Monthly Archives: June 2009

You may think it’s funny, but it’s snot

“Hey, how’s everyone feeling tonight!”
: (Silence speaks louder than words)

“Just flew in from Pencil-vein-ya, God my arms are tired.”
Maude to her sister-in-law
: “I think I heard that one before.”

“You heard about the guy, goes to a doctor, says “Doc, I think I’m upside-down. Doc asks ‘How come?’ The guy says ‘My nose runs and my feet smell.'”
“Yup, third grade, if I recall correctly.”

(switches to combat-mode) “Hey nice jacket, Maude. Everybody on the bowling team gets one?”
Maude to sis: “We missed Hogan’s Heroes for this?”

But seriously, folks, cows, whom I know intimately, (details may emerge after my passing) are the champions of excrement, un-begrudging behemoths of ‘doin’ their buziness’ A cow can piss like overturning a 55 gallon drum after two weeks of steady rain. She can fill a wheel-barrow in two minutes with ‘fertilizer’. And Snot, (yes, our present inquiry), well, a cow with a runny-nose is a marvel to behold. Of course they do have tongues capable of reaching their huge nostrils with ease.

A cow’s tongue is long. Longer than the plate it often sat on, in the middle of the dinner-table, as we took turns slicing off another piece of it until the bovine donor, rest her soul, was rendered ex-post-facto speechless. Or at least troubled by a heavy lisp. I never enjoyed these dining occasions, feeling pressured to consume such a recognizable body-part. Kinda like the eyes of a fish on a plate, looking up at you in accusatory but helpless rage.

But wait, I promised Snot. Ok, have snot.
Although my younger sister was light-years more natural and ‘supportive’ in the task, (Hi, kid) I was sometimes called upon to spend the night consoling a cow-with-a-cold, watching over her like a Guardian Angel as she slept fitfully, snot oozing from her nostrils like a water-main break. I did my best. Hey, that’s what burlap feed-bags are for, in a pinch: Cow Hankies.
Cows get lots of colorful diseases: Brucelosis, Bang’s disease, Cock-sidy-osis (sp?), mastitus, and ‘milk-fever’, a result of Calcium deficiency during late-stage gestation. At least that one has a miracle-cure: a liter of calcium into the neck-vein, and she’s up and moon-walking within five-mintes, often before the vet drives back down the lane. Oh, I forgot to mention The Bloat. With four(4) stomachs, cows get gas, and then they can’t breathe. The solution, in extremis, is a hollow knife, stabbed precisely where your index-finger ends up when you place your thumb on the hip-bone and little finger on the last rib. (Best to get your hand out of the way before completing this procedure.)
Anyway, one particularly articulate cow I remember, Bonnie, was tickled pink upon awakening one morning with me ever-watchful by her side. She mooed appreciatively at the charm of my palindrome: ‘WELL ITS TONS-O-SNOT STILL..EW!’ Wonder if she’s got a Xanga?

me'n bonnie

Why I love my VOM-{IT REVIEW #9}

NOTE: I feel pressured to finish my highly-vaunted excretory quadrilogy. To re-cap: We’ve had sweat (6-comments), piss (-6-), and here I present Vomit. (-?-)   I am in grateful awe to the scattered xangans who wouldn’t miss an installment for a million bucks, who are self-assured and genetically endowed with power-house personalities; to wit: they comment intriguingly on these entries, whose real point is (or should be obviously) not prurient-interest. So let’s move on to Part three, ok?

vom-its prime function


A V.O.M is a Volt-ohmeter, a crucial piece of electronics test-gear. Here are some reasons why I chose the model I did.

1) It was made in China, according to the label on the back. China’s a really big country, so it figures theyll be good at making high-quality instrumentation.

2) I actually love the fact that I can’t simultaneously know, to any arbitrary level of exactitude, both the voltage present across a component and the current flowing through it. Helps me to empathize with Heisenberg, and how un-certain he must have felt before he finally published his ‘Je ne sais qua’ Principle.

