Don"t Lie To Mom...

Brian invited his mother over for dinner.

During the meal, Brian's mother couldn't help but notice how beautiful his roommate, Jennifer, was. As she watched them interact over the course of the evening, she wondered if there was more between them than met the eye.

Reading his mom's thoughts, Brian volunteered,
"I know what you must be thinking, but I assure
you Jennifer and I are just roommates."

About a week later, Jennifer came to Brian and
said, "Ever since your mother came to dinner, I've been unable to find the beautiful silver gravy ladle. You don't suppose your mom has it, do you?"

Brian said, "Well, I doubt it, but I'll send her an e-mail just to be sure." So he sat down and wrote:

Dear Mom:
I'm not saying that you "did" take the gravy ladle from the house, I'm not saying that you "did not" take the gravy ladle, but the fact remains that one has been missing ever since you were here for dinner.
Love, Brian
Several days later, Brian received an email back from his mother that read:

Dear Son:
I'm not saying that you "do" sleep with Jennifer, I'm not saying that you "do not" sleep with Jennifer but the fact remains that if Jennifer is sleeping in her own bed, she would have found the gravy ladle by now.
Love, Mom

Just When You Thought People Couldn't Possibly Become More Stupid...

...nor more self-absorbed and indulgent...

comes this story whereby, for the meager sum of $25,000, you can have your ashes spread in these gardens of Duke University. Twenty-fucking-five thousand. To spread your sorry ass amongst the thicket, and your ass won't even know it. I wish I'd been born a goddamn monkey.

Just Because The Shades Are Down...

...doesn't mean he can't see your ass.

As with most things, we've pussified the almighty. I often ponder about the existence of God, but when I look up into the night sky, which ain't often, because I'm drunk and can't see, I can pretty much figure out that this shit didn't happen by chance.

I once got caught up in Process Theology. One of it's tenets is that God changes as we do. Now that's just bullshit. I need a God that's gonna kick my ass when it needs kicking. And I pay the consequences. Just another example of how easy it is to get out of things. Judgment is coming and right damned soon. So sayeth the Lord.

I'm No Doomsayer...

...but I've been watching a movie that depicts this scenario. Not the Armageddon one with Bruce Willis. That was bullshit.

So was this one, pretty much. But somewhat more realistic. It's always been my contention that be it nuclear war or some sort of asteroid crashing into the planet, we can't comprehend the ramifications. Nonetheless, it should give us pause.

Seems to my simple mind that at one time or another something like this will happen. Some say it's what killed off the dinosaurs. Likely to happen again, I would suspect. That, or some nuke. Unfortunate, to say the least. Best it be at the hand of nature than us.

Be that as it may, read some Melville, read some Hemingway and some Twain. Huck Finn is an excellent novel. Of course, if our asses are blown off the planet it won't make much difference. But a good read is a good read, dontcha think?

I've Said It Before...

...and will say it again. Do her in a heartbeat. With grace and passion. If I could, of course. Dream on, motherfucker.

One Of The Problems...

...with prostate cancer is that a standard way to try and control its growth is with estrogenics.

Typically, if you're under the care of an MD and opt out of the standard cut and burn procedures, you go on Lupron, Casodex and Avodart. Triple hormonal blockade. I do mine naturally. As long as the herbs are of good quality you can expect the same results. Lower PSA, but your titties swell up, your balls shrink and your dick seeks shelter in the netherlands of your abdomen. There are times when I have to pee that I have to coax that bastard out of its hideaway with sweet nothings involving escapades of our past.

It's a trade off. One I can live with. I was never much of stud anyways. One woman was enough for me. Which brings me to steroids, in a round-about-way. I've thought about taking them to counteract the effects of the estrogenics. But only when I'm in a state of utter mental chaos. In doing my exhaustive research I've learned that just about all those pictures you see that depict six-pack abs and such...steroids. Nobody gets those naturally. I can attest. The eldest is a workout freak. Always has been. BIG guy with BIG guns, but he doesn't look like that. Nor does the marine nephew, whose home from Iraq, thank you very much, and OUT. Still has reserve duty, but unless someone just dummies up big time he's going to Auburn in the fall to chase pussy and ride his newly purchased crotch rocket.

I remember riding dirt bikes when I was his age, and the feeling of invincibility we got from it. The rush and testosterone boost were amazing. We'd stroke into the bar after a day of mud slinging and the women would make their way to our table like magnets. I'm lucky now if I go to the grocery store and get the attention of the cashier.

Such is life. I've done this living for 54 years. Don't expect much more out of it. Other than survival. Just an old piece of barbed-wire. Keeping the fences up that need keeping up. I was good at it then, I'm good at it now. Nuff said.

It's kinda nice when you know that the ole dickmeister ain't gonna work. You can just be friends with a women. Kinda nice.

Boobs...

...yeah, that might get a hit or two. Not that I care. I haven't been posting much as of late. I suppose it's a process, as are most things. But I still have my daily reads.

