There's nothing quite like walking into the workplace with a wicked boner a-bouncin' and a-boingin' in your trousers. Grab coffee, turn on computer, pleasant smile, make light banter with boss, with co-workers, maybe with clients if you're lucky.
"How was your weekend? Really? Sounds fun. I did a lot of yardwork on Saturday, but on Sunday we went hiking near Boulder..."
All the while, your terrible secret is safely hidden behind your untucked shirt and your brain feels like a super-charged capacitor ready to pop, overloaded with images of incredibly naughty women of all types, performing all types of godless acts -- womens in sheets, womens on bikes, womens in the back seats of abandoned cars, five womens, six, maybe more; womens on top, on bottom. Womens! Womens! Womens!
"Yeah, the weather was great, although it did sprinkle a bit during the afternoon. Not that we minded, it was so warm."
Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!
"Did I what? No, I haven't gotten to that yet. It's my first priority this morning. I'll be wrapping up that project today."
Little fucker's trying to chew through the zipper! Down, dammit! Down! Jesus, that feels good... Tight as a fucking drum, they don't call it wood for nothing.
Meanwhile, coworkers and colleagues go about their business as if they don't have maddening erections. They take no notice of the massive, pulsating, vibrant, jaw-dropping member (if it had a voice, it would SCREAM!) barely concealed in your pants (are those jeans stretched to their limits?) But in truth, it's more likely they suffer from a similar shameful affliction 'cause they're all a bunch of freaks around here, anyway -- only they have smaller dicks.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Thursday, June 23, 2005
A Modern Rosetta Stone: Deciphering the lyrics of the song: 'Here's Where the Story Ends', sung not by Harriet Wheeler of The Sundays but by pirate whores
Editor's note: Until now, this song has been a lyrical mystery.
Studies have uncovered most of the lyrical content of a beloved, if oft-misunderstood song.
We hope this sheds some light, perhaps squelches the moaning of those tireless enthusiasts who prowl the net for answers. (Following italics and bold our ours.)
[strumming guitar in G, sparse bass, modest drums in 4/4]
People I know
places I go
'tis but a rough sea
[strumming]
you love me not
don't touch m' twat
feels like an oak tree
[strumming]
here's...
where...
the story ends
[strumming]
senses alive
can't feel m' eyes
lucky to see me
[strumming]
you love me not
don't touch m' twat
hear like a small flea
[strumming]
here's...
where...
the story ends
[strumming]
here's...
where...
the story ends
[strumming]
i am pretty fortunate
for a buckled-down nut
with heart and soul of gold
well, we could have went to bed
but for the books that you read
were all I loved you for
i am pretty fortunate
for a buckled-down nut
with heart that can't grow old
i know why the lights are red
porque es malo red
surprise, surprise, surprise
[strumming]
crazy I know
places I go
make me feel so tired
[strumming]
I can see how
people look down
i'm on the outside
argh!
[strumming]
here's...
where...
the story ends
arrrgghh!
[strumming]
here's...
where...
the story ends
[strumming]
it's that little souvenir
from a terrible year
which makes my eyes feel sore
& whoever would've thought
the books that you bought
were all I loved you for yarr!
the devil in me said
g' down to th' shed
Aye know where aye belong
But th' only thin' aye ever really wanted t' saaaay
'twas wrong,
'twas wrong,
'twas wrong...
Editor's footnote: Due to the project's unresolved financial imbroglio and its questionable scientific merit, our experts abandoned all research before we could recover the remaining lyrics. We can only presume they've been lost to time. Thank you very much, Dr. Loren Nielsen, University of Colorado Anthropology Department.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Notes only, pay no attention
Charlie's gettin' hard again.
Seen him yet? He's lookin' thin.
Every night, warm and dry, I sleep like a kitten on mother's milk
I get soft, I get high.
But Charlie
Charlie's gettin' hard and thin
He walks the streets, walks the deserts, walks the mountain canyon rims
Looking for a fight, he can't be right, but he just might win.
Seen him yet? He's lookin' thin.
Every night, warm and dry, I sleep like a kitten on mother's milk
I get soft, I get high.
But Charlie
Charlie's gettin' hard and thin
He walks the streets, walks the deserts, walks the mountain canyon rims
Looking for a fight, he can't be right, but he just might win.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Third night alone: No woman, no cry.
The old lady takes a beating from me sometimes (metaphorically, of course); and most times she deserves it, but after three days and nights without her, I'm forced to admit many of her qualities might often go unnoticed amid the furor of my fury.
