As I write this, I can hear the angry whine of snowmobiles. Well, I could before the furnace started running. It’s like minus ten with the wind chill. Ain’t no cobras going to survive this one. “Hisssssss-shiiiittt. I’m dead.”

Cobras swear far too much. That is why the mongooses hate them. The mongoose is a very pious little animal. Like a furry, weasel-like Evangelical. As far as mongooses are concerned, cobras are an abomination unto their god. Mongesus. That’s their god’s name. He’s a pretty angry god. More Odin or Thor. But furry and weasel-like.

I hate snowmobiles. Well, I don’t hate them. I just find them to be extremely irritating. It’s just difficult to understand how riding around on a bumpy trail all day, smelling like gas and snowmobile exhaust, can be that fun. Of course, they do drink a lot. Which I sort of condone because that habit tends to weed them out a bit. (I don’t really condone drinking and driving. Lighten up, you stupid mongoose. And why are groups of you not called Mongeese? I suppose a group is probably called a Congregation of Mongooses. Heh heh. I just make this stuff up as I go along. And still it is genius. GENIUS!!!!)

People who ride snowmobiles are known as bubbleheads. This is not a disparaging term. Their heads are always encased in a bubble. It’s not my fault. Seriously? Have you forgotten about the Washington Redskins? Now that is completely asinine. Washington Bubbleheads would be a way, way less offensive name. They could use Newt Gingrich as their team mascot.

Newt. For the love of the howler monkey, how in the hell does a guy named Newt ever end up the boss of anything? Perhaps the amphibian exhibit at the zoo, I guess. That makes some sense.

Anyway, the bubbleheads ride to and fro, joggling their insides and then drinking down beer in a sadistic march to diarrhea-land. DiarrheaLand. You don’t want to go down that water slide, I can tell you that much. At least there is always a soft landing at DiarrheaLand. It’s a lot better than Six Flags Kidney Stone.

One thing I do know, you don’t want to ride a snowmobile with a kidney stone. That would be pain only a true martyr could enjoy. Or one of those weird sex perverts who wear leather and put that little red ball in their mouth. “Yeah, that kidney stone is really turning me onnnnnn. More bumps.”

Even I am shuddering and I wrote the damn thing.

I suppose that somewhere there is a factory that makes those little red balls. I think it is in Kansas or Iowa. They seem like likely states for red sex ball manufacturing. The company motto: “No blue balls around here.”

Double entendre. That’s French. They do some weird stuff. Like not ever properly defending Belgium.

Do you think the French ever get sick of hearing that? I mean, WW2 has been over for 73 years. They don’t pick on us about Vietnam all the time. Of course, they screwed that up as well, so it would be rather hypocritical of them.

Tete de bulle. That’s “bubblehead” in French.

And you said this was lowbrow.

 

For whatever reason, it has started to snow a lot in this locale. Winter was going along fine and then, whoosh, snow disaster out of nowhere. Like a cold, white venereal disease, ruining all of our good times. If venereal diseases could be cured by April. That would be nice for the long suffering. April brings May flowers and a herpes free summer. That’s good of April. It would be ironic, however, if someone had contracted a venereal disease from a person named April. Not to be disparaging any Aprils out there.

Anyway, like all bad things, the sudden influx of snow has come with a bright side. No, not snow blindness (I had an IronFist comic book where the hero became snowblind chasing a guy with long hair and claws. “‘Snowblind!” he shrieked. And then the bad guy clawed the shit out of him. And yelled “Should have worn your sunglasses, dumbass!” The bad guy had a fine sense of humor. I wonder whatever became of him. Probably continually relegated to shitty comic books, never to make a Marvel movie. What a waste.)

As I was saying before I was interrupted by my nostalgic meanderings (which may or may not be a faithful rendering of what actually happened as I was like nine when I read it), the snow comes with an upside. For, while interminable shoveling is bad for the back, it does take your mind off the collection of fools who are running the country. I use “running” in the most euphemistic of ways in the prior sentence.

