine indicated these were not pleasantries. I ran to my father to see what had happened but he was still too much in wounded pit bull mode and continued to swear, just the nastiest things, at this woman whose inexorable advance had not abated. Not knowing what the situation was, and sensing my father was under some kind of attack, I told him to move ahead, turned around, and stood there facing this... person. I was not going to let this woman pass. She continued her forward motion for a bit, then stopped, but continued to look past me at my father, now across California Street, and mutter her imprecations. I never was close enough to her to hear what she was saying. She was motionless, other than her mouth. The fact that I was not going to move was made clear to her as I puffed my energy up. I'd met shit like this before. We stood there for a bit, a clear standoff. Had she tried to pass I would have physically resisted her. Dad, by this time, was walking up the hill on California. I got the sense that the woman had stopped her forward advance, aggressively so, anyway, so I tripped across the street to ask him what had gone on. He was, pretty much, gasping for air as he made his way up the slope on California. We walked up one side of the street and she followed up the other. I really did not know what to do other than suggest we turn off and walk down Stockton, back towards his hotel. I stood at the top of Stockton and California for a good long while, making sure the woman did not cross the street. She stood at the corner opposite. I walked down the hill on Stockton, looking back and making sure she had not crossed over. My father would never talk about the incident. Not long after he was diagnosed with and later died of a rare form of lung cancer. I cannot help but imagine the disease and this experience were somehow related.
Really, now. Does this (see photo) look like the face of the hopelessly "Ass Obsessed?"
It all started innocently enough. My boy got into the garbage and ate 2-day old London Broil. He's never done that before. I'm not sure I've ever left scraps so long, but this was the perfect storm of confluent elements that caused him an amazingly violent bout with the stomach pixies (the bad ones) provoking the gurgly then icky equal of which I have never seen before - and I have known many a gurglick dog.
Nothing was issuing forth from his front end, mind you, it was all taking place in the unloading dock; where ALL the sparks were flying. And fly they did. He was absolutely MISERABLE. This is one tough dog but he howled like a she-wolf every time he went and, believe me, he was goin' quite a bit there.
Now...
He's a very sweet and loving mutt as well and fastidious - like Felix Unger fastidious. He's not the type to roll in filth and then smile at you stupidly for being so, w adorable stupid. Not this one. If he drops even the tiniest morsel of food or anything, he's always sure to eat it up before someone can step on it or before it corrodes of it's own foodly accord. I try to do my best to keep him clean; the pool, showers, etc., and he loves it.
Well, this battle of the runs was really messy and, as he has these very large tufts of jodhpur-like fur lining the back of his legs - not to mention an extremely fluffy tail. It was only natural that SOME of what he was experiencing was NOT making its way lawnward, if ya know what I mean. It wasn't that he was getting all full of the stuff but there WERE some remnants. Just a hint of matter but a hint nonetheless: little doggie wastely mementos never in evidence when his pipes are up and running properly.
So I get this big idea that I will WASH him, in that sensitive area, after each mess of an experience. He spends half his time in the empty bathtub anyway - he loves it in there for some reason. So, I'm washing him off for the few days he's sick (we eventually went to the vet who fixed him right up) and he's loving the getting-clean-after-the-looseness thang and all. The upshot is, now that his insides are functioning properly, he STILL wants his ass washed... like after EVERY WALK!
The VERY first thing he does when we run in the house after a walk is head straight for the tub, no stopping at the kitchen for a cookie as was his former custom, no water, no NOTHING. He jumps in merrily, licking at the spigot if it's leaking just a bit, as if to get the faucet IN THE MOOD for crissake, only to turn around, "ASSume the position," if you will (or even if you won't) and wait there for his papa to "scrub away."
What's an ass obsessed dog's owner to do? This is serious. Yes, I adore him, but I'm starting to think that doggie therapy's in order or maybe I should match him up with some equally ass obsessed female dog or whatever, so they can, like, do their own doggie-ass-obsession thing. This is really getting to me, I tell ya. I mean, it's not the washing that bothers me so much. It's not the "Dry the Doggie" dance we do post-wash either. It's just that I'm, well, I'm a little "concerned." Wouldn't you be? Maybe its AO-anon for me.