3) The patented ‘break-away’ test leads tear themselves to pieces at the slightest pull. This thoughtful feature saves the hapless researcher from being choked to death, should a circuit display any malevolent impedance or inductance.

4) I admire the fact that there is no self-serving company-name or logo on the device. Putting one’s Company Name out there in the user’s face is just bad manners, I say.

5) It is (was?) marketed by the world-famous Radio-Shak chain of convenience stores. Their dedication to selling only top-shelf merchandise, combined with a scrupulous attention to detail and accuracy in documentation needs no further comment. And the tasteful background muzak in their mall-outlets inspires graduate-level thought.

6) The enhanced ‘Continuity’ feature lets one effortlessly check whether “the black wire is connected to this-here green thingie’. An audible ‘buzz’, or alternatively, a ‘bwaap’ or ‘meuuph’ lets the hands-free user hear at a glance that the battery needs replaced, or, equally likely, that the 1.5 volts has fried an irreplaceable component.

7) It’s digital! No, not the all-important flexible/bendable needle which responds within minutes to an electronic ‘message’. What I mean here is that one uses his own trusted digits, fingers and toes, to try to hold the red lead on B+, the black lead on ground somewhere, and the high-impact plastic case somewhere in easy viewing distance, while with the third (fourth?) hand you turn the potentiometer up or down. Lots of digital there. It’s the latest thing.

8) The $14.99 price tag significantly reduces the “vacillation-time” a tech-term for how long you  debate before smashing the fucking piece of shit against a concrete wall. (Apologies for introducing profanity into an otherwise factual review.) Plus the ‘high-impact’ feature ensures that there will be nothing left worth re-assembling, thus eliminating altogether the angst of remorse.

9) This device is certified ‘non-biodegradeable’. I can attest to the fact; The one I threw out on the driveway has been driven over countless times and is still there. Ditto for a couple on the lawn, although running over them with the mower creates a noticeable stir, but usually only the first few times…

10) In lots of cases, frankly, it’s just not critical to know what the voltage, current, or resistance in a circuit are. In a sense, how can one ever be really really sure anyway? No one’s ever seen an electron, plus they all look the same. Often there’s something better you should be doing with your time. Radio Shak sells a companion tire-pressure gauge which can actually determine whether there is (was) air in your tires. You’ll need that to go buy another VOM. Or two.

Q: Hey, I was just looking at the Front Page: It’s wall-to-wall poop there, and they don’t even address the subject with class or elan.

A: Whew! I knew you’d come around. My last in this series is Snot, of course. Coming up.. or out.

Q: You have a real life?

A: Sure, I just wrote this while moon-walking + feeding 23 cats. They poop a lot, but that’s off-topic.

Q: Who’s Heisenberg, by the way?

A: An important contributor to quantum theory. He proved that there are limits to a VOM’s usefulness..

Q: That’s sad. So much for science’s steady march toward perfect description…

A: Yeah, makes me wanna puke sometimes. 

“Finding My Religion”: Step One: Don’t piss off Supreme Beings.

    It wasn’t my fault; the guy was a dead ringer for Sigmund Freud. Standing there at the ‘Everything for 3.80 a kilo’ ™  (a bald-faced lie) Vegetable stand. He was juggling three zuchinis, as if trying to gauge which one he most coveted and desired.
And all I said, passing by, was “You’re an analyst?”
Ok, It probably came out sounding, to the local pidgins, more like “Urinalysis?” Sorry; their defecit, not mine.
“An anal-ist” he ‘corrected’ me, with a sick smile and  pride-of-self-labelling. Immediately I took two pro-active steps:
1) Backed away a couple good metres, as would any human confronted by an obviously sick or diseased specimen. Gotta preserve those ‘Degrees of Separation’. And:
2) Re-did his whole ‘fill-in-the-blanks’ chart: Probably he was ‘analizing‘ which zuchini would be more thrilling to ..oh… What do I know?. Sigmund = ‘Sigmoid’ ‘Freud =’Joy'(German). Him and his happy colon: CYA!

