Friday, August 6, 2010

What's Up WIth Mr. Joannes?

Changes are afoot, and ahead, and I hope I can stomach them.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Blind Date

I knocked on Maxine's apartment door at 7:30 sharp, as agreed upon in our email exchange.

Arriving too soon might make her think me too eager. If I were late, she might think I didn't care. I felt our relationship important enough to merit the most fastidious attention to detail. I had waited for ten minutes in the lobby of her apartment building. I busied myself with reading the community bulletin board and smiling at neighbors checking their mail and walking their small dogs. They avoided me as if I made them nervous, and I was glad I had this chance to work off some energy. A poorly lettered sign advertised a "PC Deks 4 Sell." At 7:25 I walked up the stairs to apartment 39, arriving at 7:28, and stood as quietly as possible while I waited for the agreed upon time to arrive.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Gladiator or Gulag: A Simple Choice

Today I saw someone post a clip of the famous "Faces Of Death" monkey brain scene.

The dramatization shows a group of American tourists at a restaurant in some foreign country waiting at their table.

A waiter brings in a howling, screeching monkey and straps him into a special head lock and cage built into the table.

The menfolk grab mallets, and the camera jumps from their gleeful faces to the horrified expressions of the women, to the sound of screeching monkey and crunching bone.

The film never actually shows the men making contact with the monkey, see.

Cut to the waiter, carving the skull of the now-deceased monkey, scooping the brains out onto plates, and serving.

The scene is staged. No monkeys were harmed in the making of the film, but the reactions of most "civilized" individuals is predictable.

"How barbaric! How cruel! How unlike anything I'd ever consider being a part of!"

Unfortunately, this ritual feast is far less cruel than the torture experienced by most of the animals that wind up in your local supermarket.

I'd even wager that most of the people that think they're offended by such scenes would have no problem picking a lobster out of a tank and telling someone to drop it, live, into a pot of boiling water, then using an array of devices to crack the shell, pluck out the steaming meat, and dip it in some melted butter and lemon.

That may even be enough to convince them to put out on the first date, if you play your cards right.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Lesson Learned

It starts like this.

You wake up. Feed the cats. Eat some toast. Kiss the wife and go to work. Eat lunch. Come home. Feed the cats. Eat a steak. Fuck the wife and go to sleep.

The police take you in the night.

The doctor says you're homeless. The woman you call your wife is a bus driver that walks past your box on her way to the depot. Work is collecting aluminum cans. The cats are rats the size of Mastiff Puppies.

You don't want to know what you've been eating.

By the way, you're being charged with rape.

You plea to insanity, remanded to psychiatric eval.

It takes five years to convince you.

To find the right medicine to cure you.

Release you to a productive life. collecting aluminum cans and eating garbage, again.

It ends like this.

You don't feel right taking the meds, so you decide to stop.

Feeling better, you get a job, meet a nice girl with some cats, fall in love, and get married.

Every day is the same.

You wake up. Feed the cats. Eat some toast. Kiss the wife and go to work. Eat lunch. Come home. Feed the cats. Eat a steak. Kiss the wife and go to sleep.

Lesson learned.
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