One of which is Babs.
I like reading her. She's funny and insightful, while still maintaining a sense of self-depreciation. I've had my issues with her in the past, but I usually turned out being correct, but that's not the point.

This is. I've always had this thing stuck in my craw about women and their boobs. Now, I've never hidden my appreciation for a good breast. I won't elaborate, but some whipped cream and a cherry and some chocolate on a big nipple makes for an excellent dinner. Add some Crème de Menthe and you'll sleep like a baby.

Women always seem offended when we try to admire their endowment, but they still make sure we know they have them. They don't want to be seen in their undies, but they'll wear a bikini/swimsuit that puts those puppies on full display. Babs even has it in her profile. Big busted. Is that a badge of some sort? If you told her she had huge titties I bet she'd beat you down with a tire jack. But she'll tell you how hard it is to contain them when she's walking/psuedo running.

I'm not picking on her. My ex's sister used to do the same thing. It was as if she was saying "I have them, I'm proud of them, I want you to admire them, but you can't have them." She used to sit around in the flimsiest t-shirt that left nothing to the imagination without thinking anything about it. Never bothered her, never bothered the wife. It sure as hell bothered me, in a good way. I was fortunate enough to see them on an occasion or two, and they were spectacular. And she did it intentionally.

Perhaps they are just appendages to women. Something that comes with the package. I asked the almost wife #2 about it one time, and she was very well endowed, and she said it's like asking a guy how it feels to have some sausage hanging between your legs. I'm sure it goes back to babyhood when we just like to suckle. But I'm curious as to why girls don't grow up with that desire. Or do they?

I Don't Do Meds Well...

...never have. Most likely never will.

Ya see this little bitch in the picture? It's HCTZ. Hydrochlorothiazide. It's a diuretic used to treat hypertension. It's supposed to lower your BP by getting rid of excess water in your body and it's also a vasodilator. Like I need to piss more than I do already. And on top of that I'm vascular enough as it is. I don't need no more blood flowing through my veins.

This little pill has kicked my ass to the curb and back and then dunked my head in the shitter. Without remorse. I woke up at 3:30 the other morning to take a piss and as I stood up I literally face planted myself into the bedroom door. Woke up five minutes later and crawled to the crapper and threw up my descending colon, pancreas and gall bladder. I believe there was some spleen in there as well.

I've never passed out before. I faked it once when I was in fourth grade because Ms. Massillo was forcing me to learn how to diagram sentences. That was just bullshit stuff. The other night wasn't. When I came to I had absolutely no idea what had happened nor where I was. It was purely by chance that the first door I found while crawling was the bathroom, since it's located right off the bedroom. But I sure as hell didn't recognize it. But I did recognize the porcelain, which is exactly what I headed for.

Being unconscious is a weird experience. It's not like waking up from sleep. You don't really stir like you do when you slip out of slumber. You just kinda pop-up. And your surroundings seem foreign, as if you were the character in one play and were suddenly cast as someone else is another authors venue. And they forgot to give you the script. Strange stuff.

Some Bullets For Thought...

...not that it matters.

• It seems we have become increasingly consumed with style. I see it all the time in my personal life and in the blogs. As well as life in general. I realize there are some permanent things involved in the human brain that attract us to others; pheromones, for example. But for the most part aren't those ephemeral. You wake up one day and the initial spark is gone and you're stuck with the substance. Which is what makes day-to-day living possible. You may have great tits, which you talk about all the time, but in the long run, I ain't talking to them.
  
  
• Every once in awhile you come across a great gift for your mother's B'Day/Mothers Day . I nailed it this year. Got the brothers involved in the cost because it was expensive. It's an AeroGrow. She loves the damned thing. Growing tomatoes at the time. I reckon there's a part of us that still love's to get our food from the soil.
  
  
• I have never been able to tolerate fellow employees that don't contribute much to the mix but make sure they they raise a stink when they feel a decision has been made that didn't include them. DUH. Could it possibly be that it was done for a reason? We have a woman just like that at work. She can't work on her own. She has to constantly go to others to ask for solutions to problems given to her, and yet she continues to work there, taking up the precious time of those of us that work quite well independently. Dumb women suck. So do dumb men that are attracted to dumb women.
  
  
• What the hell happened to proctologists? I went to one way back when to get my roids cut out. He confirmed I had them, after turning my ass and myself upside down for the better part of an hour. He said he could take care of them. That's how he makes money, he said. Lots of money. I can't find one now. Even at Duke. I guess nobody deals with assholes any longer. I bought a soldering iron. That should do it.
  
  
• Despite my good test results from my newly found best friend of a doctor, my BP is still through the roof. I think it's work related, because of the the lady that can't do anything on her own. Or it could be Al Gore and global warming. Or Bush. Either way, I expect some type of cerebral hemorrhage in the coming weeks.
  
  
• Acid Women? HAH.
  
  
  
  

Bloggers Now Suck...