Of course, there are plenty of people who appear fine with the fact that we are hurtling toward nuclear doom. And, I understand. There are many unhappy people who want to die. Their lives suck. Husband is a fat, toothless hillbilly. Children are delinquents running meth labs. They work as a cashier at the Dollar Store and their boss is a twenty-three year old kid who plays Fortnite in his spare time. To be honest, I would want to die, too. It’s just the part about taking the rest of us with you that causes me consternation.

If you want to hurtle towards Armageddon (which, for your information, was originally just some shitty little town in the desert- talk about something going out of control), I really think you should keep the rest of us out of it. Perhaps we could just draw a line of demarcation (North and the South, anyone?). All of the people who no longer want to live and think they are going to a better place can go South. Of course, they aren’t going to a better place. They are going to Mississippi. But they don’t care much about facts or details. I mean, when brushing your teeth is beyond the purview of your personal responsibility, does it really matter?

Anyway, all of you can go down there and begin the Libertarian End Times. Yay!! No taxes or homosexuals!! Heaven on Earth I’d say. Maybe that will make all of you so much happier that you won’t even care about MS-13 coming to take away your babies.

As a sidebar, MS-13 is a really dumb name for a gang. Bloods. Crips. Those are scary names. MS-13 sounds like some guy who will be headlining at Electric Forest. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Zeeeeeeeeeeeee- zipppppp. Boom. Boom.

Y’all don’t get to go to Electric Forest. But the MO does. He’s on stage right between The String Cheese Incident and Pigeons Playing Ping Pong.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. “I am the Real Orange, I am the Real Orange, I am the Real Orange. Nothing rhymes with me…. Bitches.”

BoomBoomBoomBoom Zeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee- booooooooom!!!

 

I am a bird in a box. Cover my face in…sorry. I didn’t see you sitting there. Perhaps you could be a little bit better at announcing yourself. A little “ahem” never hurt anybody. Unless they were hiding from Nazi forces under the floorboards.

On a related note, that would be a terrible time to have Tourette’s. “Son of a bitching bastard” indeed.

My dad used to say “son of a bitching bastard” all the time. You don’t hear that much anymore. Damn millenials. They have ruined everything with their political correctness. They think everything should be handed to them- even swear words. Fuck you. There you go. I handed you something.

Anyway, the other day I watched a movie with my wife. It was called “Bird Box.” It has Sandra Bullock in it. To be honest, I really can’t stand Sandra Bullock. Name one movie that Sandra Bullock is any good. Keep thinking. No, Speed is not any good. It is one of Keanu Reeves’ worst movies. That should tell you something. Anyway, Sandra Bullock sucks.

So, in the movie people start seeing demons. I don’t know where these demons came from (hell, I presume). More importantly, I don’t know why the demons all of the sudden decided to show themselves. What have they been doing for the last six thousand years? Playing board games?

“Sorrrrr-rreeeeeee!!!!! In your face, Balthazar! In. Your. Face.”

Balthazar rolls his eyes. “When are we going to show ourselves to the humans and make them go all crazy and shit?”

“Soon enough. Quit being a poor sport. Just a few more games and then we will go.”

“Alright.” Balthazar rolls. “Seven. Dammit.”

Anyway, since Balthazar already let it out of the bag, the plot of the movie is that demons show themselves to people and then people start going crazy and either kill themselves or other people. The goal, it seems, is the destruction of the entire human race. Kind of like the voters in West Virginia. Or Oklahoma. Etc.

But, if you don’t look at the demons, they can’t hurt you. Thus, the survivors take to wearing blindfolds all the time. Also, the demons can’t get into houses. This makes no sense at all. But don’t blame me, I didn’t write the stupid movie.

Eventually, Sandra takes two kids down the river heading for a safe place (hopefully). Of course, they would have been dead in about fifteen minutes. Over the boat goes and when they surface, bam!! Smiling demons everywhere. Game over.