Ah, Religion. Not gross enough the Orthodox  women shave their heads and  wear tacky nylon wigs, which they have to carry in a cardboard birthday-cake box through the El Al terminal. 

    But the next belief-system-option I ran into, busily poring through the rotten-lemon-collection for one worth squeezing, was a tad less repellent. Dressed in spandex, she appeared to be doing last-minute stocking-up for an uphill climb. And our conversation confirmed that, along with a couple odd additions and traditions…
“Eze har?” (“Which mountain?” I asked her, proud of demonstrating my eagle-eye.
“Mount Herman” She smiled proudly. The pronunciation was 100% New Jersey. Mt. Hermon, Israel’s only real peak, usually vocalized here as “Hair-Moan”.
She probably had lots more to say about geology.. theology.. whatever, I soon realized.
“To our people, this is Holy Ground.” the thirthy-ish climber wished to inform me.
Of course “Our People”, here, was an un-avoidable beg/prompt for a follow-up question.
“Our People?” I asked as neutrally as one can, balancing my own grocery-list against the available chat-time.
“Before we were, Alice Is”. She said the mantra with a fervor that I, a devout non-believer, can only imagine through dilligent effort.
“Alice?” I asked, while digging through the rotten lettuce pile for something edible. Wait, I’ve heard of the ‘Alice-ists®’. A little-known sect started in the 1700’s in Urin an die Wand, Germany, they believe that The Goddess Alice and her retinue of lesser pischers are present here on Earth in the form of ‘Struvite’, or ammonium magnesium phosphate, (NH4)MgPO4·6(H2O), a mineral which happens to also be the main compound in kidney stones, and can be fairly easily synthesized from… well.. piss.
Makes a lot of sense, I say. The Gods/Goddesses “strove”, and indeed “strive’ as we speak, having “struven” since like, forever. A tough job making the barren soil fertile.
“You’re an Alice-ist?” I asked her, again proud of my erudition. She beamed and nodded, looked around warily for the Anti-prosyletizing Brigade, but then suddenly glanced at her watch. Her cart was already full. Lots of cranberry juice, I noticed. All I had time to add was a sincere “God-speed!”.
And with that I got lucky. She grabbed my hand, (possible even with ‘The Secret Handshake’, (I know?) and repeated it, as if to a comrade:

“Gods peed Indeed!”

Q: Yer goin’ downhill fast, guy. Sweat, now piss, what’s next?
A: No worry, The last Sub can turn off the lights in the bath.
Q: Looks dark in there as it is..
A: Hey, ‘struvite’ occurs here on Earth… you can dig it up.
Q: Where? In the Urinal Mountains?
A: I don’t know. Something about a religion with chemically provable results..
Q: Oof! When did you say my contract’s up?

Making Sense of Smell

I read, here in the present, the results of the latest Outer Mongolian Census. Some very interesting data:
1) A Paltry 4% of respondents were either ‘named Paul ‘ or would consider having one so-named as a pal.

2) But a whopping 87% reacted with ‘love’, or at least ‘admiration’ to the recorded sounds of the Call of the Whooping Crane…

3) A modest 31% claimed to have heard of Modesto, CA or alternatively, offered to serve on next year’s Volunteer Dress Code Enforcement Cadre

4) But  most salient, at least for my topic here, is that only 13 per cent of Outer Mongols described themselves as ‘reliably capable’ of differentiating, blindfolded, between the odor of an otter and an adder. Odder yet; when the choice presented was between ‘an eider, (either up or down), and the udder of a lactating yak, the pie-slice actually became thinner: 11 per cent.(!)

I find this of course utterly disturbing, as do my fellow-workers in the field here at the Old Factory.

Ah, tis Summer, when being drenched with sweat or less commonly ‘perspiration’, is an allowed part of life.
I use the opportunity to refresh and even enhance my ability to smell what I’m saying. Yes, you read that right.
In short, there is an instantaneous change in smell which I at least notice, when a casual conversation on the placement of a new window turns to, oh, “Hey, I did your bill last night; have it with me right here, matter of fact, and I think we really should talk about  the outstanding balance.”
Sometimes I do wish I were out standing in a field at that point, because the armpits speak louder than words.
And I haven’t even begun. I can go through five noticeable aroma-changes while telling the girl at the corner store:
“Just so you know, Dafna, you have a smile so overwhelming that you could give me garbanzo beans as change for a hundred shekels and I wouldn’t even notice.”
“Not trying to start anything”,
I add quickly, if I detect Smell-17.

