Running on the Sidewalk: Downhill Edition

Running on the Sidewalk: Downhill Edition

  1. Find a high hill within your neighborhood. Dead-ends work best. Make sure there is a sidewalk that goes up high enough you can’t see the houses at the top.
  2. Wear your best sneakers, preferably non-slip running shoes.
  3. Hike up the hill, or hitch a ride with the nearest car to drive by in that general direction.
  4. Study the road below, taking in the curvature near the end at the first crossroad.
  5. Start running.
  6. Jump over every block of concrete that has one of those small, metal rivets. It’s usually every third or fourth.
  7. Keep running.
  8. Push aside anyone walking in your path; you’ve got somewhere to go, and it’s important that you get there before they do.
  9. Keep on running. You’re almost there.
  10. Never mind the hard pounding of your feet. It’s only a natural side-effect of gravity and velocity.
  11. When you reach the cross roads, try to stop abruptly at the corner of the sidewalk. Grab hold of the stop sign if you can. If there is no stop sign, throw yourself on the ground. Remember, stop drop and roll is for more than just fires.

In the event that you fall forward, avoid placing your palms ahead of you. Tuck and roll, firmly pushing your knees to your chest. Studies have shown that those who fall on the sidewalk are ten-times more likely to avoid scars if they assume the fetal position.

Big Picture Show

There was once a time in my life where I cared about society’s problems. I felt a debate was worth it. And I should do my part and voice my opinion. However, through my twenties, I confirmed my suspicion that giving a shit about the big picture is a complete and utter waste of time.

I don’t care about drug use. I don’t care if athletes use steroids and their neck explodes. Not my mess to clean up. Feel free to legalize weed, crack, and meth. Not only will it bring us good entertainment on the morning news, it will let the species sort out the weak minded as they crash and burn harder and faster. If we want a real debate if evolution is real, I say, let’s witness it first-hand.

I don’t care about the privacy debate. If it means they get what they want, people will give information to the highest bidder or lowest cost alternative. Concerning Apple’s stance to refuse decryption of the iPhone of a dead terrorist: I don’t give a fuck. He’s dead. Justice has been served in the proper manner. He fought the law, and the law won. No further answers need to be.

The media and lawyers have convinced people that closure can only be achieved through a thorough understanding of the criminal mind. I don’t give a shit about the mind of a pedophile, a murderer, an arsonist, or anything else. In case you haven’t been tracking the news over the past thirty years, but this sad attempt at solving a bigger problem – preventing crime itself – is a complete waste of time. This attempt to understand, to know more, is worthless. Take a page from the old West: shoot first and ask questions later.

Adulthood: A 4th Grade Presentation

Hi, kids! It’s me, Uncle Carl from Carl’s Corner! That crevice where two walls meet where nobody else hangs out. Your teacher asked me to give you a presentation on the wonders of adult life today. If anyone needs to take a shit, now’s the time to do it.

Nobody? Good. I didn’t want to wait anyway.

Now sit there behind your state-issued, lifeless, cold desks with its inoffensive yellow smoothness, and plant your ass on the equally uncomfortable plastic chairs that will give you back problems for the rest of your lives. Uncle Carl is going to tell you what Mommy and Daddy do while you’re stuck here in this prison.

First, your parents told you this place would be fun. Sure, you believed them, when in kindergarten you ran around carelessly meeting friends, painting pictures, and drinking glue. Wasn’t that a special time of your life? I bet you miss it already. Now you’re frozen in line, quiet as a statue, studious and awaiting instructions, from an unbiased textbook written by some loser who couldn’t do anything meaningful with his knowledge.

For some of you, Daddy is at work, while Mommy is taking care of the home. She’s out shopping to buy you new clothes, cleaning up not only after you, but also your Dad. Picking up his beer cans, wiping his crumbs off the dinner table, because her drunk bastard of a husband never learned to eat with his mouth closed.

Don’t you just hate when your parents tell you how to eat? “Chew with your mouth closed!” What’s mom afraid of, having her son emulate his father? She’s already repulsed by one man, the last thing she wants is to see a miniature one, like a midget in a bad holiday movie. Chew with your mouth closed, kids. It just might get you laid.

The rest of you probably have a Mommy who does all the work. Daddy doesn’t have a job. When you get home, I bet the house looks like shit. Clothes and dishes are everywhere, and both mom and dad are too tired from work to clean. Except Daddy isn’t the one who’s really tired; he just acts that way because he wants people to feel sorry for his lazy ass.

