Why I hate nudity

I’m not sure what purpose going through adolescence serves other than providing bad experiences, setting you up for things you’ll hate as an adult.
For instance, as a result of one bad experience, I tend to avoid going to weddings these days. Not that I would ever repeat the mistake of getting a little too drunk and dry humping a certain bride’s leg when it was my turn to dance with her, because I won’t.
I also know that statistically speaking, the probability of my getting beat-up by an angry groom and his henchmen is pretty low, nonetheless, I pretty much avoid weddings at all costs.

Another thing I’ve had a tendency to avoid as an adult is nudity. I don’t care much for it.
Well, not unless I’m about to get laid or something, then it’s ok. But as a general rule, I think it sucks.
I know this goes against human nature and all, but the experience that forged my contempt for nudity was a particularly nasty one. One that left me scarred for life. Literally.

It was at a nudist resort, where me and a friend, desperate to lose our virginity before heading off to college, decided to go there to meet chicks. Naked chicks.
Concerned that our being around all that female nudity might  activate the launch sequence, we thought it best to take some medication, mainly to keep our business under control.
I think that’s where we might have fucked-up.

When we got to Shangri La Ranch, after downing a six-pack of beer and a couple of quaaludes along the way, everything was fine. At least at first.
Things changed shortly after that.
As we’d planned, our bodies were slowly getting numb, making the possibility of a wayward boner completely out of the question.

But as we’d soon learn, buzzing and numbing sensations were one thing.
Paralysis was another.
After a few minutes, both of us had lost all basic motor skills, even our ability to speak one syllable words.
We hadn’t planned on this.
We had planned on making our way over to the swimming area where no swimsuits were allowed, scoping the pool for some babes, ordering up some more beers, and making a nice day of it as our ‘date tackle’ did all the talking.

We never made it to the pool area.
On our way, my friend stumbled into an elderly couple, landing him on a chaise lounge, where he stayed for the remainder of the afternoon.
And while I was attempting to coerce him into getting his naked ass off the chair and moseying over to the pool area, that’s when I blacked out.

Rudely awakened from our midday slumbers by one of the attendants, presumably from the way we were lazily strewn across the lounge chairs, we were asked to leave.
Leave where?
Neither of us knew where the fuck we were or how long we’d been asleep. But we did know there was a small group on naked onlookers pointing and laughing, reminding us how we were naked, at a nudist resort, and now sunburned. Everywhere.
I was horrified.
Where once was a pasty-white dick, having never seen the light of day, was now some sort of unrecognizable protruberance the color of freshly boiled lobster, the hot Arizona sun showing no mercy on the little fella.

Which is why as an adult, after a week of laying around nude, with burn ointment on my business, I tend to shy away from any scenario involving nudity, quaaludes, sunlight and beer, pretty much in that order.

As I said, I see no reason for adolescence gifting us with experiences we won’t repeat as adults. It would be nice to frequent a nudist resort every now and again.

Humping my buddy’s wife’s leg during the dollar dance, not so much.

The worst birthday present ever!

My thirteenth birthday was a memorable one.
Not because I was on the cusp of manhood, evidence of which being my first few celebratory pubes beginning to crown. Au contraire.
It was because my parents, who were under some misguided belief I was musically gifted, presented me with a zither for my birthday.

A fucking zither. Can you believe that shit?

I couldn’t even play my dad’s guitar and it only had six strings, the zither had forty.
And if that wasn’t a compelling enough argument to not buy me a zither, I was kicked out of 7th grade band class for stealing borrowing Elly Warner’s piccolo and using it as a baseball bat at recess. Well, that and the fact that I couldn’t play the trumpet to save my ass.

At first, I thought it was some kind of joke when I got it out of the box, thinking there was a real gift waiting for me in the back yard—a three year-old colt named Lightning—or maybe a new Yamaha dirt bike. Something cool anyway.

But the party started to break up shortly after my opening their present, clearly indicating this was it. There was no dirt bike or colt in the backyard.
It was like being in a movie theater and the lights, signaling the movie’s over and it’s time to leave, came on unexpectedly as the film was still running. I didn’t know what to do as everyone started filing out, so I tried playing it, which made them only walk faster.