...because it's no longer about writing or ideas. It's about site hits, and how others feed off of those that link them.

That isn't writing for writings sake. It's ego. "Gracious sakes, so-and-so linked me and my site stats went up by 200." And the cycle goes on back and forth and they shove their heads up each other's asses so they don't fall into disfavor with the other and get yanked from the link list.

I suspect that the reason J. D. Salinger went into hiding when he wrote Catcher In The Rye was because he had no proclivity to deal with the attention and he had no desire for others to feed off of his composition. Same for Robert Pirsig when he penned Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance. It was a classic. He didn't write another book until 1991, and it sucked.

Get over yourselves. You started writing because it fulfilled a psychological need. You've managed to bring it to a level where it's nothing more than who likes you best and how many hits you can get. As with most things, a good idea to begin with has dun shit the bed. Figures.

Various And Sundry Saturday Morning...

...musings about much of nothing.

Living alone gives one the pleasure of doing pretty much what one pleases. I have a faint memory of what it was like when the boys were young and I was still married. It was a constant whirlwind of activity. I was hither, yither and yond with nary a break and it was fun because I felt as if I was making someone's life better. In retrospect, I did, in fact, make them better.

I'm sitting here swilling Franzia and listening to the radio. Unusual for me on a Saturday. TV bores my ass to no end lately. I just heard an add that encourages parents not to fart around their young children because it contains toxins that might deter their mental development. I have nothing to say about that other than the sooner I go the better.

Billy Graham's wife died. I was sorry to hear that. I met her once at a governors function when the ex's father was the budget director for the state. An absolutely charming lady, and a looker to boot, even in her sixties. She had some sort of twinkle in her eyes that just escapes me to this day.

I called the almost-second-wife the other night on a whim. I sure do miss that voice. And the banter we seem to be able to carry on to this day. Thirteen years later. She lives on a pasture with two horses. She never rides them. Seems odd to me. This is a city girl. Her dying brother talked her into it, best as I can discern. She has a mate she doesn't sleep with and he leaves at nine every night. She deserves better.

The older brother almost died a few weeks ago. Had a hernia that he ignored and his guts and one of his nuts decided they wanted to see what life was like outside the confines of where they are suppose to be. I would never tell him I was concerned, because that would violate this thing we have going. But it scared the shit outta my ass.

Tsk, Tsk, Jason...

...do not fuck with an existentionalist. You are doomed and you will shit your pants when I am done with your ass.

I thought I might comfort myself during my demise with some power TV, meaning digital cable. HAH. I shan't go into the butt fucking that poor Jason took when he explained my options. It is, after all, his job. He needs to go back home to momma and let her feed him a head.

I want to empathize with people that take these sorry ass jobs that try to convince people to purchase their product. Sorry. Can't. Ole Jason thought he had my ass. That's the difference between 24 and 54. He was sure he had my ass and a commission was on his way and he could go get a fancy bottle of wine and lay his lady.

Think again. Not on my dollar. Not on my watch.

Most People Base Their Perceptions Of The World...

...on the training they had from their parents.

Then they branch out and become egocentric. It's to be expected. Feed the beast. Which it is. A beast. Freud thought so. As did Adler and Jung. It always makes my asshole shiver with laughter when I read bloggers that say they just 'love' writing. Bullshit. You want the attention. Why would sitemeter or statcounter even be in existence? If you aren't making money off of your site, then why would you care if people read it or not?

I've spent the past month getting medical tests done and working way beyond the boundaries I'm capable of at this time. But my ego has never come into play. But I have religiously read the blogs I like and it has confirmed my opinion that we are in a sorry state of affairs.

I would think that blogging is a venue to convey thoughts and feelings, which it is. And if you write to elicit a certain response for an idea you've thrown out there, well enough. But when one turns that into a "hey, look at my sitemeter" party, what the hell is that? It's nothing more than an effort of someone that has some serious self-image problems and needs validation from somewhere.

Why is it that some bloggers convey their new found relationships and how happy they are, and the potential involved, only to come back a few weeks later and break the news that it didn't work out? Because there is no future. It's doomed from the start.

Just because you have a degree in something or other doesn't make you an expert in anything. I trust garage keys more than you. And by garage keys I mean the sitting down at a table and discussing things that have a genuine bearing on social, political and religious ramifications. It doesn't include the stupid ass comments about how a blogger will willfully blow away another human because of their religion. A "thinking" man or woman knows better. But that's just me.

So, on to the medical facts. PSA of 1.2, down from 3.2 in November. Read it and weep. Total Cholesterol - 181, HDL - 85, LDL - 89, Triglycerides - 108, Blood Sugar - less than Normal, Liver Enzymes - normal, Kidneys, etc, Normal. What does this mean? Not a damn thing to you, and it will change for me.

It doesn't mean shit. You write, we read. But a word of caution. You aren't nearly as important as you've come to think you are. Stupid blogs awards mean nothing. You are the same speck you were when you were born.