Pooparder Anti-Clockwise

The other day I was asked: “Why are you like this?” I was not really sure how to take that. Did they mean: “You are so awesome I wish I was like you so that could also project awesomeness everywhere I went.” Or more likely they meant: “You are so odd and strange, how did you end up like this?” Of course this question got me thinking and if you have read any of my previous postings you will have noticed I think fast, I think in no particular order and the links are tenuous. What follows is what came to mind to answer the question: “Why am I like this?”

I took a long hard look in the mirror and reflected on how my penis is too short and my boobs are too big. WOW! I have both a penis and boobs! Could that explain things? You may not have noticed the boobs until I lifted my top, but there they were. Maybe not enough to nourish a child, but a certain kind of man might find pleasure in them. 

My Mother is dating an alcoholic, crack-head who collects stamps from around the world, but borrows money from her to post a letter. My Father is an economics professor and he didn’t see the recession coming.  I never said he was a good economics professor. When he heard my Mother was pregnant with me he said: “That is a supply that I have no demand for” and off he ran.

Could it be the drugs? My Mother said I shouldn’t take them, but I blame her. They start you off with fluoride tablets as a kid and let’s face it, it is downhill from there. You want more, stronger, harder, brighter. Always looking for that next mind altering experience. I’ve been through them all, fluoride, vitamin C, iron tablets, the infamous multivitamin,  but now I have graduated to that ultimate in highs, Airborne. I know I should seek help, but I like it and it isn’t harming anyone so back off, or, or I’ll ummmm bend your credit card.

I was recently invited to a dinner at the local college. Included in the invite was the menu. I was all excited about attending the dinner until I began to read that menu. Who comes up with these things?

First course was ‘Mixed Field Greens.’ I don’t like my field greens mixed and is it a newly laid field, or an old field in the English countryside that has had sheep and their oily bodies walking all over it? Things didn’t improve when we moved along to the second course choices.  So many dishes with ‘Wild Mushrooms.’ What are wild mushrooms? Do you have to chase them around the room as they run wild through the venue? Never mind girls gone wild, we have mushrooms gone wild…lookout there might be a gnome under the cap of that mushroom or maybe a field green! 

And then my favourite item on this crazy menu ‘Rosemary Grilled Chicken.’ Why do I need to know who grilled my chicken? Would it taste different if Janet grilled my chicken. Does Rosemary even know how to grill a chicken? Excuse me sir, but I would like my chicken grilled by Wolfgang.  Then of course what menu wouldn’t be complete without ‘Grilled Vegetables.’ Yes these vegetables went through an intense interrogation session under harsh lights. They were strong and refused to cave, but eventually they could no longer take the intensity of the grilling and finally softened giving up their secret tastes. And we won’t even talk about the child abuse charges I am considering charging the chef with due to his ‘Baby Red Roasted Potatoes.’

Of course it makes no difference as I won’t be able to taste anything. I have contracted a cold. I tried to recind the contract but my lawyer has told me that the contract is binding and I have to stay the course until such time as the contract expires.

They met under the stars. The stars of the local planetarium. She was late, no not that time of the month late, late for the start of the show. The theatre was already dark and her eyesight was not that great at the best of times. She was alone and the usher had told her to hurry across the floor and find a seat. Although she couldn’t see much she could feel everybody in the room staring at her with their heat ray vision. She wanted to pull out her portable Batman signaling torch and have him come swoop her away, but how was he going to see the torch signal from inside this room. Instead she decided to pick up the pace and run across the room, not something she was familiar with. Between the running, her high heels, her lack of vision and the sheer panic of the situation she ran straight into the retaining bar protecting the front row of seats. She went straight over the top of the bar as if she was an Olympic gymnast on the parallel bars.

She landed right on top of a young gentleman. He said to her: “You might find it more comfortable to sit on a chair, there is one empty next to me.” Even though she couldn’t make out his features she immediately knew the black widow had a new mate, after all he was breathing, the most crucial of the minimum requirements. When they stood up to leave she asked him if he would like to go grab some coffee. Staring lovingly into the can of mace she was pointing at his face he agreed. As they walked towards the coffee shop she dug into her purse, pulled out a set of handcuffs and with the speed of a carjacker she handcuffed him to herself. She knew at her age she always had to be prepared as you could find a man who was breathing anywhere, anytime and she couldn’t risk him getting away. She was already on the downhill slope of the 30 year old hill and she could now see he was probably fresh out of college, but he was breathing.