As it turned out, the only racket I could manage to produce with the fucker was an ear-splitting cacophony of sounds not even I could tolerate, and I liked death-metal jams at the time if that tells you anything.
Maybe if I had a lesson or two I thought. But then that wasn’t meant to be either, although I couldn’t imagine why.

One would think, logically of course, that if you’re going to gift someone with a zither, you’re probably going to want to throw in a few lessons too, right? 
Nope. Not even a self-guided instruction book. I’m guessing now it was because there were no zither instructors available at the time.
And that makes me wonder about the zither itself.

Where did they get a zither anyway? At a rummage sale?
It’s not like music stores had a big promotion going on zithers at the time.
And it wasn’t a family heirloom.
So where did they come up with this damned thing?

I’m guessing my dad in one of his weekly poker games.
Where perhaps one of his broke-dick friends, out of money and with nothing left to bet, placed his last wager using his family’s prized zither as collateral.
Or maybe he found it in a dumpster somewhere.
Anyway, it didn’t matter.

What mattered was what I supposed to do with a zither.
Join a local band? Like that was going to happen. Lead zither players weren’t in very high demand at the time, eclectic as music was in those days.

So I just sat there in shock and disbelief, strumming my zither as the partygoers filed out, thinking about how this had to be the worst birthday present of all time.
A zither. Jesus.

Thank God for those first couple ‘o short hairs that popped up a few days prior, otherwise the day would have been a total bust.

It was identical to this one

How to know what she’s really saying

I love Shazam.
The music app for your phone that listens to any song playing and within a few moments, tells you the name of the song, artist, and a bunch of other stuff. It even lets you purchase the song.

Well I need an app like that for my wife.
One I can hold up when she’s speaking and have it interpret what she’s really saying into something I can understand. In short, a chick to dude translator.
You’d think the guy who wrote ‘Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus’ would have already glommed on to this concept, but I’m guessing he’s busy trying to keep his marriage alive so not to come off as the biggest douche in the universe.

WITHOUT THE APP

Her: “My back is killing me today, I must have overdone it.”

Me: “Mine too, not only is my back hurting, so is my shoulder from that old football injury, and, I have a killer headache to boot!”

What she was really saying was how she’d like a nice back massage, how she doesn’t feel like cooking dinner or cleaning up afterward, and how she’d simply like to relax in a hot tub with a glass of wine.

How the fuck am I supposed to get all that out of “my back is killing me?” I’m not a psychic.
My brain is wired to compete. So if you tell me your back hurts, I’m not only going to one-up you, I’m going to throw in a couple extra maladies to make my point, and, to make certain that if you do come back with how your feet are hurting too, I’ve still got you beat by at least one symptom.

That’s the way it works in my world. It’s not right, I know, but like most men, I wasn’t born with the nurturing gene. I was born with the ‘I need to win at all costs’ gene.
Not necessarily the best thing for a marriage, I realize.

And this is where the app could come in handy.

WITH THE APP

Her:    ”My back is killing me today, I must have overdone it.”

App response: ”Well then Missy, lets get you out of those clothes and into a nice warm tub, that should help, and if it still hurts, after I finish cooking dinner and get the dishes done, there’ll be a back massage waiting for you.”

Only I have a feeling she’d be onto me the second I recited something like that. It just wouldn’t sound right, coming from me anyway. Not that I don’t mind helping cook, clean, or provide massages, I do.
The problem is this.

The moment I say lets get you out of those clothes, she’d suspect something was up, (no pun) knowing full well she’d never see a warm bathtub, dinner, or anything remotely related to a back massage.
This is where women’s intuition sucks.
For intuitively, she’d know the minute that blouse comes off, the next thing she’d be seeing would most likely be a headboard, the ceiling, or maybe even stars if she’s lucky.

That’s when she’ll pause for a brief moment and say something like;

“Well, I guess I better get dinner started…what are you in the mood for?” 

Secret tips on dating every guy should know: Men only please

I’ve long held that most guys, particularly those on a first or blind date, are often sabotaged by their own destructive methods.
Nervousness, leading to stupid speak and or weak conversation.
Anxiety, that lends to the appearance of no self-confidence.
And apprehension, the worst, making you look as though you’re not the ‘take charge’ kind of guy every woman wants.