Two days later, they land on the bank of the river. I missed a few things in my summary, but you can probably guess what these things were if you’ve ever watched any apocalyptic movie. Anyway, Sandra and the children follow the sounds of birds and eventually find the safe place. Surprise!!! It is a school for the blind! The demons didn’t think that one through, now did they? Just like they forgot to figure out a way to go into people’s houses. Even though they are supernatural spirits who are not restricted by temporal barriers. Other than doors and windows, which stop them every time.

So, Sandra and the children get into the blind people’s house and all is better. Other than the fact that they are surrounded by demons who will never stop trying to drive them crazy. There are also some evil human beings who are helping the demons. They can do some of the things the demons can’t. Like go into a house uninvited. Sound familiar? Heh heh. Familiar. I’m still funny after all that rest.

Anyway, the movie ends and the people are all happy even though they are clearly screwed, barring supernatural intervention.

There are also some birds. They are in a box. Well, not at the beginning or end. In the middle.

Well, that was a long nap. I guess I was sort of sleepy. Fourteen months later and I am fresh as a daisy. When I woke up, I thought that I had just dreamed Trump was president. Joke’s on me. And soybean farmers.

If you thought I’d gone to Canada, well, that was ridiculous. I can’t get into Canada. At least not long term. They want smart people. Or rich people. And preferably not Americans. Xenophobic, maple leaf waving bastards.

Anyway, I had a lot of emails when I arose from my slumber. Half of them were requests. Everybody wants something whether you are there are not. All of these emails end with “Thank you for understanding.”

I have news for these people. Maybe I understand and maybe I don’t. I mean, it is a bit presumptuous to assume I understand. “Dear MO, I will be selling your fishing rod. It seems no one can find you and I need the money for heroin. Thank you for understanding.”

As you can see, I have no understanding for the above example. Why would I? Pull yourself up by your own bootstraps if you want heroin. Not that I am advocating for heroin use. I certainly don’t understand that, either. I hate needles, for one thing. Plus, I watched Trainspotting. Frightening. That poor baby. The Scots are some real bastards. No wonder Longshanks didn’t like them.

Anyway, I wonder when this “thank you for understanding” thing started? After all, somebody was the first to do everything. I know, right? Where’s the beef? Duuuuude? Violators will be prosecuted. Amen. All hail Ming!

Perhaps the first usage went something like this:

Dear (insert Indian tribe name here),

I am writing this to inform you that those blankets we gave you may (or may not) have been ridden with smallpox. If so, I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused. Thank you for understanding.

Yours Truly,

New Ownership

Of course, it could have been something a bit more benign.

Dear (insert name of anyone growing up in the 70’s),

Hi! I hope your day is going well. Anyway, you know those bell bottom jeans you are wearing. Well, they are really stupid looking. And they will never, ever come back into style. Like, mullets might, but those jeans never will. Somebody will give it a shot, but it won’t happen. That is because those jeans are really stupid. Sorry about that. Thank you for understanding.

Sincerely,

Futuristic Descendant of Guy Who Came Up with Bell Bottom Design

Another alternative comes from recent news.

Dear Ignorant American,

You may have noticed a number of politically divisive articles on social media. To be perfectly honest, we have written these articles to fool you into electing an Orangeish reality tv star to your highest office. Sorry about that. Thank you for understanding.

Russian Bot Number 1

PS- Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama are having an affair. In a clandestine site that doubles as a pizza parlor. They are also chopping up children and using them as pepperoni. Their workers are illegal aliens (likely MS 13 members) who have crossed the border every place there is no wall. The End Times are near. Buy Smirnoff vodka. Putin is love.

Phew! That was a lot of work. I already need another nap. It won’t be as long as that last one, though. If you were worried about me, I apologize. I was sleepy. Thank you for understanding.

I was watching a show on Antarctica.  Once you get away from the ocean, there isn’t much there.  Except for scientists.  The ones that go there seem pretty happy about being there.  Good for them.  However, I can’t help wondering if they wouldn’t be happier plying their trade someplace else.