Now what does one make of this?  (besides a fool of himself in revealing it?)  Um.. Biology stands behind me, solidly too, depending on the direction of the wind. In the Olde Days, back before you were born, dear reader, we communicated by smell quite a bit. The system in still in place in our bodies, kinda like the non-functional AC in my Toyota, except that it works; we just don’t pay attention to it. Consciously, at least. We should try to, I contend here.
If for no other reason than that being sensually aware can save your life someday. It has mine.

Smell 223: “My husband has off Tuesdays. What day is it today, Johnny?”
And more recently: “That’s a real provocative, {99}no, attractive, {63}no, ‘sensibly-priced but complimentary’ {11} dress ya got on, Miss Liebnitz.”

Q: File under ‘What this guy won’t post about?”
That’d be a rhetorical question, if it weren’t an orphaned rhetorical phrase.
Q: You just have to bring my Ma into this, huh?
A: Not in the flesh, girl {Smell #47} You can tell her about what we did, later, if you want to {Smell #99}
Q: Seriously, how will you know if this post sucks? 

A: By the taste, of course… but that’s a different subject.


Now I know why they didn’t dig the damn thing through Brigham Young’s Mormon Sterno-land: Ships navigating in the inverse direction’ get mebbe a bit of a tail-wind with the ‘HAT‘ part, but it’s all uphill from there. And no amount of jumping on the bed and thinking long and hard can save this alphabet-soup palin-dumb from the great Tupperware of failed-foods
Wait, ‘never say never’, right?
“HAT, U.L.” (that’s an Underwriter’s Laboratories approval, a portent),
AN ‘A’ CANAL (the premium kind, with no pesky ads), and finally PANAMA (where they really shoulda oughta went)
    There, in the steamy anopheles-infested isthmus, they’d be free-at-last to post-mortem baptize anyone they wish, as per Joey Smith’s psychotic looking-through-his-hat visions….the somehow conveniently ‘disappeared’ gold tablets laid out on his oak table…. his wife, too old to remarry, looking on in fake-orgasmic admiration.

    Wait, This Just In: the angel Moroni actually pronounced it “Pa ‘n a Ma”. Coincidence? I think not. Yet un-answered is how’d we get from the Adam-‘n-Eve paradigm to Pa ‘n like, several Ma’s? Just asking. I know, Real “Big of me” to point that out. Hey, I just dig canals. Others call it Hell. (Truman, look it up)

Q: There goes Cleveland..
A: Cleveland?
Q: Metaphorically speaking. I mean your Mormon readers.
A: Don’t you have an extra ‘M’ in there somewhere?
Q: Um.. make that Cleveland and all its suburbs…
A: I should talk about Iran, right. Bozo-babies making Bombs?
Q: There went Teheran.
A: Why don’t I feel a greater sense of loss?

Edition: ‘LATE… (LAS VEGAS)’

In a rare ironic coincidence, a Nevada court has just minutes ago reversed the famous ’69 landmark decision: SAGE VS. AL et AL. By so doing the bench in effect is forcing Al Bert, 59 and Al Vinn, 63 to re-marry. The same-sex couple had mounted a lengthy legal challenge throughout much of the late ’60s for the right to divorce in the Silver State. Quipped Time magazine© at the time: “We debated whether to call this the ‘Al and Al’s ex Case’ or something similar.” 
   Reached for comment, both Als were visibly upset by the outcome:
“We should have looked long and hard in the mirror before cementing the union, true, but still, it’s a defeat for equal rights.” said a distraught Bert.
Vinn echoed his sentiments, agreeing that “the writing was on the mirror.”

