I find this particularly funny. A certain slightly lower-than-normal functioning gentleman that I know always punctuates certain sentences in this fashion. Whenever he is telling about how he quit doing something or decided against something, he always ends by saying, "Nope, uh-uh, bag it". He also likes to place random "YEAH"s during your turn to talk. Whenever you go to ask him how he's doing, he always beats you to the punch by saying real loud "GOOD" or "FINE", so I never get past "How...". A couple of times after he cut me off this way I decided to change the question around in order to confuse him. It sorta went like this:
Me: "How..." Dude who talks funny: "Fine!" Me: "How'd ya like to give me twenty bucks? Dude: "No!" Me: "You said you were fine with it." Dude: (smiling nervously): "No, I didn't say that." Me: "Oh, you must've been trying to read my mind again. What happened?" Dude: "You're trying to be funny." Me: "Yeah sorry, I just wanted to have fun with ya." Dude: "Yeah! (laughs) Okay." Me: "So, you're doing alright then?" Dude: "Yeah." Me: "But you're not gonna give me twenty bucks now?" Dude (gets a semi-serious look on his face): "No, uh-uh, bag it."
(This post was started a few months ago after I drilled through a board and into my finger all the way to bone. I'm okay now, okay being a relative term. Anyway, I can't remember where I was going with it, so I am posting it somewhat finished, I think.)
My poor, evil middle finger. It had a mind of its own. I really had to watch out in public. Heck, I even had to switch which hand I used to wipe my bottom, for fear of something taking the liberty to grab my attention. Don't ask. I think this all started early on in my life. You see, my thumb and index finger saw all the action then. My index finger got to point at things and pick my nose. My thumb got to venture into my mouth, then when I got a little older, it helped me with my Fonzie impersonations. While the two end fingers knew their place on the hand, my middle finger became wildly jealous and started acting out. My middle finger started getting in the way of things a bit too much as I grew older. This was the beginning of the real trouble, or as I call them, the "Bird" years. My middle finger would tell the other fingers that when the master raised his arm to salute authority, or other dignitaries called "assholes, dickheads, and douche bags", that they should all take a bow. Bow they did, all except my middle finger. He thought it was hilarious. It was after many years of getting in trouble from these bad habits of my middle finger that I came to the conclusion that it may have evil spirits trapped inside. I researched this subject quite thoroughly and came to two solutions to my problem. First, I could try an exorcism. Second, I could try releasing the evil spirits through a ritual "trepanation", as performed by many ancient cultures. I didn't trust being left alone with a priest, so I chose trepanation. Trepanation is the ritual "opening up" of the skull to release trapped spirits inside the mind. This has seemed to work for some people, so I figured that it would work for me. As far as working on my middle finger, I didn't know, but I was willing to take the risk. One thing was for sure, I would have to deceive, lay a trap, for my middle finger because I knew it wouldn't cooperate on its own. The perfect setup: I needed to drill some holes in a board. I blindfolded him with a work glove and put him in the line of fire. Once the bit started boring into the plywood, I would slowly maneuver him into position. I paid off his brothers by promising them a week's vacation from scratching stuff that smells and absolutely no probing duty for at least a month. The plan went off without a hitch. Blood dripped down my hand with a pulsating flow. A black mist spewed out of the hole in my finger, and was sucked back into whatever hell it came from. Sure, I felt pain, but I also felt a sense of relief. I would no longer fear awkward social moments or ugly confrontations caused by my middle finger.
And so it was, no more standing up, as it were, and I just laid back and took it in the ass. My middle finger sits there staring off into a world of resignation, a seat next to the barred widows of the asylum. This is what life is like without that middle finger, my little red imp that started it all. I haven't much left in me in the way of "fuck off and die" anymore. Their benevolent smiles hide one hell of a set of sharp teeth. Who are "they" anyway? I know and I don't know, so don't ask me. I do know that I can't fight toe to toe and win. I couldn't before when I had the guts to salute them right in front of their faces. I killed off the one little thing that did stand up to conformity. Why? Because I age and friends get farther away and fewer in number. I need a break from the fight. It's a bit pointless to keep a good supply of piss and vinegar around these days, when there's little interest in fighting. When all of us are queued up in perfect rows, running in perfect interlocking circles, listen closely to those hands holding the cash; that will be your only applause. I did a bad thing and laid down my middle finger. I had a total bullshit overload this past year or so and just had to be silent for a while. I may have rambled and I may have not made much sense here, but at least while I made the effort to finally publish this post, my middle finger was doing pushups and slowly getting back in the game. P.S. I say to "They": buzz off and feel slight discomfort!!! HA! Well, I have to start off small or I'm likely to get a cramp.