I mean, you can still be cold and yet be within 1oo miles of a hospital.  Winnipeg isn’t exactly what one would describe as balmy.  But if you break your leg in Winnipeg you aren’t in a race against time as your helicopter speeds toward Argentina.  And the Canadians have socialized medicine.  Eh?

Anyway, watching people in Antarctica taking core samples of ice got me to thinking about the nature of mankind.  Specifically, what is it that makes people so eager to go someplace they clearly aren’t meant to go?  There’s a reason El Capitan is foreboding.  Because it is extremely dangerous to climb.  That sense of foreboding is you brain’s way of telling you something.

“This is a really stupid idea,” is that thing it is trying to tell you.  “You can easily die scaling a sheer cliff face, idiot.  If you want a thrill, maybe just have a few beers and sucker punch an unsuspecting biker.  That beats a three hundred foot fall any day of the week. ”

You have to admit, the brain in this scenario is obviously correct.

Every year people die climbing mountains, or skydiving, or going to places like Antarctica.  Everyone knows this.  Yet next year a bunch more people will die doing the same things.  To be honest, while I appreciate a little adventure, I just can’t get my head around it.

I guess I look at it this way.  There are lots of ways to die.  Cancer, car crash, falling down the stairs.  You can be hit by a stray bullet.  Your neighbor’s bull can get loose and stomp you to death.  Ebola can get you.  Pneumonia.  Double pneumonia.  (Triple pneumonia if you live on Mars.  A little Total Recall joke.)  A bridge could collapse on your morning commute.  One minute you are trout fishing in Yellowstone.  The next minute a mama grizzly is passing parts of you around to its hungry cubs.

And these are all things that happen when you are in locations compatible with the human existence.  There is a reason there are no hotels on Mount Everest.  That is where the Yetis live. It is not a place for a dentist from Des Moines.  Everest is where dentists go to die.

It’s why I don’t like to fly.  I don’t have wings.  Evolution didn’t want me that way.  If it did, I would be a giant bat.  And I’d eat every damned mosquito I echolocated.

Slurp.  Slurp.  Slurpppp.  “Damned mosquitoes,” I’d squeak.  “I’ll inhale every damn one of you.”

Alas, patagium have I none.  My boots are made for walking.

And that’s just what I do.

This brings us back to Antarctica.  There are seven continents on the Earth.  But only one of them has never been truly inhabited by people.  Because people aren’t penguins.

And, god help us, we never will be.

On a side note, penguins don’t fly, either.  And you don’t see them trying.  They are content to swim and waddle and regurgitate fish to their young.  Maybe people should be penguins.

I read an article the other day that says robots will take all of our jobs.  Like soon.  The author of the article figured that truck drivers would be on the unemployment line in ten years or so.  Bad news for Lounge Lizards everywhere.  If Burt Reynolds has another Smokey and Bandit movie in him, now is the time to do it.  In 2029 the movie will be C3PO and Robocop.  This movie will assuredly have superior acting when compared to its predecessor.  Jackie Gleason should have stuck to the Hustler.

“You shoot a great game of pool, Fatman.”

“One of these days, Eddie.  To the moooooonnnn!!!”

I guess robots will be 100 times smarter than human beings in 30 years.  That’s an IQ of 10,000- for those of you short on math skills.  Which is a statement that, compared to futuristic robots, applies all of us.  This means that computer geeks will go onto the same bone pile as the truckers.  Hopefully, nothing weird happens there.  But you never know.  After all, without jobs all of us will have to improvise.

If it makes you feel any better, great minds are already working on the problem of what to do with billions of unemployed people.  The most optimistic of them see a world where the robots are state-owned and everyone lives a government dictated lifestyle.  In others words, the robots do all of the labor and the humans are fed, clothed, and housed and free to play XBox to their heart’s content.

Yes, this is the optimistic view of the future.