Q: Why do you make up this kind of stuff, Johnny?
A: Haven’t we already discussed why dogs do some of the things they do?
Q: Sure, ‘just because they can’.
A: Plus, it’s fun..
Q: What, fun to watch?
A: Hey, your contract’s up for renewal in October. You’re always free to be someone else’s ‘Q’  Like, pick one off the Front Page. Lots of action. You can ask ’em why they can’t spell or construct a grammatical sentence, stuff like that there.
Q: Nah, I’ll stick with you, guy. Just stop with the licking already…

Jeez, where’s yer sense of irony?

Got rejected again, and I’mn not sure it’s appropriate to just suffer ‘n succatash in silence…
In short, I’ve  been thrown into the Recycle Bin by the Wise Elders ‘n Editors at the ‘Mute Springs (MN.) Weed-Dispatch’. (!)
They’d asked me to do a column for the  autumn arts supplement. So I sent ’emn my nifty “Hymn to Her” from the ‘Albino Albumn’

 “It’s whiter and wittier than Whitier”, I wrote in a brief self-promotion blurb I’d hoped they’d copy ‘n paste. Instead I get this snarky e-mail:
“Nice try, Solemn-berg. We are not as dumb up here as U think.”

Damn. Or maybe just ‘Hmmmn…‘    I’ll get even. I’ll condemn themn to live in Minnesota like, forever, and survive on freeze-dried Minnestrone soup from the Minne-Market®. Mmmmn…
Q: Duh..
A: Could you re-phrase that in the form of a question?
Q: Um.. ‘Duh?’
A: Glad you asked. I’m just curious about the words what end in -MN, is all..
Q: Google it.
A: No help. Plus that’s cheating. Anyway I hate Minnesota… Only whores and baseball players are from there.
Q: My wife’s from Minnesota!
Hmnn. What team does she play for?

“666”: A Beast any way you look at it.

“Made a great DEAL with ‘L’ and got this nifty LADLE for ten bucks.” I announced, not really expecting NATASHA to fall all over me about it. I was right.
“Big DEAL. A LADLE, huh? That’s proper SILVER-ware for my LIVER SLIVERS?” she spit out.
“We’re having liver slivers..again?” I asked, neutrally. Trust me, I can do that, after all these years. Natasha examined the spoon.
“It don’t say ‘NO LEAD’.” I knew she’d find something to bitch about.
“Plus ELVIS’ll be here at seven. Maybe take a shower?”
   Ok, she coulda mighta said that neutrally herself, had she one neutron of sympathy in her anti-biotic heart, but she doesn’t, so she didn’t
“Oy, ELVIS and those EVIL VILE ELVES of his. He practically LIVES here lately. His dumb KIDS SKID-ding around under-foot.” I allowed myself to protest modestly, reading off my knuckles.
“Go LABEL A BELL, GREBLOS!” was her next line, in our heart-to-heart discussion of guests, their frequency, their spectra. Plus I hate it when she calls me ‘Greblos’. I asked her what she meant the first time; she turned the ‘Menace’ knob up to enema and ‘explained “When you die, God willing, I’ll tie you up in that tall tree out back. The buzzards won’t leave anything worth burying.” 
“Ah, ‘Grave-less’, I get it. Thanks, kid.” More neutral tone. No, grateful, actually. A man’s got a right to know. Curiousity kills cats.
“Oh, and COMB your hair already. Ain’t we a perfect COMBO, me the perfect hostess and you the brainless EINSTEIN wanna-be.”
“At least I’m INTENSE.”
was all I could get out before she threw the LADLE at me. Ducking, (another practiced art), I heard it crash against the mirror. My mirror. With the Romeo and Juliet etching still stuck in the corner, from back when we were happy.. That first week. Ok, about two and a half days…
“Don’t cut yourself on the glass. Here, let me do it..” I heard her say, ominously. “…Greblos”, she added. That’s twice in ten minutes. Something’s up. But I never fight back, I thought to myself. Really. I mean, two can play this game. A light came on. Or went out:
“NATASHA?” I said her name slowly, looking deliberately past her, out the window to the old gnarled maple tree. “AH…SATAN! How could I not have known?”