Well say no more.
I’ve got a remedy that will not only help you abate these three date killers, it’s sure to buy you the game you’ve always wanted, and it all boils down to one secret weapon—sushi.

First, most women like sushi as a general statement.
I think it’s because sushi is a long drawn-out meal involving copious amounts of something-tini’s in between servings. Chicks like this since it affords them time to get to know you. Time they need to figure out if you’re going home with them or not.

But the real reason for you to acquire a taste for this denizen of the deep is because it’s an erotic metaphor of sorts—a bellwether implicitly stating that if you’re willing to eat the most disgusting of raw fish presentations, something disgustingly flubbery and with a hint of fish bouquet, you’ll eat just about anything.
Which about the time you unreservedly gobble down that first bite, your date has already reached the conclusion that whatever flubbery disgusting mess she’s sporting down below, it shouldn’t pose any problem for a guy like you.

No more awkward conversation.
No nervousness.
No apprehension. You knew what you were ordering right from the start.

A big heaping helping of whatever it is she’s harboring down south and in no uncertain terms.

You’ve just bought a nice meal and game all on one easy to complete order form.
Try doing that with surf and turf the next time you’re out on a date and see how far it gets you.

Eat up...there's plenty more where this came from

Assaulted: By my own barber!

I’ve always had a special relationship with my barber, Sal.
Sal’s one of those guys who in all of the twenty minutes I’m in his chair, manages to bitch, whine and complain about every ethnicity on the planet other than his own beloved Italians.
To say he’s a bigoted racist fuck would truly be an understatement. Sal doesn’t just say nasty things about people, he lives it—hostility oozing from his being much the same way you and I breathe air.
He’s simply that mean. Or maybe insensitive is a better term. Who knows.

But today Sal crossed a line. Not with his ethnic rants, I usually ignore them anymore.
Today, as I sat in his chair, hot towels wrapped around my face as I waited for him to shave me, he left to go to the bathroom. I know this because his shop is small, with the bathroom only a few steps away from his station.
Anyway, I hear the door shut, the toilet flush, and the door to the bathroom immediately open no sooner than the toilet flushed, making it fairly easy to deduce Sal had not taken time to wash his hands afterwards. Which under any other circumstances wouldn’t have been an issue.

But in this case it was.
Upon Sal’s return, and after a lengthy strap sharpening of his straight razor, he reached into my mouth with his index finger, fish hooking my cheek taut so he could shave the corner of my mouth.
As I said, any other time I wouldn’t have cared, except the fact that Sal was left-handed and there was now a left hand index finger in my mouth.
The same left index finger that only moments earlier was probably holding his dick.

I sat there in horror as my sphincter began to clench up.
I could not believe what was happening. It was like time was standing still and I was in the middle of some nightmarish episode of The Twilight Zone.
All I knew at that moment was there was a filthy finger in my mouth that needed to vacate, like post-haste! But my brain was so fixated on his fish-hooking me, I couldn’t think straight.

I wriggled at first, signaling I was uncomfortable. But too much wriggling might snag my jugular I reasoned. The wriggling stopped.
I probably could have faked a seizure, but Sal’s known me for ten years, and with no known history of epilepsy, it would look disingenuous. Besides, a men’s barber shop is one of the last bastions of virility—the smell of testosterone thick in the air. Faking a seizure in there might get me banished from the man’s club. I don’t need that.

I could bite him I thought, but then I’d come off as some kind of asshole. Another possible banishment inducing  gesture.
And a cough was definitely out of the question, that is unless I wanted my face surgically removed without all the hoopla of a hospital and a bona fide surgeon.

Instinctively, as one does when their sphincter is tighter than a bongo drum, I began talking gibberish, as if I was a Southern Baptist Minister speaking in tongues.
Sal wouldn’t be able to understand me, not with his finger in my mouth. And since I rarely respond to his rants, I reckoned he’d be eager to hear what I was mumbling for once. It worked. The finger popped out immediately, as for a brief moment he stopped to listen.
My sphincter finally at ease.

Only I really didn’t have anything to say, so I mimicked what was on his flatscreen at the time. A news report of some Italian captain who’d just chicken-shitted his way off a sinking cruise ship.