It occurs to me that that she plays a sizable role -- much of it behind the scenes -- in keeping this house from foreclosure, from crumbling to the ground, or from slowly dissolving into a wretched structure of neglect. For example, she waters all these plants (a task that almost got away from me, until I caught the error just today. Still not sure if I caught it in time), she deals with all of the most hated chores (laundry, dusting and general housekeeping), she supplies the house with rock and roll and the latest trendy movies, she mixes refreshing alcoholic beverages that everyone -- man, woman or child -- enjoys, she cooks up one mutherfucker of a meal when she has a mind to, fetches the dog when he escapes, and looks great in a summertime spaghetti-strap top (if you get my meaning.) She does it all while maintaining gainful employment and providing that artful, womanly touch lacking in even the most upscale homes.
She also provides occasional sex.
By comparison, my role in the matter seems a little weak. I do change the oil in her car now and then, and most times I take out the trash. I always mow the lawn and lift the heavy things, and I clean the bathroom weekly (more or less.) I also do my best to clean up my shoes, socks, dirty underwear and other things, which surely cuts down on her work somewhat. And I provide occasional sex, too -- great sex.
But... I fart a lot, crack a lot of off-color jokes and sometimes fly off the handle in the childish way that men often do. On the flip side, I am quite an ambassador for our home, reaching out to the neighbors, to coworkers and to total strangers, inviting them all into the house for a tour, a drink, or to case the joint.
I basically liven up the place. I like to think I provide that untenable emotional spark that makes it all work...
I'm certain I do more, but it'll take a few moments to tally my contributions. I'll get back to you.
Jk.
It occurs to me that that she plays a sizable role -- much of it behind the scenes -- in keeping this house from foreclosure, from crumbling to the ground, or from slowly dissolving into a wretched structure of neglect. For example, she waters all these plants (a task that almost got away from me, until I caught the error just today. Still not sure if I caught it in time), she deals with all of the most hated chores (laundry, dusting and general housekeeping), she supplies the house with rock and roll and the latest trendy movies, she mixes refreshing alcoholic beverages that everyone -- man, woman or child -- enjoys, she cooks up one mutherfucker of a meal when she has a mind to, fetches the dog when he escapes, and looks great in a summertime spaghetti-strap top (if you get my meaning.) She does it all while maintaining gainful employment and providing that artful, womanly touch lacking in even the most upscale homes.
She also provides occasional sex.
By comparison, my role in the matter seems a little weak. I do change the oil in her car now and then, and most times I take out the trash. I always mow the lawn and lift the heavy things, and I clean the bathroom weekly (more or less.) I also do my best to clean up my shoes, socks, dirty underwear and other things, which surely cuts down on her work somewhat. And I provide occasional sex, too -- great sex.
But... I fart a lot, crack a lot of off-color jokes and sometimes fly off the handle in the childish way that men often do. On the flip side, I am quite an ambassador for our home, reaching out to the neighbors, to coworkers and to total strangers, inviting them all into the house for a tour, a drink, or to case the joint.
I basically liven up the place. I like to think I provide that untenable emotional spark that makes it all work...
I'm certain I do more, but it'll take a few moments to tally my contributions. I'll get back to you.
Jk.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Bleeding all over my guitar
Left work about six hours early today to rush home and ROCK! But that bastard Eric Clapton almost killed me.
Claption's unplugged version of Old Love contains one of the most passionate solos he's ever done, at least according to Wolf Marshall, author of Eric Clapton, from the album "Eric Clapton Unplugged": A step-by-step breakdown of his acoustic guitar style and technique.
I borrowed the book today from my co-worker Agustin. We're thinking about getting together someday and jammin' out some slow hand-- just a couple of guys, cuttin' up our fingers on the smoky blues-rock ballads spewing from our guitar holes. Maybe a couple beers, maybe not.
Not that I really like Clapton. According to the old lady, he's overrated. I never developed any specific opinions about the man's work myself, but he certainly never turned my crank. I just assumed that whatever the old lady was talking about was the reason I felt the way I did about him. But one thing's for sure now that wasn't before: I do not think Clapton's overrated, not after what I suffered today.
I lost several hours -- even with Wolf Marshall's guidance -- pounding my fingers on the razor-sharp strings until the tips became tender and possibly damaged. Midway through the day, I broke for an hour to regroup. I had barely learned the arrangement, and yet plunged like a fool into the solo. At last count, I had a tenuous grip on three and a half bars of the solo's twenty-four. And those three still need considerable work before they can be released to the public. The strings of my guitar will have to be replaced soon. The stress was too much for them.