Kids, your Mommy’s the real victim here.

You little girls here will learn one day how much men shit on women. You’ll be expected to have a career, be a full time mother, and still pick up the shit stained underwear mysteriously left in the halls of your once beautiful home. On top of that, you’re expected to have a perky attitude about all your contributions, unless you want to be called an ugly cunt.

There’s a word you girls will come to love: contribution. You’re expected not only to be the family mediator, while Daddy’s hot temper gets his fist within swinging distance of Mommy’s tits, others in your neighborhood will expect you to get involved in community activities, unless you want to be judged as a crazy old maid who hates everyone.

Boys, get an education, because these independent, career-minded women won’t deal with picking up after your shit for long. They’ll earn their own money, because in today’s world, women don’t have to submit to being beaten in the middle of dinner because they forgot to pay the electric bill. You know, between making lunch for everyone in the family, dressing the kids, and the father, then cleaning up that orange juice that just won’t come off the table, and somehow making it to work on time, where she’ll have to blow her boss just to keep her job.

Did I mention Mommy works harder than Daddy, and Daddy complains more than Mommy? I hope you boys learn who the real bitch in the relationship is, because I can tell you right now, she doesn’t have a pair of tits and vagina.

How’s the cafeteria food around here? Judging by the burgeoning waistline of 40% of you, it must be pretty good. What are they feeding the other 60%, broccoli and that celery stick with peanut butter and raisins? That’s called ants on a log, a nutritious and delicious snack for people who, later in life, will suffer from insecurity and depression because they’re worried about their body image. Especially you women, who will have those thoughts beaten into you from men and other women who think they’re prettier than you.

I like to think they feed you kids right, but I know they don’t. When I was a kid, they started taking milk out of a carton, and putting it into a bag. A shitty little pouch you punched a straw into and squeezed the milk out, like squeezing a girl’s tits. Some of you will experience that some day, the rest of you boys will just lie about it.

Moving along, don’t they give you some salad, in those tiny cups, already soaked in ranch dressing? It’s not enough. Salad itself is not enough for a kid. They should just give you kids a whole head of lettuce and a bottle of Creamy Caesar from Ken’s Kitchen. Now that I take another glance at you buckets of lard, might want to make it Lite Creamy Caesar.

I can tell by the depressed look on some of you that you’ve been bullied. I got news for you: it never ends. The bullies continue to be assholes well into adult life. Not that you’d notice. There is no Disney movie miracle that plays out where the kid getting his ass kicked today becomes the hero tomorrow.

Bullies just learn new tricks. They like to disguise themselves today as masters of the art of finance, economics, business management, and running technology start-ups funded by their bully friend investors, who earned their money from laundering and bully tactics. Bully tactics, like suing your best friend for five-billion dollars and fifteen years in prison, just for sharing one too many MP3s of Hannah Montana.

Alright, I think it’s time I covered the topic of sex, my 4th-graded individuals. Sex is a three-letter word that sells anything, especially to idiots. Sex is an act of love, lust, and something insecure women do when they’re shit-faced drunk, and some of you will find this out in college. The rest of you will never know what it’s like to have sex with a girl under the age they have to lie about.

That last one doesn’t include you little ladies, as you’ll learn that society has little problem with girls experimenting with girls, and a severe hatred of guys experimenting with guys. Part of that male dominance and double standard you’ll encounter: lesbians are hot, fags should be beaten.

Don’t forget disease, children! When you get to high school, you’ll be reminded by your teachers about how having sex can make you sick, disgusting, and need to lay on a hospital gurney, gripping your balls as you scream out in agony, shouting, “Why did I fuck that whore!?”

One message after the other will be thrown your way that sex, and wanting sex, is a sin. A terrible thing that can get you in trouble, ruin your finances, and turn that prom queen girlfriend into an old hag overnight. Some of you will have the confidence to not give a shit and fuck each other anyway; some of you will be so afraid that you’ll wait until you get drunk in college to wake up and find out you won’t remember your first time; still, others will fuck and fondle themselves, to the world’s freest source of sexual stimulation, the Internet.

Speaking of things that give you bad information, I have one final lesson to prepare you for the adult world: you will endure for the next eight years one terrible message after the other, rooted in a neurotic hatred of life from teachers, parents, and other authority figures.