The MO’s view (which, given the prescience of the MO, will certainly come to pass) is a bit bleaker.  Eventually, six people own all of the robots in the world.  The rest of the people in the world live an existence plagued by the constant threat of starvation and disease.  (This does not apply to the Amish, who go on thy merry way.  At least until the rest of us break into their larder and steal all of their hard-earned food.)  Driven to desperation, the masses try to rise up against the Lords of the Robots.  But they are thwarted by the robot armies of these lords.  Robots beget robots beget robots.  After all, at 10,000 times the intelligence of human beings, no problem is insoluble.  They fix each other, create each other, do the bidding of their masters, and exterminate the vermin (us, in this scenario).

On the bright side, I will be around 80 – assuming I survive- when the robot problem begins to come to a head.  Thus, like Climate Change, it doesn’t really affect me.  Life is change, I always say.  Lest I appear callous, I will start to call my generation the “Really, Really Greatest Generation.”  That ought to pacify you youngsters.

If I get really bored, I suppose I will join the robot resistance.  Shooting at robots will probably be therapeutic.  It’s rare that one gets an opportunity to truly contribute to society during old age.

Therefore, I would like to say “thank you” to the robot legions- in advance.  After all, I won”t be able to thank them in person when they are shooting death rays at my house.

But that’s the price of progress.

You know what you don’t see much these days (pun intended)?  Peeping Toms.  Do you remember when that was a thing?  Hohohoho.  The good old days.  Before society lost its moral compass and started down the path to liberal hedonism.  Bastards.

Fox News says to bring god back into our lives.  I say, where the hell has he been?  He’s the all powerful being, not the MO.  The MO is more on the level of demi-god; sort of like Hercules but with a laptop.  No swabbing out any shitty stables for this demi-god.  Eff you, Hercules.  Swarthy, Greek SOB.  Speaking of hedonism, the Greeks thought being a homo was just fine.  There they are, right on the corner of Haight/Ashburyopolous, fornicating as pretty as you please.  Wrong kind of swordplay, Leonidas.  Abominable, one might say.

Anyway, Peeping Tom-manship is on the dwindle.  I suppose it is because of the Internet.  Why stare into your neighbor girl’s window when you can see Hot Asian Chicks any time you want?  I guess if your neighbor is a Hot Asian Chick, you might be tempted.  But what are the chances of that?  Well, pretty fair if you live in China.  But I digress.

The best Peeping Tom ever in fiction?  John Belushi in Animal House.  Hahahaha.  It was so funny when he was on that ladder watching those girls undress.  And then he fell into the bushes!  Second funniest part of Animal House?  How about when they go into the bar full of black people and joke about apes?  You just can’t find that kind of humor these days.

Because we have lost god.  I hope we can find him.  I looked in the wood pile earlier today.  Not there.  Only wood and some lethargic insects.  Winter is coming and that’s the end for those crawly fellows.  In your face!

Does a centipede really have a face?  I mean I know they have a head and a tail.  But I am not sure they have anything that qualifies as a face.  Centipedes could never be Peeping Toms no matter how hard they tried.  Though that might make a good children’s book.

“Centipedy Wants a Face.”

For the liberal crowd we could have “Wormy has a Dad and a Mom All in One (Isn’t that Fun?).”

“God is Lost.  Maria Sees Him in her Toast.”  Maybe that doesn’t qualify as a children’s book.   Though one could argue the Bible does.  If one were so inclined.  Which I am not.  This essay is about Peeping Toms.

The Nerds from Revenge of the Nerds were Peeping Toms.  Looking through the hole in the shower.  They probably got that idea from those scamps in Porky’s.  Every time I hear a wolf howl, I think of that movie.

Revenge of the Nerds also made date rape acceptable.  As long as you are wearing a Darth Vader mask.  Caveat emptor in that case.  The same rule applies if your date is wearing a Twisty the Clown mask.

Anyway, nostalgia is fun.  But the wheels of time roll ever forward.

You also can’t food fight in school these days.  Automatic expulsion.  The godless age has no need for Double Secret Probation.  The end is nigh.