At this rate, I'll have memorized the basic form of the solo in eight days -- not counting an additional week to rehearse the entire song. But there's no way I could continue splitting from the job six hours early for the next eight days. There are bills to pay. The old lady would be alarmed if she found out I had played hooky on 46 hours of paying work. Fact is, mastering Old love is going to take a lot of time and a lot of maddening concentration.
It might be that I never liked Clapton because I knew instinctively that he was a thousand times the guitarist I would ever be. Could be I just knew that if I listened closely, I'd become instantly hypnotized by even his most boring songs.
The shame of it is I still don't like Clapton that much. I'm only doing this because Agustin is infatuated with the guy. But Clapton is not overrated. Anyone who says otherwise is ignorant and wrong.
Jk.
Claption's unplugged version of Old Love contains one of the most passionate solos he's ever done, at least according to Wolf Marshall, author of Eric Clapton, from the album "Eric Clapton Unplugged": A step-by-step breakdown of his acoustic guitar style and technique.
I borrowed the book today from my co-worker Agustin. We're thinking about getting together someday and jammin' out some slow hand-- just a couple of guys, cuttin' up our fingers on the smoky blues-rock ballads spewing from our guitar holes. Maybe a couple beers, maybe not.
Not that I really like Clapton. According to the old lady, he's overrated. I never developed any specific opinions about the man's work myself, but he certainly never turned my crank. I just assumed that whatever the old lady was talking about was the reason I felt the way I did about him. But one thing's for sure now that wasn't before: I do not think Clapton's overrated, not after what I suffered today.
I lost several hours -- even with Wolf Marshall's guidance -- pounding my fingers on the razor-sharp strings until the tips became tender and possibly damaged. Midway through the day, I broke for an hour to regroup. I had barely learned the arrangement, and yet plunged like a fool into the solo. At last count, I had a tenuous grip on three and a half bars of the solo's twenty-four. And those three still need considerable work before they can be released to the public. The strings of my guitar will have to be replaced soon. The stress was too much for them.
At this rate, I'll have memorized the basic form of the solo in eight days -- not counting an additional week to rehearse the entire song. But there's no way I could continue splitting from the job six hours early for the next eight days. There are bills to pay. The old lady would be alarmed if she found out I had played hooky on 46 hours of paying work. Fact is, mastering Old love is going to take a lot of time and a lot of maddening concentration.
It might be that I never liked Clapton because I knew instinctively that he was a thousand times the guitarist I would ever be. Could be I just knew that if I listened closely, I'd become instantly hypnotized by even his most boring songs.
The shame of it is I still don't like Clapton that much. I'm only doing this because Agustin is infatuated with the guy. But Clapton is not overrated. Anyone who says otherwise is ignorant and wrong.
Jk.
Monday, June 13, 2005
On the topics of race, racism and racists.
Are the neighbors really blaring a comical country song about NIGGERS from their car stereo? And are they laughing hysterically?
Oh, come the fuck on!
First of all, how funny could a dumb country song filled with tired stereotypes be? (I heard the damn song -- twice -- and it wasn't all that clever.)
But more importantly, if you've got to be a loud-mouthed racist, you should at least pick a group of people who really pose a threat to your Christian-American lifestyle! Honestly, a song about NIGGERS? What year do you think this is, neighbor? 1920?
Bother the folks who take your jobs, instead; or those that invade your neighborhood, speaking strange languages and smelling of herbs as they stand on your street corners and wait for your buses. If you make your living in the construction or farm-labor trades, target Latinos (call them all Mexicans if you like -- you really don't care where they're from, anyway.) If you're in the high-tech sector, pick on the Indians (no, idiots -- I'm talking about the highly educated, but extremely poor folks from INDIA. The ones who are stealing your jobs because they happen to be smarter and more willing to work than you. Strangely, they also speak better English.)
But really, leave the scary niggers alone, especially if you live in Colorado where black folks represent a mighty 3.8 percent of the state population according to latest U.S. Census figures. You really have nothing to fear from them. Might as well decry Eskimos, for christsakes: "Fuckin' Eskimos and their fuckin' dog sleds, runnin' round in the fuckin' snow, ruinin' the fuckin' world and threatenin' everything we hold dear... Martha, I tell ya, sumpin's gotta be done! Haw! Haw! Haw! Hee! Hee...Damn, I think I just pooped myself again."
It's unfortunate the census doesn't track the state's population of idiot bigots. Can you say "off the charts?" My extended family has produced their share, I'm ashamed to say.