“Lousy piece ‘o shit that guy, a real wart on the ass of humanity.” saying it loud enough for the other men in the shop to hear, hoping for a validating response.

Sal immediately spoke up, in obvious defense of his countryman…

“He wuzza goin fora helpa. Why else he goan-a leava the boat?”

And in an instant, fresh off the heels of our exchange, I saw his hand swooping toward my mouth once again, almost like a mother feeding her infant child as she waives a spoon around its head,  pretending its an airplane on final descent. Only Sal wasn’t making any airplane sounds.

I couldn’t go through this again. Not after that.
Finally relieved of his torturous shave, and to a lesser extent my now cramping sphincter, I waived him off, signaling it wasn’t ok to land his dick-finger in my mouth again.

I fully expected he’d cut me on purpose at that point, but being the professional he is, he didn’t. Instead, he used our remaining time together to torture me in a new way.
He gave me the silent treatment. And, he was scowling at me.

I went from listening to his verbal assaults, to an actual finger assault, to no assault of any kind.
A blessing in disguise? Perhaps. But I’d be lying if I was to say it didn’t leave a void. It did.

I went to the pharmacy on my way home, buying a rather ample supply of razor blades.
Then I sat down to write this post, hoping if I saw it in writing, it may have some kind of therapeutic venting affect.
It didn’t.

Life as a human

I wonder if someday we’ll all be sitting around in an afterlife discussing our human experience and what it was like having a body.
When it’s my turn to speak, this is what I would tell the others.

Other than eating and having sex, there’s not a whole lot to enjoy about the experience.
I did however like the fact that mine worked well, all my parts functioning and all, and how I was able to produce some decent offspring, but as a whole, having a male body was a real pain in the ass.

First off, there were way too many orifices, six major ones at last count, not to mention the millions of pores on my skin. And they were always emitting some kind of noxious substance, some more than once a day.
And that meant there was a prolific amount of cleansing needed if I didn’t want to go around smelling like a hobo.

And if the orifice part wasn’t enough to loathe, how about having bones that broke easily, cartilage that wore out early, teeth that decayed, eyes and ears that lost their efficiency, a brain that petrified with old age and a dick that didn’t.
Oh, and lest we not forget the dangling duo, two of my favorite characters that continually fucked with even the most basic of motor skills, and always requiring adjustment—typically in crowded public places.

I also got two tits that didn’t work.
Hair all over everything, requiring any one of a half-dozen depilatory methods.
Nails on my digits that needed continual maintenance.
Fat cells that were all too eager to swell up for no apparent reason.
Muscles that needed constant exercise.
A voice box that checked-out every Monday morning.
And, I was a germ factory.

What wasn’t to like?

How not to eat lunch: One man’s debacle

Lunch for me is not a very glamorous event. In fact it’s anything but as I continually explore new ways to gobble my food in record time.
Unfortunately, for me and society, this method of eating relegates me to eating mostly sandwich type foods or products I can slurp out of a pull-top container. Speed eating always being the rule.
Well today, I hit a new low.

Wendys, a fast food chain here in America, offers a bowl of chile served in something resembling the venti sized cup one would get at Starbucks.
Immediately dispensing with the formalities of eating utensils, I reasoned that since the chile was not even mildly viscous, in fact a runny mess, and, being it was in a cup I would normally drink something out of, I didn’t waste any time. I began to slurp it right out of its container.

This is the part where I learned that even fast food joints have conventions, and I had just broken an important one.
Judging from the look on my fellow diner’s faces, the line I’d just crossed must have been similar to one passing from East to West Berlin in the early’60′s, dressed only in a flak jacket with several sticks of dynamite strapped to their chest.
In short, I had everyone’s attention.
It had to be my soup cooling tactic I thought. That giant air-sucking sound I made prior to the big slurp. Great, now what.

I suppose I could have gotten up to go fetch a spork or something, but in my typical ‘who-really-gives-a-shit’ logic, I reasoned how I’d never see any of these people again and continued to unashamedly drink my chile, this time sans the Hoover-ish noises.
But the chile was hot, taking way too much time to eat. I needed a new method.