They spent that afternoon walking on the beach.  Although he was not the tallest toy in the store he was still a dick length taller than her. When she had fallen on him in the planetarium she had used her quick hand movement to send them on a trip down under and check on the size of the goody bag. Size didn’t matter to her, after all he was breathing. As they walked down the beach she stared into his chest and he stared down at her breasts. She had a fine set of boobs, boobs you would be proud to put on display on the meat tray at a top class steak restaurant under the 10oz Kobe beef section. Yes her breasts had been fed a lot of beer and classical music in their time and had been massaged frequently by the various suitors that had passed over her satin sheets. Well she had given up on the satin sheets as her men kept sliding off the bed at the worst possible moments.

That night he found the seashell tattoo on the inside of her thigh. He asked if it had any significance, she replied:”If you put your ear to it you can smell the ocean.” He rolled away in disgust, but she didn’t mind he was breathing and she had the key to the handcuffs. “Let’s go add each other as friends on Facebook” she cried out. He was not interested, but then he realized he had no choice, they were handcuffed together. “Stupid laptop is crawling slower than a baby crawling across the living room carpet with Velcro pads on her hands” she moaned. He thought he would be clever:”Why don’t you teach it to walk?” “Oh no it would be easier just to kill the baby and hope the next one can learn quicker.”

It came time to leave, but before she released him from those cuffs she asked for his phone number, and then she called it to make sure he hadn’t lied to her.  She then forced him to give her his driver’s license and took down his address. As she released him she said:”You will call me won’t you? I know where you live if you don’t.” He thought about this, but deep down he knew he was no catch and psycho or not she was breathing. He chose not to think about how much longer he would be breathing if she stayed in his life for too long.

If a man loves a woman she must be dead.

As a special two-for-one treat here is a quick follow up to my last post. It has been such a long wait I figured you deserved a little treat and something slightly more off the wall.

I was at this party and there were pilots everywhere. It was as if I had walked into a union meeting. If all the pilots are here who is flying the planes? I know the planes all have auto-pilots these days, but doesn’t there still have to be a human involved. Holy crap we are all going to die!! And that is crap you can only find in India as it comes from the Holy Cow. One of the pilots looked so old I could imagine the whole plane shuddering as he held onto the steering wheel. He asked someone their name and she had to spell it to him 3 times and he still got it wrong.  As he comes into land the control tower calls in “Charlie 31”, no response. “Charlie 31”, no response. He says to himself, idiot Charlie 31 not responding. Oh wait, I’m Charlie 31. Yes Sir our skies are safe tonight.

After every party a trip to the gym is required to work off all that extra food.  The gym was busier than a whore house having a two-for-one special.  I’m in the locker room changing and along comes this old man. He is dragging his right foot, hunched over and his skin is so loose he looks like he is melting away. But worst of all he is coming back from the showers and he is wearing nothing. Luckily he had a towel and was using it to hide his neck. Yes we wouldn’t want to catch a glimpse of his neck. I can confirm that he wasn’t Jewish. He starts to wonder around my area of the locker room, mumbling something about how he can’t find his locker and saying it to me as if I know which one is his locker. I’ll let you know if I spot a locker smelling of Old Man.

He wonders off only for me to see him aimlessly drifting around the locker room now with his penis in his right hand and asking someone if they have seen his wife. The last time he saw her she was on the end of this. He was pointing down towards his mid-drift area.  What do you get if you take three spoons of sugar and add it to a bowl of peanuts? Sweets for my sweet, sugar for my nuts.