You’ll be told you’re being prepared for the real world. That knowing the middle name of the sixth President of the United States, and who his favorite midnight mistress was, would help you keep that shitty job as a bar mitzvah clown.

You’ll be pressured to succeed, thereby pitting you against the fear of being impoverished. That if you don’t succeed, you’ll be a bum, wearing dirty clothes, getting drunk every night, and pissing on someone else’s lawn. Then again, a lot of you will be doing that in college anyway. The acts aren’t too far off from each other, just under different financial circumstances.

Most of you will be shown a dream of instant success, too. That tossing that cap and gown somehow guarantees you a job like your mom and dad’s. They didn’t tell you the truth, because they don’t want to kill your ambition, but Uncle Carl will: You’ll have to endure one shitty boss after the other. And the more you take it, the longer it will take you to be your own boss. Better get started now, because it’s a short road to complacency, and a long road to independence.

I hope I haven’t scared any of you little guys and gals from becoming an adult. Have a pleasant journey, and see you next year for 5th grade orientation, where I will introduce the wonders of a political landscape that has such a dramatic and meaningful presence in your otherwise insignificant lives.

32 Honest T-Shirt Slogans

Here’s a series of T-shirt slogans I came up with, that people should wear if they wanted to be honest:

  1. I’ll avert my eyes the other way as I pass you.
  2. I never learned how to fully lift my shoes when I walk.
  3. I’m all alone and I’m with stupid.
  4. I only wear this when I forget to do the laundry, which is every weekend.
  5. I don’t really “like big butts,” and I cannot lie: I just can’t do better.
  6. If you talk to me, I’ll be polite for three seconds, then I gotta get the hell outta here.
  7. Don’t even try. I’ve heard that line ten times today.
  8. I don’t remember why I liked this band in the first place.
  9. I’m a no-talent artist without skills, so I write messages like this on white shirts with colored sharpees.
  10. I don’t actually like “Game of Thrones,” but it gives me something better to talk about than my pocket chihuahua.
  11. If this were last night, I wouldn’t be walking a straight line.
  12. I don’t even know what “White Pride” means.
  13. Under these iPhone earbuds I’m actually listening to “Hannah Montana.”
  14. I’m more afraid to see my manboobs than you are.
  15. The only six-pack I’ve had on my chest is the one I stole from Wal-Mart and stuffed under this shirt.
  16. The only high school I attended was St. Mary Jane’s.
  17. You, me, and a bottle of Pepto Bismol equals the last night you let me cook for you.
  18. I’m as high as a kite! What’s a kite?
  19. I’m raging against the machine and it’s my piece of shit car.
  20. Beneath this tight shirt is a treasure trove of hot, sweaty, muscles covered in acne.
  21. I went rock climbing, in my Jeep, which is equipped with all the modern safety equipment known to man. Essentially, I was a p%#@y in a box.
  22. (Alcoholic): Open: Mon-Sat, Happy Hour – Blackout. Closed Sundays in observance of hangovers.
  23. Want to lift this shirt off my chest? Start with lifting away my self-consciousness. But since you’re too dumb to read when staring at my chest…
  24. I can’t pay my bills because I buy things I don’t need, like this shirt.
  25. Save the trees! Save the planet! Screw it, when it comes down to it, I’m saving myself!
  26. Sometimes I listen to songs with lyrics I don’t actually understand.
  27. The only thing I know about AC/DC is that it’s the name of a band. Now, where can I charge my iPhone?
  28. Beneath this shirt is a heart of gold, a chest of steel, and a set of ribs swimming in barbeque sauce.
  29. If I were a real cowboy, this shirt would be plaid, I’d have a real hat on, and both would smell like a farm, instead of AXE body spray.
  30. My boyfriend never lasts more than 15 minutes, but somehow he can endure hours of Grand Theft Auto.
  31. The words on this shirt are stretched because they have lasted me since grade school.
  32. Wouldn’t this shirt be difficult to read if I had a third arm?

You Should be in a Bad Relationship

In my glorious pursuit of love, people give me advice of their plethora of dating experience. According to these men about town, failed relationships and bad dates provide a steel barrier to deal with the tough shit of being in love. In order to get to the good stuff, you have to sloth through the shitty gritty.

Worse words would have been said. While what I want is romance like a desert rose, I must be delusional: I’m required to lose my mind through a field of cactus pricks.