With no eating utensils present, I decided that rather than get up to go grab a spoon, I’d simply dip into my coke with my fingers, scoop up a few ice cubes with which to cool the chile, and get this pony to the wire.
Pretty much a decent plan I thought, but again, I would learn the hard way how this convention is only sanctioned for kids under the age of five, anyone else would draw the seething contempt of any onlooker.

I want to say I didn’t give a shit, but I did, feeling much the way I imagined Hester Prynne felt after her ordeal, only I never screwed anyone, gotten pregnant, or had a baby out of wedlock.
I was guilty alright, but from little more than breaking with the norms of a fast food joint.

I guess in the long run I was long overdue for an event like this, and maybe it would have never happened in the first place had it not been for that two-hour lunch with my wife last week.
A lunch that should have taken forty-five minutes at best, but the venue was a major chick hangout where they serve fifty dollar salads and refill your iced-tea every two minutes, while all the women wait patiently for Alice, The Red Queen and Mad Hatter to come bursting out of the kitchen, happily trotting around the room validating everyone’s reason to spend two hours eating a fucking salad and sipping tea.

Maybe I’ll get a red-colored Sharpie and draw a conspicuous ‘C’ on my forehead the next time I go in for a cup of chile.

 

 

Ladies: It’s not true, we don’t think with our….

I was at a party last night where in between mingles, en route across the room to catch-up with some old friends, I overheard the following between two women;

“Well, what are you gonna do—he’s a man…he thinks with his dick like every other guy.”

“I know honey, you’re so right….I need to just let him go—he’ll never change.”

“That’s right sweetie, let him go…you watch…he won’t miss the fire ’til there’s no water to throw on it.”

Normally, I’m pretty good at clichés, even better at metaphors, but “he won’t miss the fire ’til there’s no water to throw on it?“

What the fuck is that?

Is the fire part her, or is it sex? I’m not sure. If she is the fire, does that make him a bucket of water? Or is the fire referencing sex, and she’s the bucket of water? That can’t be right either, it sounds way too wet.
Or is the fire their relationship?
In any case, I think the water is a really bad way to analogize a break-up, but that doesn’t mean I won’t use her metaphor the next time it’s even remotely appropriate. I will.
What the hell, may as well confuse others with it as she did me.

What I really took exception with however was her caustic comment about guys thinking with their dicks?
That’s simply not true.

Guys don’t think with their dicks, we think with our brains, just like women do!
That’s not to say we don’t consult with our dicks from time-to-time, we do, but only on matters such as whether its time to see a doctor about a burning sensation, or which color car to buy other than mid-life crisis red.

We would never dream of discussing a potential mortgage refinance, or what we’re going to have for lunch with our dicks, no way.
I don’t even want my dick weighing in on big decisions like that since he’s got a particularly notorious history of  giving bad advice.

But from the way she sounded, it was if we don’t do anything without talking it over with our dicks first.
She’s wrong, and here’s a good example.
Let say you’re at a restaurant, and seated at the table next to you are a couple of guys.
The waiter, serving the two guys asks for their order. They stop everything, unzip their pants, pull out their dicks and ask them what they’re in the mood for.
That would be disastrous.
You know what both dicks are going to ask for and I guarantee it won’t be anything on their menu.

Which is precisely why we have to ignore our dick’s counsel ninety-five percent of the time, since they’re continually badgering us, making lewd suggestions every eight minutes no less—the kind that will eventually land us in a divorce court or worse—some over-the-top STD.

But there is that other five percent of the time we simply can’t ignore our willies, and it usually has something to do with biological functions. In that case, it’s usually best to listen, otherwise we’d pee our pants, or walk around with boners in public. Not cool.

Actually, believe it or not, when it comes to taking counsel from a particular body part, my vote will always go to my butt hole, since he typically offers some pretty sage wisdom, especially when it comes to making healthful food choices.
I always give him the last word, considering I’ll have to deal with his wrath the next day if I disregard his advice and wolf down a pile of Mexican food.
In short, he’s one body part I’ve learned not to fuck with, unless I’m drunk or something.

But the dick? He’s another story altogether.
He’s the original Mr. Bad Advice, often providing counsel similar to that of a gang member—it’s never good.
Which is why I’ve condemned him to spend his entire life behind the prison walls of my boxer shorts, only getting out for short bathroom breaks and an occasional conjugal visit for time well served.
Letting him out for any other reason would simply be unwise, a real menace to society and to a lesser degree, me.