"Hello. My name is Andrew and I have an ass obsessed dog."
Hmmmm. How about drinks. Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate? Warm Drambuie? Tepid rooibos? It's really about who you're hanging with, not the surroundings. I have a friend, a good friend, who learned this the hard way. He was chatting with someone online for weeks. Even after long telephone conversations, she would not send him her picture, promising he would "not be disappointed." He arranged to meet her for a late lunch at a very upscale restaurant, so fervent was his desire to impress this mysterious lass. She was "the one," he cried as I cautioned him - hourly. He asked me what I would do, hearing my every-60-minute caveats. I told him "drinks or coffee," employing the logic that two people, if they like one another, might elect to continue their shared experience, grabbing a bite or whatever, post libation. He chose not to heed my (what turned out to be) sage words and agreed to meet Princess Charming at the aforementioned palace du foodeau. He was early to the restaurant and, sitting before a street-vantage window, he glanced out, eagerly anticipating the arrival of his as-yet-unmet-beloved. Fifteen minutes pass and she's not there; the waiter's impatient heels rising off the floor, rhythmically, hands behind his back, as my buddy vamped, a little embarrassed. The upshot is, 30 minutes after their scheduled meet, he espied what he described as "a small planet - in a muu muu" lumbering down the sidewalk across the street; "the Death Star in rayon," stepping gingerly, and with some trepidation, off the curb and heading directly towards the place's entrance. "Oh, no..." under his breath. He estimated this woman's heft at not less than 400 lbs., which wasn't nearly the worst of it as he's fond of "a few extra pounds" on a woman. But THIS? Sure enough, Princess Alarming, who rocked the light standards as she entered, made a b-line for the table upon entering - he'd sent HIS photo. He said, during their meal (for he pressed forward, not being a cad) that she was the most objectionable person with whom he'd ever eaten - and he'd dined with some pretty objectionable people, let me tell you; ripping, snorting, and, quite literally, grabbing things off the trays as busboys walked by - and eating them. I kid you/he kidded me not. Apocryphal? Who knows. It's just to illustrate a point. Drinks...
In a completely unrelated tributary of thought I must detail for you another rather unusual experience. I was walking with my beloved Jules, as is our wont, some 5 times daily, when he (first) espied an unfortunate squirrel who'd gotten its head stuck in one of those rather ubiquitous Yoplait containers. Here was this cute little squirrel in what amounted to a quite fashionable Yoplait helmet, flailing this way and that in, ostensibly - for who knows what goes on in the mind of our little Sciuridaen friends? - an attempt to get the damn thing to pop off. This helmeted, fluff-tailed creature was in the gutter and, because he could not see, kept bumping into the curb. He wasn't really going anywhere and I feared for his long-term well-being. What to do? Well, Jules (my dog) had never been so close to a squirrel before and I wondered how he was going to act as I resourcefully attempted to resolve the sitchumation. My past relationships: True to form, he was a true gentleman, er, gentledog, um, you know, and very well-behaved during the incident. I got close enough to the squirrel to see that his little rodenty ears were not visible and I wondered if he might be having trouble breathing and/or getting high from the Creamy Pineapple Cheesecake residue. This situation had to be addressed quickly... another job for SUPERSQUIRRELSAVERGUY!!! So, Super Squirrel Saver Guy, his trusty sidekick, Rodent Boy, at his side, nudges the container with his boot to assess how firmly affixed this very hip-looking container might be. It seemed "movable," so I nudged it a little more and a pair of tiny ears became visible! I did not want to pick the mini-beast up as I though he might lash out in fear (you KNOW those squirrels can be real berserkers…) so I nudged the container, obliquely and away from his head once more, this time with more force and – voila! – off pops the damnéd headgear. You have never seen a squirrel jet more quickly; up a tree in the time it takes to say "Bullwinkle." I crushed the container, not wanting another of his kin stick its head into the same ill fate and I not be there to kick the frickin' thing off) and Jules and I sauntered off, yet another squirrely situation satisfactorily resolved.