According to the mentors of everlasting love and lust, I should look to date, fondle, and fuck, one woman after the other, until I’ve had my fill of breaking hearts and hips. Last time I checked, women prefer dick moves to stay in bed.

I’m reminded women put up with shit relationships for a long time. Hope. Belief. Trust that it will improve. Some day soon, right? Leaving women feeling like a Disney Princess wronged, men have confused being entertaining through comedic insults and competition with being a douchebag. How the two get mixed up I’ll never understand: one makes you a dirtbag, the other cleanses the body.

Disney Princesses don’t exist today. They lived in a different age, when men had to be gentle to women, or they’d get the shit beat out of them for even reaching their hands toward places it didn’t belong.

Today, you’re a wimp if you’re a true gentleman. You’ll have a difficult time being in a relationship, and it’s because you won’t be any good at shaking your hips like a monkey with a hard-on. It’s because, if you are a gentleman, then women suspect you’re looking to chain them down to being a wife in a brick house with a white picketed fence.

Today, you’re stupid and weak, for being a feminine woman. Your subservient behavior to look soft and beautiful is an insult to every woman who had chucked her bra off for that one boy in high school who later ignored her in the halls. Shame on you for being strong, confident, and beautiful with grace.

I can’t don’t want to understand how people can believe that relationships are just bad. That they just are, and they’ll one day find someone who gives them a good one.

I’m of the idea that we should seek to give good relationships, not demand them. Who are we to deserve something we wouldn’t give away? Selfish, that’s all. That’s all seeking something so precious from someone else is. We should be willing to give what we don’t have to get what we want.

It’s a creative endeavor that requires will, not experience. Experience is nothing. Will is everything. The will to continue pressing on for what you want. What I want is a good relationship; not a stack of, “Oh, fuck, why did I do that?”

It wouldn’t do for you to have read this far without an answer to how you could have a good relationship, so here it is: right from the mind of a young man who’s never been slapped across the face, kicked in the balls, or been duped into giving himself over to someone who didn’t deserve it.

Rule #1: Do more than just listen.

Any idiot can hear what their significant other says. It takes a lover to hear, feel, remember, and do something about it. Even if you don’t fulfill every wish, every desire, and want, of the one you love, what’s important is that you remember. People want to be heard. They want others to remember them. And it gets more important was we grow older. With other friends having children, careers going in different places, we begin to grow apart. By taking the effort to remember, and try to put into effect, the things your lover wants most, you are validating their existence while what they once thought could never end, is drifting apart due to general course of life.

I can’t say for certainty what it’s like to give much attention to someone. That’s because I’ve never had taken made the chance it happen. I’ve had chances, but didn’t take them, because I’ve been afraid of so many things. I realized, thanks to a good, dear friend of mine, I have to like myself before I can like someone else. Therefore, I had to learn to listen to myself. Now that I am more connected with myself, I feel I can truly connect with someone else. That’s what happens when you listen.

Rule #2: Don’t Stroke, Pet

Most people know how to stroke someone, be it for pleasure, personal gain, or simply to piss them off. Strangely, people have no problem rubbing their hands on their pets. Like a cat that purrs because it is content and comforted with the gentle touch along its back, your lover would be to. Mind you, this is emotional, not metaphorical.

We’re often surrounded by things that are dramatic and intense. It’s advertising. It’s Hollywood. It’s exciting and enticing because our lives are just so damn boring. We’re not super heroes, and it doesn’t take a man of steel to comfort the one we love. Sure, some women prefer a bit of raw steel from time to time, but it can get cold. Hearts are warm, regardless of the temperature in and around us.

Humans crave the touch of another body. It lets us know we’re alive, that we are a part of not just the world in our minds, but that of another. A light touch is better than a rough one. It’s science, baby: nerves are more sensitive with less pressure.

Rule #3: Words Matter. Talk Like a Gentleman with the Art of a Woman.

We go through many experiences in life, and we describe them. In words we understand. In words we communicate to others so they’ll understand. We associate good experiences with the words and sounds we hear with them. We do the same with bad experiences. Take the time to understand what turns you on, and turns you off, with the words you say.

I believe, if one can, one should write. It helps put things into perspective. It seems the art of leaving love letters has been replaced with dropping texts on cellphones like, “Wanna huuk up?” What the fuck is “Huuk?” Apparently, spell check is covering your ass for paying attention. And what a sad choice of words. Sure, some women will want a hook up, but that doesn’t mean you have to be the one to say it.