Maybe that’s what that woman was trying to say in her fire and water metaphor.
That the woman’s lady parts were the fire, and the guys dick was a fire hose without a fireman on the end of it, snaking unreservedly through the air in every direction until it finally sprays her or something.
Who knows, I’m still not sure, but it sounds reasonable.

Anyways, I hope I cleared things up on the dick-thinking part.
We don’t actually think with our dicks.
It’s more like consulting with an old friend who just happens to offer really bad advice—similar to how that woman did with her friend.

Diego

R.I.P Mayans, you bunch of idiots

All I hear about on the news nowadays is the Mayan prediction of how the world will end this year.
Give me one good reason I should believe the Mayans?

If the Mayans were such a great civilization, why aren’t there any Mayan food restaurants? Isn’t that the mark of a great culture, its food?
But there is no such thing and do you know why?
Because there are no restaurants that only serve corn on the cob.

And what kind of fashion mark did they leave the world? Most great civilizations have given us a fashion legacy.
Romans and Greeks with their toga’s. (college parties)
Scots and their kilts.
Arabians with their thawbs.
Hell, even Native American Indians have cool outfits they hop around in.
But if you look at Mayan descendants, they all dress the same—with big sombreros and colorful serapes. The kind of shit you can buy on a Mexican beach for a few pesos.

It’s true, they were good at language and math, but my daughter has both of those skills and if she told me the end of the world would arrive in 2012, I’d scold her for being so creepy and send her off to bed without dinner.

Sorry Mayans but as a civilization, I think you’re all full of shit.
You may have built a cool temple and developed a language that causes me to have to press 1 for english, but if all your high priests ever did was hang out and predict the end of our world and not your own, well the best I can say is you got what was coming to you.
I’m glad your civilization died off, and hopefully it was from some kind of corn blight.

Nice legacy!

The male sex drive: What is wrong with it?

 

The Affair

After a night of prodigious drinking, the club’s sound system echoed the same song it played every night at closing time, signaling last call.
It was time to make his move.
After scouring the bar area for any low-hanging fruit, the chicks conspicuously hunched over—heads cradled in elbows passed out drunk, he came up empty handed. Nothing there to take home there, he thought. Keep looking.

It was then, as if by some modern miracle a cute blonde woman in her thirties approached, asking if he would do her a small favor.

“Would you pretend you’re my boyfriend so this jerk will leave me alone?”

What the fuck? Why not he reasoned, thinking it may actually lead to something.
He consented with a nod, careful not to expose his slurred speech.

“You ready to go babe?”

“Yeah, let me get my things, just a sec…”

Once in the parking lot, she thanked him with a small kiss on the cheek. He didn’t want the encounter to end, asking if she’d like to go have some breakfast.

“What I’d really like to do is go back to your place and thank you properly.”

Holy shit he thought, who saw that coming, as his brain, already in motion, beat him to his car by at least a full minute.

When they arrived at his place, it was a scene right out of a Hollywood movie—him ripping off her blouse and bra, her loosening his belt and tugging his pant off.
He suggested they move it to the bedroom, giving him a respite which he’d use for a quick bathroom trip, hoping she would do the same. But when he came out of the bathroom, he found her sitting on the floor.
Her stiletto had apparently snagged the flooring, causing her to face-plant. As she sat there, trying unsuccessfully to free the heel from the loose strand of carpet wrapped around it, he approached.

Genuinely, as if  he’d known her his entire life, he bent over and picked her up, cradled her into his arms and carried her off to his bedroom in a most loving manner. Her look was one of pure affection, amazed by his chivalry.

The remainder of the night, the two were entwined in one of the most passionate interludes both had ever experienced, they thought it would never end. But it did, the drinks eventually paying their toll.

The next morning, as he laid in bed propped-up, his arms cradling his head as if he was King Faud himself, she woke.
A little embarrassed by the nights events with a complete stranger, and hungover as well, she thanked him for a nice night, called for a cab and started for the door.

But as she headed toward the door, her stiletto snagged the carpet in the very same spot it had only a few hours earlier, sending her face-planting into the carpet once again.
She laid there for a moment, secretly hoping he would come to her aid as he had done so magnificently the night before.