Did I ever tell you how much I hate Oprah Winfrey?  No?  Well, it’s a lot.  A entire shitload of hatred.  If you think that is excessive, or even unwarranted, it is because you have not been paying attention.  Prepare for a little lesson about people.  You get a lesson!  And you get a lesson!  And you get a lesson!

Of course, I do my best to avoid this woman.  But she is everywhere.  I was surfing channels and there she was.  And women were fawning all over her.

“Hahahaha.  Oprah, you are so ever droll.”

“Oh, Oprah, you have so much insight.”

“Oprah, do you remember when you were that skinny?”

Ah, yes.  Oprah was talking about her weight.  There was a picture on the screen of Oprah.  The picture was old and Oprah weighed 142 pounds.  Old Oprah was so very proud of herself.  What will power.  What dedication.  She had overcome her demons.

As you know, she only got fat again.  Demons win.  Nope.  She got skinny.  Then fat.  Yay, demons.  Then skinny.  Then fat.

Most people would admit their failure.  But not Oprah.  She said that being skinny was a mistake.

“What??!!”  I screamed at the television.  “A mistake!  You put the food into your maw, you damn Oprah!”

Oprah ignored me.  Like she ignores her failure.  “Yes,” said Oprah.  “You just can’t live that way.  Starving, I mean.”

I bashed my head against the wall.  “Starving?  Starving!!  You weighed 142 pounds.  That isn’t starving unless you are seven foot two.”  I pleaded to the hosts of the show.  “Can’t you see she is duping you?  Listen to me, Sharon Osbourne!”

Sharon Osbourne proved as good at hearing as she was at picking loyal husbands.  “I know it,” she agreed with Oprah.  “You just can’t live that way.”

“Yessssss!!!! Yes, you can live that way.  Millions do.”

But I was shushed by the all-knowing Oprah.  “That wasn’t a life.  It has to be a lifestyle.  If I want a piece of cake, then I want a piece of cake.”  She grinned slyly.  The crowd went wild.  Stupid, stupid women.

“Fraud!  Rotten fraud!!!”  I yelled.  But I was drowned out by the adoration of affluent women who apparently have no job because they are in a studio audience watching Oprah in the middle of the day.  “Wanton freedloaders!”

But my cries were to no avail.  I can’t stop Oprah.  No one can.  She is like an STD of the airwaves for which no prophylactic has been invented.  Oprah has infected millions of followers.  And it just keeps on.  She screws them and leaves them wanting more.  Did anyone of them ever see any of those cars?  I doubt it.  I guess Oprah is acting in another movie.  What talent.

At that point, I turned to another channel.  How much can I take?  I’m sure she eventually got around to giving advice about children and marriage.  And those women just kept egging her on.

She doesn’t have any children.  She is completely, utterly selfish.  Can’t you see that?  Steadman was never going to marry her.  She can’t share.  She is literally incapable of sharing anything with anyone.  Didn’t you ever notice that every single topic eventually comes back to Oprah?  If they talked about Chinese missiles, she would talk about the time she was in a Chinese restaurant and the waiter threw something to her.  Dammit to hell!!!

If I come up missing, you know what happened.  Let the world know.

As you know, I like to mix it up a little.  The MO refuses the pab that feeds the masses.  Anyway, I was looking up the lyrics for the song Sex Dwarf by Soft Cell.  (Hey, they are reputable.  They sang Tainted Love you know.  That got put into a commercial.)  I was reading the lyrics which, I assure you, are wondrous, when suddenly a female voice began speaking from my computer.  As I was wearing headphones and listening to Pandora, her voice was like that of an well-modulated angel.  Or the computer for the USS Enterprise.

The name of this computer?  Angel.  Coincidence or fate?

So this melodious sexpot starts whispering in my hear.

“Warning,” she says.  “Warning.  You have contracted a virus that has corrupted your computer.  Please call the number on the screen for directions.  Your personal information is at risk.”