What I mean, is you should write from the heart. Don’t be afraid to use romantic words. Don’t be afraid to use long, romantic, complicated sounding words. Women aren’t stupid. They learn these words from all their giggling girlfriends as they’re passing through puberty, long before you even became aware of the enticing power of linguistics to a woman’s land down under.

Jim, The Old Bastard

Here’s a story about a guy named Jim. Jim don’t give a shit. He don’t give a shit about your kids, your wife, your job, and most of all, he don’t give a shit about you. Probably because Jim is eighty-seven years old and can’t give a shit even if he wanted to. It’s physically impossible for Jim to give a shit. Just ask his wife of sixty-nine years. Or ask his other wife of ninety-six years. Maybe even his third wife, that cute nurse he picked up (or tried to and broke his hip) of thirty-four; that single mother who couldn’t catch a break.

Jim likes to go for a walk each day. Right around noonish, about the time he wakes up from his late-morning nap. Jim once worked his ass off for fifty years so he can sit on his ass for another twenty-three. It has been a thrilling experience for Jim to sit on his boney ass after standing in factory lines, and before a factory boss, and before a factory owner. Then they told Jim to get the fuck out of there and find a real job.

Because Jim wasn’t a factory worker. Jim was a runner. He ran and he ran and he ran some more. He ran until he was sixty five, when he met his eighth wife, Mona, who hit him with her tractor. That bitch. That hot, slutty, twenty-something bitch. She felt so bad about hitting this old man, who was such a charmer, that she couldn’t stand to see him in agony. Her tractor hit Jim about an inch from his crotch. Wow, that would’ve been the end of retirement. One thing led to another, and a typical romance scene ensued (about as much romance as people forty years apart could make), and she had a ring around her finger. Jim also had a ring around his finger, or two fingers for that matter, but it was really something else.

You see, Jim was a sleaze most of his life. Not only did he cheat on his first wife three weeks into their marriage, he never told her about it. The scumbag! At least give her a chance for revenge. But poor old Betty passed around just four years before Jim retired. She caught some disease, or something, because she’s not really a part of this tale so it doesn’t matter. This is a story about Jim, the Old Bastard.

On the day this tale takes place, Jim walked across the street. One his way from one side of the high traffic road to the other, many cars swerving as he passed, he stooped down and picked up a penny. Not a shiny penny. A crappy old dusty penny, with that blue rust that appears all over the copper – you know, when pennies were made of real copper. Jim thought he was rich for a moment, then realized that the penny reminded him how worthless his savings were.
After eighty-seven years, Jim had been married for fifteen times. Some of them never found out, and some of them still don’t know.

Now that Jim was on the other side of the street, he stopped as soon as he heard that annoying as shit blerp-blop-bleep crap that cops make with their cars. That shit that scares everyone around thinking, “Fuck, did I do something wrong,” or, “Something crazy’s about to go down.” Just another passing thought.

And Jim’s passing thought this time was, “Fuck you cop, I don’t have time for your stupid shit.” So Jim turned around from some young punk rookie who thinks life is all about busting people – for anything, and being a total prick about it, too.

“Sir,” called out this dumb fuck kid in a badge. “Sir, may I speak to you please?”

“No, you may not, ya little shit,” thought Jim. He ignored the little pissant who probably smeared his nose up the chief’s ass all day. Instead, Jim attempted to open a glass door to a nearby cafe, but it opened itself. “God damned things. I have arms, ya know. This is why punks like that cop are so weak.”

Jim, still not giving a shit about the young man playing dress-up, sat in a booth and grabbed a newspaper off someone else’s table, while they weren’t looking.

“What can I get ya?” asked a beautiful voice.

Jim lowered the left edge of the newspaper, which he couldn’t read anyway because he left his reading glasses at home. He saw before him a gum-smacking, ditzy brunette with her hair all tied up in a bun. Black eyes, some parts of her skin tanned, some parts pale where she clearly didn’t know how to sunbathe nude (coincidentally what Jim was thinking of when he saw her).

“Hey, toots, get me a cup of black coffee, with cream, hold the sugar, and give me your number.”

“Okay, one, wait what?”