Have you ever watched a movie or a cartoon and wondered: “How did they come up with these characters or this story line or a particular scene?” I know I have, but a party I attended this past weekend may have finally answered this question for me. It was so crazy that eventually I wasn’t sure where to look. Should I look at the borderline homo-erotic acts taking place in the open plan kitchen or outside at the overweight slobbering dog with his “I’m about to eat spaghetti bolognese” bib on while he ate what he had only just vomited up minutes earlier. No thank you I think I will just stare at the ceiling and admire the loose wiring.

It all started out so normally in white collar surburban America.  A garage packed with water sports equipment, a white BMW and a truck in the driveway. All very normal. Then there was the keg. The keg the host had no idea how to draw beer from. This non-alcohol drinking, accountant had to use what logic he could come up with to show a pilot how to put the tap on the keg and to stop him spraying precious beer all over the place. The signs should have been there and signs were to be the next problem. Please no shoes in the house. But honey there is no sign to tell people. Well there is one on the front door. Make sure everyone goes through the front door and not the garage. No problem we will block anyone attempting to go through the garage. Needless to say that didn’t happen. I think shoes on the floor was the least of the floor’s problems that afternoon and evening.

I think they needed a number of signs, such as the ‘No Orange Juice on the floor” sign. This poor 4 year old girl was sitting on a high chair holding a cup of OJ when she decided to turn and look towards the kitchen. Unfortunately it seemed that OJ was spiked as she did a trick more commonly spotted in an English Pub after about 2 hours of binge drinking. She didn’t just turn her waist she turned everything including the cup and next thing she was the OJ fountain as the OJ slowly flowed onto the floor. Never fear the host clean-up crew was onto it in a flash and the mess was gone so fast it was as if I had imagined it.

Then there was another sign early on in proceedings. The hosts phone rang and when he got off he said:”Sorry that was my irresponsible brother.” That was another sign of things to come. Mr. Irresponsible came with his wife Mrs. More Responsible.  If I could sum up Mr. I he is the boy that never grew up, or it seems learnt to speak.  He certainly made the evening more than entertaining.  I guess you could say he was the entertainment. A never ending supply of energy. Wonder if he forgot to take his Ritalin before leaving home?

At times I got the feeling he thought he was at Mardi Gras and he really wanted all those necklaces as he kept lifting his shirt up.  Once even he started to unbutton his jeans. And this brings us to our next sign: “Keep your hands to yourself.” There was lots of crotch thrusting in the name of dance and grabbing of the other guys at the party and the grabbing was not to initiate a hand shake. Heads were being placed in less than savoury positions.  There was grabbing of butts, and let’s just say no one was smoking. This grabbing seemed to spread.  One girl who was with her fiance was spotted grabbing another guys breast and hanging on as if she was squeezing a stress ball. And all the while other guests were in the garage playing a civilised game of table tennis.

Every now and then Mr. I would grab his wife and start twirling her around as if they were on Dancing with the Stars. No prizes for guessing who thought they were the star.  At one point he held her above his head for so long we got her to change a light bulb and check on the wiring in the ceiling. She didn’t seem in the least bit phased by it all. She calmly sat back down and threw back 5 jelly shots in quick succession. I’m sure the two events were not connected.  And how could we forget when Mr. I grabbed his brother in what I would like to call a bear hug, but it was far too awkward to call it that. All his brother, the host, could say was: “I have a beer in my hand.” Mr. I finally let him go, beer still intact, or so we thought. Mr. I slapped his brother on the butt as he walked away causing the host to lurch forward and the beer and all its ice to go flying. Another clean-up operation ensued.

And finally there is the “Don’t give me anything to drink” sign.  I was being pried with jelly shots and Amaretto Sours and for someone who doesn’t drink, this is very dangerous.  Next thing you know I could be hitting on all the singles girls at the party. Why would this be a bad thing I hear you ask? Because there were only two single girls there, one was 18 months old and the other 4 years old. Does that answer your question?

And why did I wait so long and put myself through these escapades? For cake of course. We had to wait 5 hours and 8 minutes for that cake to be cut and distributed around the room. It was worth the wait. So moist and tender,  just like a Kobe beef sandwich. It was now finally time to leave. The hosts protested, but after I explained that I had now eaten my cake and it was home time, they understood and pushed my out the door. So nice of them to help me down the stairs at high speed. What gracious hosts.