Here's a old profile I made up and posted when I was bored.
Sorry. Couldn't help myself.
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Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeee!
I'm a scrunchy, munchy, bunny-hugging little weebie-cherub. People have called me the fluffiest snugglepuff in the whole of Toyland! I like to take long walks on the beach, drink Hawaiian punchy kinda stuff, give back (and foot!) rubs, cuddle and smooch, smooch, smooch! I do not watch any sports or drink beer of any kind except for root. My personal philosophy in life is: "Dance like no one is eating - Wash like no one is flossing” and, oh, I always forget the rest.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. I'm looking for a little “hawt pocket” (is that too randy/racy? sorry!!!) who I can call my little woogle-buns. Someone I can learn and grow from and with and take long trips up the coast with so we can talk about, gosh, who knows what! Douches, conditioner - I'm up for just about ANYthing! I'm always reasonably well-groomed, I have a wonderful job and get along with my co-workers - except for Eddie, my manager, who looks at me kinda "funny." You will just LOVE my antique cow collection. Everybody does! My favorite shows are "Friends" (I think Rachel is SOOOOO kewwwt!) and "Judge Judy" when I'm a little grumpy. Just kidding - I'm NEVER grumpy! I don't eat sushi (yucky-poo!) 'cause I think everything should be cooked, like, BEFORE you eat it? Can you hear me, Japan people?!! I like to bake and clean and my apartment is humble but it's comfy as a lamb's tummtumm. Oh, I pray to the wood pixies that you'll contact me… and soon! My Irritable Bowel Syndrome is acting up and I could use some company. Double pretty please? Your feet (and back) will thank you!
What kinda girliekins is I am lookin’ for?
I'm looking for a cute little wondermuff (is that too randy/racy? double sorry!!!) in her mid-20s to mid-70s. Someone who makes my tum-tum go all jiggly-buckets! You're clean and always pressed (your clothes, silly, not for time!) and you like guys who just LOVE to nibble on neck napes! You share the same values as me/I do: industriousness, cleanliness, being nice to animalness, et ceteraness. You want to have a LONG-LASTING relationship with someone. I am NOT one of those booger-bears who's into one-night stands. Not even TWO-night stands! MAYbe a three-night stand (is that too randy/racy? triple, well - you know.) You have nice, sensible shoes that keep your plates of meat (that's cockney for "feet!") grinning from pinkle to pinkle and a smile that could light up, well, the darkest place YOU can think of, just like I do/have. You're not afraid to try new and dangerous things like really big roller coaster rides or feeding birds out of your BARE HANDS (eww!) and you think boy bands are the way cooooolest and 'fly.' "Yay, Justin!" "Boo, Britney!" The Boys (that's BACK STREET not the other thing!) are 'da bomb' too, but not O Town. O Town is just a bunch of boy band wallabies. You just be you and I'll just be me and let's just be see what be happens. And remember - no be sushi!