Before Jim could schmooze another young gal into giving him a sponge bath, the crackling, monotonous voice over a radio chirped him. “Oh, fuck, this little punk. Doesn’t he have anything important to do,” Jim muttered.

The multicolored waitress turned away to get Jim’s coffee, or maybe not; who cares; either way, it was just as that young jerk cop came up to Jim’s booth.

“Sir, may I speak to you outside?”

“No. You may not,” was Jim’s reply.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to come outside with me.”

“First you ask my permission, then you turn and tell me that you’re going to ask me again? God, fucking parents these days. Can’t teach a child how to speak anymore.”

“Sir, step outside with me.”

Jim lowered the corner of his newspaper again and look up at the dumb cop. “Oh, fuck, one of these idiots,” he thought. Jim folded his newspaper and turned toward the lawchild. “Don’t you know you look like a dumbass with your sunglasses on inside? For fuck’s sake, kid, didn’t your mother ever teach you to take your hat off, too?”

“All right, sir, you’re coming with me,” was all the cop had to say to get Jim’s nerves in a knot. This young punk cop grabbed the innocent old man’s arm, pulled him from the table.

“Let me go you son of a whore!” Jim shouted. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Calm, down, sir,” said the idiot man-handling a defenseless old man.

The officer dragged Jim out of the cafe, by the arm, through that damn automatic door. He embarrassed the shit out of Jim, but frankly, in Jim’s opinion, he embarrassed the shit out of his father.

“I bet your dad was fuckin’ pussy whipped, wasn’t he?”

“Sir, you need to calm down,” repeated the young asshole. He brandished from his belt a stun gun.

“Oh, you’re really shocking now, ya fucking pansy. Why can’t you fight me with your fists, huh!?”

Jim rolled his fists in circles back and forth, taunting the young cop. But the young cop was too much of a machine controlled bastard child who couldn’t think with reality. He pointed his stun gun right at Jim’s chest; the sharp prongs shot into the old man’s pectorals, drove into his chest, killing the old man instantly.

Poor old Jim. He would womanize, then talk about children as if they were demons. A bunch of young whippersnappers. And here, on this day, perhaps it was Father’s day, maybe it was Mother’s day, or maybe, just maybe, it was Mother Teresa’s beatification day. We don’t know for sure, but we know one thing:

Some assholes are put on this earth to kill innocent old men for jay walking.

New Definitions

I’d like to provide new definitions and word pairs for you today.

Zebra Vest – Something you should never wear.

Obsolete Library – A stack of Newsweek magazines.

Evasive Chair – A chair that has been pulled out from under you when you go to sit down.

Curved Pickle – A cucumber with erectile dysfunction.

Abortive Secretary – When an administrative assistant quits her job.

Rifle Toe – What one does to themselves to avoid the military draft.

Thoughtless Fact – Anything you hear on the ten o’clock news.

Flippant Reward – When someone offers a reward for a lost item, but then doesn’t give it to you. Bonus definition: When your paycheck is the victim of budget cuts.

Invincible Dust – When you dust off that damn end table, for the third time this week.

Perpetual Shade – A deep, dark, dreaded and dreary cave.

Jobless Yarn – A farmless sheep.

Naive Crowd – Any group of people gathered in a shopping mall.

Goodbye Ticket – A pink slip.

Pointless Texture – Freckles!

Calendar Representative – Any major holiday mascot.

Light Writer – Everyone who uses Twitter.

Old-fashioned Twig – A twig grown naturally, as opposed to one synthetically manufactured in China.

Competition Laugh – When two or more people try to be the last person laughing.

Fan Fact – Anything fans believe about celebrity gossip.

The Honeymoon Is Over

Frankly, there are only two people who can really declare when a honeymoon is over; the bride, and the mother-in-law.

This term relates to the end of the pleasant, enjoyable beginning of a marriage — when there’s lots of passionate sex — that gradually or abruptly ends when it’s time to get to the more serious roles of being betrothed. Like, raising the children you just made.

I think, there are other times the idiom could apply:

The honeymoon is over, when the cute puppy grows into a dumb, ugly mutt. Usually happens after a year or two, and coincides with puddles of slobber, combs filled with hair, and floors dotted with dander.

The honeymoon is over, when your boss’s attitude goes from charming and inviting, to distrust and distaste; naturally, this happens at the same time he signs your first paycheck.

The honeymoon is over, is what I would say if I had a job.