Q: File under…?

A: “Fiction”

Q: Dunno. Sounds pretty realistic to me

A: By which you’re implying…?

Q: Um.. that you do lots of research, you know.. locked institutions, stuff like that there..

A: Aww. You remembered! Hey, you wanna help me finish up this liver?

Finally! The Truth. ‘Love’s (inflatable) Labours Lost

I would like, firstly, to welcome a few new subscribers, (not by name, to spare their embarassment, ha.) I sincerely hope that what caught their eye(s) turns out to be more than a mere fluke.

Time Line:
Google News©– Last night I read a report on ‘Robots which mimic human expressions’. Was reminded of a phenomenon I’d read about in this regard…
Google Search “Queasy Feeling” Robots” {Enter}
Bingo: this article on what is known as the ‘uncanny valley’, the sudden plunge on the graph of test-subjects’ positive/negative emotional reaction to Robots, as the robot’s realism becomes realistic. Turns out we become un-nerved when viewing robots who are ‘almost there’. Read the link, and maybe even check out what Freud had to say about The ‘Uncanny’.
Of course, as a bona-fide student-from-the-outside of perversions, I clicked on the link to some company which maketh a silicone “Schtup-Doll” (Sounds less purient in Yiddish.) ‘Anatomically correct’, they claim. This couldn’t help but remind me of the following True Story:

     We were doing interior design for a Sex-Shop. The 70’s. Me ‘n my buddy, Grubie, a sweet kid from Lititz.  Nailing poplar rough-cut siding to the walls of a store, whose owner insisted on calling the place: “Ye Olde Book Store”, on Prince Street. He asked me to come up with a LOGO. A quick romp through the alphabet confirmed my suspicions. “-OBS” is associated, in English at least, with ‘grupsich-keit’. (untranslatable adjective in my mother-tongue). But just look at the evidence:
Bogs: submerged water-logged graveyards
Cobs: what’s left after you take the good part off the corn
Fobs: part of a watch, but not critical to the time-keeping function
Hobbes: Nasty, brutish, and short
Jobs: you wake up every morning wishing you didn’t have one
Lobs: small pathetic tosses of a small ball
Sobs: Crying, probably for a very good reason

Anyway, I advised him not to go with “YOBS-TOWNE”®.
He rejected my advice
. This figures… Twenty years older than me, he was busily experimenting with the then-popular “Swinger” life-style. Bottom line: You go to some suburban house, bring your wife, get drunk enough, and waste the night ‘swapping’ her in exchange for somebody else’s wife.  The Morning After, you feel like you wuz had: You traded yer bomb-shell for your ex-best-friend’s oogly little in-orgasmic slut. I listened to their ‘post-mortems’ and thanked God I was smart enough not to join in…
Total Aside, but allegorical:
The Statue of Limitations (formerly ‘Statue of Liberty’, a gift from France) has surely run out on what I shall presently describe. A Steel Lady, holding a torch, -commented– opon on a plaque by Emma Lazarus, resuscitated from the Dead: ” I lift my skirts, to the tired, the sex-starved, the deviant-though-legal immigrant”. Time has proven that not every would-be proto-‘merican’ is a welcome addition to the melting pot: thus the ‘Limitations. Check with INS for late-breaking applicable changes.

Anyway, me ‘n Grubie spent our days moving faux-genitilia out of the way in order to nail the a-fore-mentioned poplar siding  to the walls of the Sex-Shoppe.What caught our eye especially was the ‘Pepe-the inflatable sex-doll’.