As far as the future, it’s an ideal relationship is what I’s wantin’ to have… (with you!) and it goes something like this: He - that's me - gives you a morning massage (back AND one foot of your choice) to get you ready for your busy day. Fixes you breakfast and kisses you before you head off for "the ol' rat race" as I like to call it. Calls you on your cell on your way to work to tell you how much he misses you (already!) Calls you when you get to work to let you know how cute the hamsters are snuggling! Has lunch and thinks of you THE WHOLE TIME. Calls you after lunch to tell you how mean Dr. Laura is being (but he can't stop listening!). 2-5, lull time. 5 PM call to your cell to tell you he loves you, again and again and again and again and that you're his little "snuggle buns" and that you'll always be his special "lamster;" that's half lamb, half hamster - the best kind! Wait. Maybe lamster should have a "b" in it like "lambster." Naw, that looks like "lobster" and they're not very snuggly! Oh, well, let's meet for a beer (the root kind, regular beer loosens my lower bowel) and we can figure out the OFFICIAL spelling together! 5:30 PM, heads off for the night shift at the Home Depot (pron. "Home de pot," hee hee!). Mixes paint, gets funny looks from Eddie, and answers silly customer questions about latex (no, not THAT kind!) and semi-gloss and eggshell until 2 (yawnareeno) AM. Comes home, kisses you while you sleep (even on the upper calf!) wakes up at 7AM and does it all over again, only massaging the other foot this time. Can't wait 'til da weekend! That's when we don't have to go to work and the rubbin' can last ALL DAY LONG! That is, of course, unless Eddie calls and says I have to work because Armando has that bad rash AGAIN. Ugh. But maybe we can take the phone off the hook! That'll sure show Eddie!
Near future? Well, perfect dates are kinda hard to come by (is that too - you know -) but our perfect first date would probably end with a warm, scrunchy bearhug and the promise of back (and foot!) rubs yet to come. I think that, also, if we could talk about good books, like the Chronicles of Narnia or Harry Potter and/or stuff, that would be nice also/too. I mean, we could go to a park and hide from kids or play Twister in my 'crib' or spend time in a veterinary waiting room and comfort shakey pooches. It doesn't matter where we go or are, just so long as our hearts are 'thumpity-thlumping' like crazy! As George 'Dubya' always says, "The company is more important than the environment." Ha ha! He didn't really say that - not to me, anyway. But just remember, NO SUSHI! NOTE TO POTENTIAL SNUGGLERS!: I finally had one of my co-workers shoot a picture of me and then we put this neato background on it 'cuz there were a lot of paint cans and tarps behind me in the original. Whaddaya think? I know, my lip looks kinda funkie munkie (no, it is NOT herpes/the LOVE bug!) I'd just got hit in the mouth with a can of Sherman Williams Antique White 'cuz Mr. Look-at-me-funny (that's Eddie, duh!) wasn't watching what he was doing. Eddie, will you PLEASE accept that transfer to lighting? Me and Ricardo and Eusebio and Armando and Rosario and Pedro and Roberto and Oswaldo and Paco and Mario and Wilfredo and Antonio and Dagoberto and Blackie would REALLY appreciate it.
And finals-ly, what have I learned from past relationships? That dropping a dump truck load (even a little one!) on a girl's tummykins while she's asleep is not appreciated by SOME people. Come on - Lighten up!
Aug 23, 2008 11:49 am
Mood: adventurous,
2984 Views
Burnt Pot and a Poo Grid
What a week. My mom went to Northern California for a friend's wedding, so I told her I would stay at her posh digs and take care of her dog.
Ouch.
Now, I do not mind hanging at her place, as her dog and my dog are great friends, it's über comfortable there and I'm happy to help her out. My question is Why should such munificence of spirit bring near disaster?
She left on Wednesday. I had not really gotten any sleep in the preceding days and there promised to be five more days of slumberus interruptus as I NEVER sleep well at her house. We have a synagogue up the hill from us and the entire Jewish population of Beverly Hills walks by early each morning. The dogs see the Jews and bark. And bark. And bark. These are not anti-Semitic dogs, mind you, they just bark at everyone, in a mostly friendly "how do you do?" manner, and it's mostly Jews who happen to pass by. Consistent barking after 6:30 AM is NOT, I have noticed, a condition conducive to restful sleep.
So I'm all sleep deprived on Wednesday night.
I'd heated up some leftovers from Lawry's Christmas dinner (yum!) and made a fresh chicken breast. I tore my way with gusto through most of the Lawry's stuff and by the time I got to the chicken, I'd decided to take a break, leaving everything on the table in a large Pyrex heat-stuff-up pan-thingie. By this point, there was still a little bit of the prime rib, some creamed spinach and corn, the aforementioned chicken and some great bread left. I took my dog out for his last walk of the night. We had a nice walk, during which I allowed him to roam whither he would, and we returned close to an hour later...