The honeymoon is over, when, while gardening in the backyard, you hit a pipe line that shoots black liquid into the air, bringing up hopes of striking it rich with oil, only to discover, as it lands on your new gardening overalls, you broke the septic.

The honeymoon is over, after your neighbors realize their three-way didn’t go as planned, when their dog vomited the crotchless panties on the bed, and the neighbors were arrested for animal abuse by bestiality.

The honeymoon is over, after you wake up and realize it was all just a nightmare, and that crazy bitch never blew you in the first place. Yet, you are missing your wallet, car keys, and the eight ounces of cocaine.

Romance Novel Titles

I’ve never read a romance novel in my life, but I do enjoy romantic comedies; but only if they’re more comedy than romance. Then again, sometimes, I think they’re the same thing. Anyway, here are some wonderful titles to titillate your imagination:

  • The Big Richard
  • Burning the Midnight Chlamydia
  • In the Bossom of Syphilis
  • An Out-of-this-World Guide to Picking up Chicks: You’re From Mars, and She Wants Your Penis
  • Gonorrhea With the Wind
  • Dances Under the Balls
  • That Bitch What Stole My Hotel Key
    • Part 2: That Bitch What Stole My Wallet
    • Part 3: That Bitch What Stole My Gun
    • Part 4: That Bitch What Stole My CarAnd the final book:
    • That Bitch What Died and Who’s Father Turned Me InWait, there are prequels!
    • That Bastard Who Stole My Innocence
    • That Bastard Who I Locked in The Community Bathroom at a Cheap Hotel
    • That Bastard Who Couldn’t Fix His Car
    • That Bastard Who Had No Money
  • My Special Robot
  • Burning with Denial
  • Porch Party in the Boonies
  • Falling Into My Mother-In-Law’s Trap
  • Blue Balls of a Sunday Moon
  • A Game of Pricks and Pole Dancing
  • A Bride’s Guide to Cheating
  • A Husband’s Guide to Ignoring a Cheating Wife
  • A Wife’s Guide to Ignoring Decades of a Cheating Bastard
  • Kiss of the Clap

These are just thoughts passing through my mind.

Update (7/27/2014): I have read several romance novels since I wrote this.

Winter’s Death

Turn, Turn, Turn: For many of us, winter is blooming into spring, or fall hardening into winter. Which season do you most look forward to?

death of a tree
Winter; when people feel the joy of giving, while nature goes off and dies.

Winter. The trees play dead; fish are trapped to die under the frozen tundra of a pond; and, ironically, in the season where nature kills herself, humans are happy. Maybe it has something to do with the convergence of their made-up holidays.

I like to think the holidays were deliberately planned together, to relieve people that winter reminds them that everything has died. Like to think, but then they go about and celebrate things such as births, and news, like a new year; the birth of a baby; and how nature has given to all and we should share alike.

I can’t find an index on this, but it seems to me, the cold air snaps people out of their foul moods. Then again, one only has to read Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, to prove me wrong, or right; it depends how far you’ve read: to the point of death appeared, or the point Scrooge changed his views forever.

While spring reminds people of nature’s birth, winter’s coming informs them that all that has grown that year, is sent off to die. Like war; maybe that’s the motivation in America; it reminds rich white men that everything innocent is sent off to die, while they lay cozy on their oversized recliners.

Winter presents a challenge for survival, and if you come out on top, you’ll be presented with the warming of spring. A warming filled with pollen, dander, and dirt, dictated by a stupid groundhog in a penguin suit.

Winter’s chilled frosty air, presents an opportunity to wear more clothes. During the summer and fall, there’s a production increase at Chinese sweat shops. And for the workers who kill over during their duty, it’s a reminder that winter strikes with death even when it’s not around.

Winter beats out summer in that, if it’s too cold, you can light a fire, or snuggle under a blanket with your sex provider. At summertime, you could skimp down to nothing, and still burn your ass off.

The transition is this: spring blossoms life; summer fries it with cancer from the blazing sun; fall eats away at the life, dropping it to the ground; and the winter snow buries it, putting the final nails in it’s coffin.

Winter. It’s cold, it’s dead, it’s quiet — unlike the noisy neighbors during their spring break parties — and it’s a reminder that people should be giving to one another all year long. Instead of waiting for the reminder that everything is dead, just like some people wait until a relative has died, before saying something nice about them.