I just smell that way. It's been awhile since I've blogged. Did you miss me? Well, since some of you keep up with me elsewhere, you probably don't miss me too much. I really don't have much to say at the moment. I just wanted to check in. Life is life, pretty much. I'll post something soon. Oh yeah.... Why did Mickey break up with Minnie? 'Cause Minnie was f@cking Goofy. Badoom-kish!
My spirit doesn't earn a damn cent. My body is the one out there making things happen. Oh sure, there's all those tingly "spirit" feelings and inspirations, but that never really gets the rent paid and the dishes washed. That said, I really feel for my spirit. My spirit tries real hard to enlighten, nurture, and give me some connections that might keep me from going to hell. I think I have it figured out, though. My spirit is like some '50s TV housewife and my body is the funny, overweight husband that gives her affection when it suits him, brings home the bacon, and beats her when the cameras are off. It really is the best analogy I could come up with. I've thought about divorce. I mean, I'm not looking to speed things up. There's still much more to explore in this relationship. But, at some point, the spirit has had it with the body, or the body does something stupid, gets old, or just plain screws up. I tried coming up with a suitable way to wrap this post up, but I got lost in fantasy. I was thinking about how great it would be if my spirit and body did a "Freaky Friday". I think I would learn a lot. Anyhow, while I'm getting older, I think I can still expect great things from my body. My spirit will always have to figure out life after my body leaves, much like the housewife that takes care of her fat, abusive husband, only to find him dead from a heart attack. Let's hope I've taken out sufficient afterlife insurance and my spirit will get what it deserves.
(Reading this post while listening to the music is recommended.) I remember it like it was just yesterday. I danced in my room, a dance that only I knew. Wearing only a pink tutu and wrestling shoes, a fine balance of the genders represented there where no one would judge; well, my dad did after walking in on me. When we recall that moment it is known as the "awkward night of surprise". After our encounter in my room, my dad revealed to me his love of Baryshnikov. I replied "Really, dad? You like ballet too?" He came back, "Hell no! I loved 'White Nights', him and that 'ketchup' fella...er...Hines!" "Dad?" "Yes, son?" "Is it ketchup or catsup?" "I dunno. I prefer ketchup." "Oh. Well, somewhere I heard that they put more sugar in one of them and that's what made the difference. You ever hear that?" "I..I, well, yes, somewhere indeed. I believe it was in one of your mother's magazines. She puts them right there beside the toilet and I can't help but read them." "You know what dad?" "What son?" "I've read those magazines too. There's some pretty good ideas in them." "Yeah? Like, what kind of ideas?" "Oh, I dunno. It must be neat to be a woman, that's all." "Son, now believe me when I tell you this, being a woman is hard." "Well gosh, dad. I don't want to be a girl. I just think that it must be great to do lady stuff once in a while." "What kind of lady stuff?" "You know, macrame, trying on clothes, and talking shit about other women." "But you don't have to be a woman to do those things, son. Why, you and I could do those sorts of things together." "Really?" "Really." "'Black Ketchup'!" "What's that again?" "Black Ketchup, it's got Worcestershire sauce and black licorice in it!" "IS THAT A REAL THING???" "I HAVE NO IDEA BUT WE'RE GONNA BE EFFING BILLIONAIRES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Aaaaaaaand then we just started shouting at every one in the house, celebrating our victory of genius, broke a bunch of shit, then called the patent office. The End!
Hells bells my elbow hurts. Well, it hurts less than it did before. For about a month and a half, I've had "tennis elbow". Last week I finally went to see a sports medicine specialist about it, and I have since been doing physical therapy, plus wearing a nifty brace. The weird part is that I don't remember playing tennis. What I did do to earn this elbow was good ol' repetitive motion. Nope, it wasn't from masturbating; that would be "penis elbow". No, I got this from using a hand truck to haul many heavy things, over and over for a month's time. The reason for my bitching is that I really feel misrepresented by my condition's name. I wasn't all "la dee da" hitting a damn ball around and got hurt.
I know that tennis can be pretty fierce, but the name surely isn't. Why can't it be called "boxer's elbow" or "chin-scratcher tendonitis"? Boxer's elbow would sound better than tennis elbow, but I don't box. Chin-scratcher tendonitis would be more representative of what I do. I am constantly being baffled and like to exhibit my frustrations through a vigorous chin massage, so I think the name fits. I guess I can just tell people that I have lateral epicondylitis. Maybe then they'll think I'm dying and be nicer to me.