...to a completely shocking scene.
There was NOTHING left in the pan. Nothing. My mother's dog, a black, older retriever mix, like a thief in the night, had purloined and ingested everything I'd left in the pan.
Now, if you know anything about dogs, you know that just about the worst thing you can feed them - after chocolate - is cooked chicken bones. Not being a Neanderthal, I had, indeed, cooked the chicken. The bad thing about when a dog eats chicken bones is that there's a 72-hour "wait and see" period, wherein any one of a number of systemic disasters may occur. Firstly, and non-applicable to this situation, the bones can get stuck in the dog's throat, causing breathing obstruction and a little doggie Heimlich maneuver usually will not work in this instance. As I'd returned to find her, her name is Annie, with nothing more than a slightly guilty look on her face, we were past that hurdle. After clearing the trachea, the bones the travel down the alimentary canal, first stop the stomach, where they can rip up stomach lining and you've got a shredded stomach on your hands. Then there's all the post-stomach plumbing that can get torn up and finally, if the bones make it that far, you have the possible obstruction of the rear aperture. Bad. Very bad.
I called the vet and learned all this in a 90-second conversation with her. She told me best thing was to feed Annie a lot of bread (the theory here is that the bread encases the sharp edges of the bones) and give her a big meal to sort of push things through, then it's a 3-day waiting period, watching for blood from any orifice, straining at stool, crying or whimpering. Finally, you're home free.
So here I was with a ticking time bomb of a dog (my mother's most beloved) on my hands and a work deadline which necessitated my being at home as my mother, bless her kindly 17th century heart, does not have Internet access at her place. I spent the next 24 hours driving back and forth between my mom's and my place. What a pain, though I was monitoring the dog like a, well, like a very intense monitor person guy. On my last trip back to Mom's, I checked for a bloody stool in the backyard, so I took Annie out on the street to see if the bread and big meals might have done their job. Wouldn't you know, she squatted a few times but nothing came out. Something I'd refer to as "straining at stool."
Shit. I mean, NO shit.
It was I who was shitting at this point.
What to do?
Again, I took note of the fact that her customary poo-poo spot is the back yard where a basketball court floor is made up of concrete squares, not that we play basketball there anymore, and for good reason! So, before bed, I get the bright idea to grab a piece of paper and make a GRID of the squares, detailing, graphically, in each one, where a dropping had taken place. (See figures in photo album) I figured this would be the best way to determine whether or not she'd gone during the night. New droppings = sense of relief. No droppings = a trip to the vet. I sort of felt like Jane Goodall.
Next morning, "yipee!" there it was! A new dropping, nothing prodigious, but at least the pipeline was yet intact. Upon further inspection I noted (I was taking notes by this point) that her stool was blood-free. Whew! Bullet dodged, well, sort of, as there were still about 36 hours of concern left.
That night, taking it a little easier, I further monitored the situation, making sure I did not leave out ANY of my food, and how she got up so high on the table I will never know. I HAD left fresh-baked cookies on a very high counter, however, and, once again, when I came back from another nightwalk with my dog, they were gone, along with about half the aluminum foil that had formerly shielded them from the elements. There were crumbs everywhere. Damn. First the chicken, now the cookies, which had added insult to injury as I REALLY wanted those cookies for dessert. I DESERVED those cookies, damnit!
With a brief chastisement of our little thief, I went to sleep, a little uneasily, for the evening. I got up around four AM to check on the dogs who were sleeping side by side on the living room floor, rest their little hearts, and went back to bed. Woke up to the sound of Jews and barking around 6:45 AM and put a bit of rice on the stove for warming up purposes. I had turned the heat on maximum, figuring I would simply heat the rice for a few moments, turn it off and then leave it in the pot to stay warm, after which I'd combine it with chicken so my dog could have his morning breakfast - the chickenly part taking place after we returned from our walk. The PROBLEM was, I kinda got distracted after turning on the fire and taking the dog for a walk.