Only this time, as he laid there in bed watching, he began to laugh at her misfortune.

“Clumsy bitch!” he muttered.

And there you have it.
The most notable difference between men and women when it comes to sex.

Tips on euthanizing your pet

The Sticklands invited us to dinner the other night as they so often do. Only this time, instead of our usual combination of drinks, dinner, and casual conversation, the evening would end early, marred by an argument over the right to life.

It all began when my wife, during our pre-dinner drink session announced she had taken our dog to the vet, getting some very bad news about our ten year-old Shar Pei, Max. It turned out Max had cancer and wasn’t expected to live much longer.

That’s when Ed Strickland suggested we bring him out to the ranch where in a ceremonial ‘last-fetch’, we would throw his favorite chew toy out into the desert while Ed stood-by, ready to shoot him with his varmint rifle.
Maybe it was the Wild Turkey imparting its typical pangs of wisdom, but as grim as it sounded, the idea did have a certain appeal.
After all, there would be no suffering.
No long painful death.
Just a dog, doing his job one last time before going out with a high level of dignity. I liked it, but I had a question.

“How do we make sure you get him on the first shot? Do you spray paint a bullseye on him or something?”

That’s when Ed’s wife Cindy chimed in.

“Ed’s a pretty good shot ever since he had his lasik surgery done.”

“Nah, I’ll use the semi-automatic and pepper him.”

I was starting to have my doubts, thinking about how Max hadn’t been the best of dogs, but that didn’t necessarily call for him to die in a hail of bullets like he was some kind of dog terrorist or something.

“Gee, I don’t know Ed, that sounds pretty messy.”

“Well the other thing I can do is just put a .22 pistol up the back of his head and let him have it.”

Having seen my share of mob flicks, I happen to know that’s what they do—three shots with a .22 behind the right ear—a signature Mafia hit. Max didn’t deserve that either I thought. It wasn’t like he ratted-out a mob boss or something.

“I don’t know Ed, they both sound kind of gruesome.”

That’s when Cindy validated Ed.

“It’s really not. That’s how Ed took care of our dog—a single shot when he was sleeping.”

The idea had lost all appeal now.
Maybe I was starting to sober up. Or maybe, despite my fervor for hunting, it just didn’t seem sporting.
I rejected the idea and it was a damned good thing I did because during the entire conversation, it never occured to me that my wife, who’s usually pretty animated during the cocktail hour, hadn’t spoken. I looked in her direction only to find she had a horrified look on her face.
Her mouth agape while staring almost catatonically at the three of us.

She finally spoke up.

“Please tell me you guys are kidding. Ed, you are kidding aren’t you?”

Ed’s a rancher and doesn’t have much use for small talk. He also doesn’t like to mix his words.

“Why would I kid about this. He’s a family member and deserves a humane death.” he said sharply.

My wife looked at me, asking the same question.
Given how I’m not a rancher and really more of a survivalist, I hit the rewind button.

“Of course we were just kidding—hon.” The hon part coming out unexpectedly, surprising even me.

I was hoping someone would change the topic at that point, but instead, Cindy, in a “Stand by your man” show of support, praised Ed for his willingness to help us out in an otherwise bad situation.

“Jane dear, it’s the right thing to do. It’ll be good for both of you. When he starts to show signs of failing, load him up and bring him out to the ranch. You and I can have a couple of those pomegranate martinis you like so much while Ed takes care of business.”

“Are you all fucking crazy?” my wife yelled out.

“What the hell is wrong with you people?” Who shoots their dog anyway? Ed—I’m embarrassed to call you my friend—you too Cindy!”

She got up and started for the door, but not before one last tirade.

“Ed, your’e a cruel man. And Cindy, how you can support Ed is beyond me.” I hope I never see the two of you again.”

The drive home was a long one, complete with rhythmic sniffling coming from the passenger seat, neither of us saying a word until we walked in the house and discovered Max laying on the floor next to her favorite cashmere sweater—completely chewed to pieces.

“Hi, Cindy? Jane. I hope you’ll forgive me for overreacting but….