Besides, getting down on the blacks is pathetically outdated. It demonstrates a profound ignorance of current affairs and a complete failure to hate your fellow man efficiently. It's a misfire of malice in embarrassing proportions.
Get with the program, Colorado, or better yet -- JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!
Oh, come the fuck on!
First of all, how funny could a dumb country song filled with tired stereotypes be? (I heard the damn song -- twice -- and it wasn't all that clever.)
But more importantly, if you've got to be a loud-mouthed racist, you should at least pick a group of people who really pose a threat to your Christian-American lifestyle! Honestly, a song about NIGGERS? What year do you think this is, neighbor? 1920?
Bother the folks who take your jobs, instead; or those that invade your neighborhood, speaking strange languages and smelling of herbs as they stand on your street corners and wait for your buses. If you make your living in the construction or farm-labor trades, target Latinos (call them all Mexicans if you like -- you really don't care where they're from, anyway.) If you're in the high-tech sector, pick on the Indians (no, idiots -- I'm talking about the highly educated, but extremely poor folks from INDIA. The ones who are stealing your jobs because they happen to be smarter and more willing to work than you. Strangely, they also speak better English.)
But really, leave the scary niggers alone, especially if you live in Colorado where black folks represent a mighty 3.8 percent of the state population according to latest U.S. Census figures. You really have nothing to fear from them. Might as well decry Eskimos, for christsakes: "Fuckin' Eskimos and their fuckin' dog sleds, runnin' round in the fuckin' snow, ruinin' the fuckin' world and threatenin' everything we hold dear... Martha, I tell ya, sumpin's gotta be done! Haw! Haw! Haw! Hee! Hee...Damn, I think I just pooped myself again."
It's unfortunate the census doesn't track the state's population of idiot bigots. Can you say "off the charts?" My extended family has produced their share, I'm ashamed to say.
Besides, getting down on the blacks is pathetically outdated. It demonstrates a profound ignorance of current affairs and a complete failure to hate your fellow man efficiently. It's a misfire of malice in embarrassing proportions.
Get with the program, Colorado, or better yet -- JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!
Bittersweet weekends
Sad, sad endings. Sad, sad, sad, sad. The neighbors are friendly, but -- as I learned Friday night -- racist and weird. Tsk, tsk. More on this, later.
Saturday night: Drunken anger... white hot malice. Not entirely my fault, but then again, claims of innocence on my part would be, at best, an exaggeration, possibly even false.
Family gathering Sunday: Fantastic, excepting the grueling, unfinished blowout with the old lady, forced to be placed on hold during the festivities. Nine fucking hours of raw smiles and forced laughter. Murderous and suicidal rage, smothered, strangled, what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here?
Lucky for the guests, I possess formidable social technique and my fury remained secret. Or maybe it didn't, what the fuck do I know. The long hours did take a toll, however. By the end, I was so tired, so very fucking tired.
At least it's finally Monday. Drudgery of work, take me away...
Jk.
Saturday night: Drunken anger... white hot malice. Not entirely my fault, but then again, claims of innocence on my part would be, at best, an exaggeration, possibly even false.
Family gathering Sunday: Fantastic, excepting the grueling, unfinished blowout with the old lady, forced to be placed on hold during the festivities. Nine fucking hours of raw smiles and forced laughter. Murderous and suicidal rage, smothered, strangled, what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here?
Lucky for the guests, I possess formidable social technique and my fury remained secret. Or maybe it didn't, what the fuck do I know. The long hours did take a toll, however. By the end, I was so tired, so very fucking tired.
At least it's finally Monday. Drudgery of work, take me away...
Jk.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Madness -- endless
Tiny little circles, they keep spinning ('round and 'round and 'round...)
Meanwhile they prove nothing. Tiny little circles of logic, history, fashion, shame -- they just keep spinning and spinning and SPINNING!
Foolish, freakish, foul geometry, the circle.
Center on this, mutherfuckin' hoop!
It's small wonder our type grew so fond of the right angle. Our trustworthy, defiant, powerful structure (gift of Satan?) never left us to struggle with unanswered questions or numbers that never end.
FUCK YOU! Fuck every one of your 360 degrees.
Meanwhile they prove nothing. Tiny little circles of logic, history, fashion, shame -- they just keep spinning and spinning and SPINNING!
Foolish, freakish, foul geometry, the circle.
Center on this, mutherfuckin' hoop!
It's small wonder our type grew so fond of the right angle. Our trustworthy, defiant, powerful structure (gift of Satan?) never left us to struggle with unanswered questions or numbers that never end.
FUCK YOU! Fuck every one of your 360 degrees.
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