A half hour into our walk "Oh, My God!!" I cried aloud, realizing that I had not turned off the blazing flame. I RACED towards home, smelling smoke all the way down the block. I arrived to find the house fully involved in smoke, the chicken thief sitting, implacably in her easy chair as if nothing were the matter. I ran the dogs outside, barked my knuckles (can one bark ones knuckles?) while slamming a very large sliding door open, opened every conceivable window, and then returned to the pot (See figure in photo album ) which, of course, is (or was, I should say) my mother's favorite. Lord knows what kind of toxic fumes we'd all inhaled, what with the base of plastic top handle MELTING THROUGH, thank you, into the pot below, but we all "appear" fine for the short term.
To add insult to injury, I had to sit through "I Am Legend" at a Writers Guild screening that evening.
Had a rather telling experience not too long ago. I was invited to see an Einstein exhibit. Being something of a casual aficionado of The Quantum, I thought "Well, let's go see the father of all this stuff - or - at least its weird uncle," {--- automatically checking my thoughts, as there are esteemed physicists who would argue it was Messrs. Bohr and Planck who really started it all and I am polite, if not deferential, even in my musings. I, at the time, had a lot of stuff in the dryer and the elfin contingent within me cried, "Hey! Let's wear something fresh from the dryer!" I HIGHLY encourage you to always look VERY closely at the impulses of your more elfinish (elfish? elfinininish? ulfinish?) contingent as this heated-pants adventure turned out to be a not-so-good idea.
Owing to the fact that I was feeling extraordinarily sexy and, well... Here's a little background.
I've been exercising a lot lately and have lost about 10 pounds. Being an ectomorph, I cannot really afford to lose any more poundage. I'm about where I was, weight-wise, whilst in college. I have these great pants I love from Urban Outfitters. They'd fit me snugly since I bought them and had proved, empirically speaking, especially snug when taken fresh from the dryer. Anyway, Mr. Sexy here gets the big idea that he's gonna wear these two-legged bad boys - and wear them SANS underwear. I ALWAYS wear underwear under my pants. That's probably why the genius who invented them called them UNDER-PANTS. I think it's good judgment, a rule of thumb, as it were (and I betray NO secrets here as to my anatomical dimensions) to always don underwear, especially when your freshly baked pants feature a METAL BUTTON fly and not a ZIPPER. The upshot is, I put them on...
...and burn my wee-wee.
The frickin' third button down catching me square on la 'tete du phalle.'
Wait. It gets worse.
I go to pick up my Einstein experience partner and, sure enough, with the weight I've lost and the fact that there's no underwear between myself and my problematic pantalones, it is nothing but baby soft skin on hot cotton, baby, and they're starting to slide their way floorwards. Oh, man. I am also sleep deprived of late (contractor here and it's been 3 weeks) and, as a result I've completely forgotten to thread any sort of belt through the waistloops. My companion had no suitable belt at her place. I was thinking "Hmmm, a piece of rope, maybe?" though I did not relish the idea of looking, in any wise, like Jethro Bodine who, as you Bev. H-Billies fans will remember, threaded naught but jute through his loops. She DID have a man's jacket, though, which I asked to borrow as, at the very least, it would serve to cover the flesh between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my skidding trou. At the exhibit, you'd have laughed, knowing that I had my hands in my pockets and was wearing a heavy jacket on a 90-degree day, not as a convenience or in a furtive attempt at pocket poolery, but because they would have fallen straight to my ankles had I not done so. That was a VERY vigilant afternoon, indeed.
My pants, it seems, in their curious unpredictability, had become party to the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle - that's Bela Heisenberg, not Werner; the latter being a famed pioneer of particle physics, the former an obscure Hungarian tailor, living on the Pest side of Budapest who once said, "Always wear a belt - or you never know where your pants might wind up."
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