A very James Brown Christmas

After spending the last few weeks searching for anything remotely resembling a Christmas spirit, I accidentally stumbled upon it last week in a cowboy bar.
With absolutely no plans on two-stepping, cavorting, or any other type of cowboy activity, I went there with one purpose in mind—throw back a couple of beers, a few shots, and hope I didn’t get hit in the head with a flying barstool. (When some drunken cowboy decides to prove he’s in possession of a third testicle. It happens every now and again).

My plan was to simply mind my own business, grunt at the bartender when in need, and for the most part, wipe off the day’s stench before heading home. But it wasn’t meant to be.
After settling in, my first boilermaker safely down the hatch, I noticed something was wrong.
The music playing from the jukebox sounded strange.

There I was in shit-kicker central, where songs about broken hearts and ‘cheatin’ are the norm, when someone, (I presume in a fit of temporary insanity), decided to treat us all to James Brown singing a Christmas song; Santa go straight to ghetto.
I was stupefied.
Thinking it was a joke of some sort, I signaled the bartender with a shrug, clearly indicating my concern over his choice of tunes. I did this thinking he was waiting for someone to validate his little joke, whereupon he’d respond back with a chuckle, then get us back on the blues track with cheatin songs. No go.
Instead, he pointed at an older woman posted-up at the jukebox, indicating she was the culprit.

Thinking what the hell, it’ll be over with in a couple of minutes, I ignored the music and went back to watching tv. I was wrong.
The song began playing a second time. Probably a glitch I reasoned, no big deal.
Then a third.
This wasn’t a glitch, Three times in a row is not a glitch. This was an all-out assault to the senses.
I shrugged at the bartender again, this time signaling WTF. He ignored me.

My mission of minding my own business had run its course, it was time to take action.
I decided to approach the woman to find out what her deal was, after all, I was there to listen to cheatin songs, not get hit by a flurry of James Brown Christmas punches.

“Interesting song choice,” I say in an irritated tone.

She began to cry.

“It was my husband’s favorite Christmas song,” she replied.

My head was spinning. Did she really just say that? Who could like this shit? Maybe he wrote the song, who knows. I pushed for more.

“Ahem—excuse me ma’am, but did I hear you say it was your husbands favorite?”

“Uh,huh.” [sniff]

This wasn’t going anywhere as I watched her put more money in the jukebox, making the same selection again. It was time for a more direct approach.

“Alright lady, I’ve heard just about enough of this shit, three times is plenty don’t you think?  Play something else would you please?” 

“I can’t.” [sniff]

“Why not?”

“I already paid for it.”

I stopped for a moment to take inventory.
She’s distraught.
Her husband is obviously out of her life, likely dead from the way she intimated.
Oh, and we’re sitting in the Lariat Lounge, a cowboy bar listening to the same shitty Christmas song by James (fucking) Brown, over and over.

She left me no choice.
I pretended to stumble, landing squarely on the side of the jukebox causing the recording to skip and finally quit playing altogether.

“You did that on purpose…you owe me fifty cents.” she demanded.

“No I didn’t.” responding as if I was a school kid in some sort of trouble.

I walked back to the bar as she followed closely behind.

“I want my fifty cents.”

“No, I told you…it was an accident!”

The next thing I know, out of nowhere comes a flying handbag, beaning me squarely in the head.

“OW! What the hell was that for?“

“You know gott-damn well what it was for, I want my fucking fifty cents!”

Just then the song started playing again.

“Beat-it lady, you shouldn’t have been playing James Brown in here in the first place.”

She was livid, raising the handbag as if to hit me a second time but this time I grabbed it before it hit me, my grip firmly locked in place. But so was hers and the strap broke, spilling the purses contents out onto the floor.

Hmm. A brush, make-up kit, small change purse, gun.

GUN???

It was time to take inventory again.
She loved some guy who liked James Brown Christmas songs, making her crazy by association.
She’s pissed off.
She’s packing.
She has OCD, and, she’s missing several teeth.

My survival instinct kicked-in as I put a dollar bill on the bar and bounced, hoping she didn’t shoot me in the back or something as I ran out of the bar.

Safely in my truck, and with no signs of the lunatic chasing me, I started for home, still very much in possession of the day’s stench and then some.
All thanks to James Brown and the wise-ass who snuck his Christmas album into the Lariat lounge’s jukebox.

A gunshot wound was NOT on my Christmas list