“Holy shit!” says I.  “That doesn’t sound good.”

Plus, what was I doing looking for the lyrics for Sex Dwarf?  Although it was for purely literary purposes, still I felt a twinge of guilt.  Kind of like when you a teenager and some grown woman bends down in front of you and you really don’t want to look but still you see because how in the hell could you not even though you really didn’t want to and now you are probably going to have a bad life because Karma is a bitch.

“Holy shit,” I repeated as the woman continued to warn me with her breathy words.

Fortunately, I am a bit cynical.  Gathering my wits, I restarted the computer and typed in the phrase “my computer started talking saying I had a virus.”  Lo and behold, it popped right into the suggestion box.

“Scamming bastards!”  I yelled.  Then Backslider by the Toadies came on.  I love that song like a fifth son.

“Come over her, little Backslider.  Father has bought you some new boots.  Don’t you want your goulashes, Backslider?  They are fine goulashes.”

“Thank you, father.  These goulashes fit perfectly.”

“No problem, Backslider.  Only the best for you.”  I whisper like a fake computer scamming computer lady in little Backslider’s ear.  “You are my favorite.”

“I know, father.”

But I digress.  The question is who in the hell has time to make a fake computer lady to trick people into calling a phony number and then taking the calls from these suckers in order to scam them?  That seems like a lot of work.  I thought scams were run in order to get the scammers out of performing drudgery.  These scammers have to be the dumbest bastards in the world.  Well, the second dumbest.  Well, maybe there are sixty million or so people dumber that I can think of offhand.  You know what I am saying.

The problem with calling people “dumb” is that there is a lot of competition.

Yeah, I have some of the lyrics.

On a long black leash
I will parade you
Down the high streets
You’ve got the attraction
You’ve got the pulling power
Walk my doggie
Walk my little sex dwarf
We can make a scene

It’s like Shakespeare.  If Shakespeare was a dominatrix with pierced nipples.

I was going to pierce something else, but I thought better of it.

I am still worried about Karma.

And you’re right.  I have no idea what the name of the Enterprise’s computer is.

I was running the other day.  I had my shirt off because it was hotter than hell.  I was suffering as I leaned into the last hill of my run.  At this point, a car with some teenage boys drove by.  As they passed, they yelled out “Woowooo.”  I presume this was some sort of sarcasm related to my physical shape.  To be honest, it hurt my feelings.  Could they not see how hard I was trying?  It’s not like there were hundreds of men in their late forties running up a steep hill in hot, humid weather.  Little jerks.  I’d like to see how they do in thirty years.

Actually, I’d like to be able to see anything in thirty years.  But if I can, and I drive by one of them while they are running up a hill, I will guarantee they are getting both barrels.

“Come on, chubby,” I will say.  “When I was your age, I sprinted up that hill.”  And then I will laugh my old man’s laugh and continue on to the grocery store to get my prunes.

The funny thing about aging is that it doesn’t seem like it was that long ago when I was the smart-ass in the car.  Actually, I’m lying.  It seems like a long time.  I just don’t want to admit it.  That is why I am still trying to run up a hill in the stifling heat.  I refuse to accept reality.

That’s also why I keep fantasizing about putting those little a-holes in their place.  I want so badly to meet them on the field of battle (in whatever form that might take) and to defeat them decisively.  And then I want to say something both cutting and witty.  I don’t know what exactly that would be.  Maybe something along the line of them having to get their mommy to help them.  I’ll work on it.

Of course, it is very unlikely that I could beat them at any sort of physical endeavor.  Grrrrrrrrrr!  The unfairness of it all.  If only there was a Viagra for playing football.  Take the pill and experience a temporary return to glory.  I’d smash them all down, even if I destroyed my own body in the process.  It would be more than worth it.

Anyway, gotta run.  If I see those kids again, I’m flipping them off.

Or mooning them.  I guarantee that will give them pause in the future.

There is nothing more satisfying that realizing the solution to your dilemma.