Anatomically-‘close-enough-for-jazz’, I’d call her. It was Grubie who suggested the Challenge:”Tomorrow, we’ll compete, against the clock, to ‘have our way’with her”   I was, at the time, totally ‘involved’  with any number of competitors:  Sarah the regular Girl at the counter, had asked me to help her assess the effects of a drug she’d recently been proscribed: a muscle-relaxant. Yeah,  it relaxed several of my muscles, but, as we discovered together, left one significant muscle for each of us unscathed. Rebecca, the  weekend-girl, had a VW-bug she was sure I was born to re-paint, only that I needed to show up to look at it on S. Ann St… oh, and to prove that my spray-gun had the requisite pressure first. Maria, her room-mate, having heard through the grapevine (or through the walls,) insisted that we meet  in Buchanan Park, ostensibly to appreciate the foilage, although in the end she wanted it …All that to stress that me ‘n Grubie, himself happily paired-off, were not in any way sex-starved, as we non-chalantly schlepped the sad inflatable doll out of our way all day.
Like I said, it was Grubie who insisted: “Tomorrow morning: let’s see what the doll can do.”
Hey, I wuz young an’ up for anything. I thumbed through my *.dll list of fantasies to use in the event the poly-ethylene physical parameters were not conducive to quick orgasmic release:
1) Poly-thene Pam: ‘Never had it with a human before’.. Ooh!
2) Finally, the moment I been waiting for since I polymerized…”
3) ” I want you more, a thousand times more, than skeeter-peter Grubie. Can you feel me coming, just to gaze at you?”

The Un-eventful Finale:
I arrived at 7:09, if I remember correctly. Grubie got there a few minutes later. I had the key, and we said not a word as we quietly opened the door to the Shoppe. The plan was to take her to the basment, where we could discreetly clean up the evidence in the lav and return her to the shelves, a virtual ‘virgin’. A toss of a nickel had determined that I’d go first. ‘Sloppy Seconds”, he called his fate, although to tell the truth, I don’t recall turning her on her tummy to check for any alternate entree. The ‘swimming-pool’ style inflation ‘chup’chik’ was on her butt, that I remember. In an emergency, I’d planned to ‘tighten’ her orifices.
But all was for Naught! ‘Much Ado about Nichts’ Shakespeare was Prescient.

She was Gone! Purchased, by some lame-ass loser during the night-shift. Nowhere to be found, in the jungle of Dildo-Land.
Both of us disguised our disappointment, each in his own style. Grubie joked “Easy come, easy go.” and I, having maybe invested a bit more depth-psychology, muttered, if I recall correctly:
“Oh well, let’s flip a coin for a real flesh ‘n blood girl, Groob, Male bonding, y’know? I can handle it.”


Q: And the Moral?

A: Wish I knew. real stories often have none..

Currently Reading:”Ants are not the Answer”

Currently Reading:”Ants are not the Answer”: Aardvarks Talk about The Meaning of Life“: Aaron A. Singer; Full-court Press, Durham, NC. (2009)


What the Hell’s the deal there, Herb?
You tryin’ to be non-verbal?”
While SHUGAR {sic} starves in Africa,
You waste the “H’ in ‘HERBAL’?”

Herb’s Pathetic Defense:

“Hey, a letter here, a letter there..
Am I my brother’s keeper?
I sell Herbalife® in Togo now
with an ‘H’ right on the Logo”

..and his Impudent Offense:

 And while we’re pointing fingers, Solberg,
What’s with  the freaking ‘A’s?
Yeah, in ‘Aardvarck‘, (Oh, and Aaaron Singer’s
gay too,  by the way..”)

My Retort:

“Herb, we’re off the subject; Just read
‘Ants are not the Answer’.
He deals with ‘W’ sternly, calls it
everything but Cancer.”

And sure there’s a ‘K’ in a Silent Knight’
Two wrongs don’t make a right.
Keep ‘Subtle’ out of sight for now; he’s in
Shakespeare, a great play-WRIGHT

I move for a change of venue, ‘Erb’, you’re
such a sub-urb-an sloth. Got
four toes, only using three
Yer a modern Visi-goth!

The Judge’s Verdict:

“Order in the Court !, (‘Hmm, a ‘U’) I de-
clare you both Insane.
This case dismissed as frivolous;
Oh, and Solberg, check your brain.”

Coming up:
‘Culling this year’s Culinary prose’: Do we really need to read ‘Marianated Marionettes’ when we got Julia Child-Perogene’s superb ‘Puppets ‘N Pasta’ on the shelf already?