Go Shopping or Go to Santa Fe

Somewhere along the line of life, the clouds open up and a person can see forever - perhaps into infinity. Sally, short for Salamandra, Prescott now knows that a blue sky is a keyhole to god. Well, she didn't always know that until this morning. Up until now she kept thinking, Maybe. Oddly it was a gray, overcast day as she rolled left, over a hairy fat corpus, to pull open the bedroom window lavelette. She saw all fifty shades of gray and her life in bas relief.

Nonetheless, murky dull as the sky was, she could see, feel, taste and smell like she hadn't in 24 years. Twenty-three years old then, she shut down her senses, married Bill, bore two and died. It was for no particular reason that today was different, just like there is no particular reason for almost everything that happens in a well planned life. Well plann-e--!

There are only a few notable high points in anyone's life and Sally nee Alberici was no different than most of us. For her, the big four were high school graduation, marrying Bill Prescott and bearing #1 and #2. The filler events and years were mostly contemplative, repetitive, meandering and biologic.

Her thoughts were interupted by Bill's beefy hand on her ass. The lummoxian proportioned Drake High football lineman had gone to seed twenty-two years ago. Somehow, he still thought himself to be a 220 pound stud. Good for him. Sally knew he wanted IT. Sunday morning was his time to nookie up. Damn, she thought.

His heft, his smell, his breath, his hairiness, indeed, his being were sour bromides for the still trim and still fertile bella donna. Luckily, he pops within two minutes, so that the agony was usually brief. He had expanded so much that she couldn't feel him penetrate as much as she felt him envelope her. For herself, she could find release with her Roger and occasionally with a supermarket pick-up. Roger is a dildo.

Today as he began his rutual of two or three mouth passes, followed by a few breast squeezes, left then right, then a spate of rough clitoral back and forths, she mused about the guy, John, she fucked last week in his BMW X5. Just as Bill index fingered her pussy, she was lost in the Winn Dixie parking lot. The fingering lasted between 10-15 seconds and then the stallion inserted his weiner and thence took his money shot.

Through the years, a lot of the supermarket wing dings were named John or Jim or Bob or Bill. Motel names... probably they were all Smiths, too, but she never asked. Guys, who food shop alone, often had the look of de-sex-dration. Married, but getting not enough, this subset represented an opportunity for Sally. She, like them, suffered the same desexdration.

Supermarket trysts were like insured annuities. The benefits roll in with no significant risk to the investor. Married, responsible milquetoasts are useful as long as they provide a flat belly, some vitality and some some passion. With the ordeal of the hunt, the take down and the newness, Sally usually orgasmed. Perhaps the wrongness of it all made it so satisfying?

Usually a greasy, sweat show, on this morning, she found herself more oiled over than usual. Maybe Bill was extra randy. Sally did notice that he had been porning his MacBook lately. But, she actually didn't perceive anything new in his rutual or his cadence or his time investment. But, then again, she barely paid attention to his stuff.

Both kids were in college, Nova. A senior and a junior respectively, they were sensible and would be graduating in four years, not five or six like most American students.. Sally felt her job was done, at least in terms of raising Fred and Eleuthra. For her, the sun was shining and there was plenty of life...

"Was it good for you?"

Such a dumb question, thought she. The fool had no idea! "Oh my god. You were so hard." Men like to hear that. She couldn't tell him he was sooo big. Limits...

"Yeah, Papa can still bring it home..."

What an idiot, thought Sally. "I'll say."

 

One good thing about Bill is that he fucked like a small forebrained creature. Once he comes, he is done and he usually wants to eat. True to his habit, he rolled out of bed. As he stood full frontal, he posed as if he was cock hung rather than gut draped. "Gonna get some cereal... want a bowl?"

"No thanks. Gonna shower (your stink off of me.)"

As she prolonged her ablutions, she made THE decision. It had been a long time coming. Tomorrow, after her hubby leaves for work, she will go to the bank and withdraw half of their savings. He could send her the proceeds from the house later. A note for him and calls to the kids will be all she can muster. She always liked Sante Fe... any time of the year.

Breathe...

(if you didn't, click the video, while listening to Emile re-read this blog)

No Teeth, Oh, Good Feet?

Gadzooks! It's almost May and raining. Fuck April. Fuck April O'Neil, but do NOT fuck over your dentist. The idiotic play of this day involves a guy named Marek Olzewski (45.) He was boyfriending a younger hootch, who is a tooth jockey by trade. Let's call her Dr. Pullum (Anna Mackowiak, 34.) The action took place in London in a country where people are reported not to have good teeth to begin with... ha-ha! http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/news/dentist-pulls-out-her-lovers-teeth/story-e6freuy9-1226341399768

Now Marek develops a toothache, too bad... Being the wizard ego-turd that he is, he decided to use his ex-girlfriend as his dentico. After checking out his formerly passionate mouth, she begins her work. Somehow she convinces him to take a knock out anesthetic. As she puts it, "I tried to be professional and detach myself from my emotions," she told the news site. "But when I saw him lying there I just thought, 'What a b-----d.'"

After awakening, the now changed Marek couldn't feel his teeth. Modern anesthesia can work wonders. Of course his head was wrapped up like a kid with 1955 mumps. Doctor Pullum reASSured him all was good. Upon his return to his flat he reacted, "But when I got home I looked in the mirror and I couldn't f--king believe it," he said. "The b--ch had emptied my mouth."

Newly edentulous, the gummer ran into more travail. His current paramour promptly dumped him. As it turned out, she can't stand a toothless man. As far as Marek is concerned, he is going to save some money to buy new teeth. And as far as Dr. Vindictive, well, she will be investigated and possibly be headed for jail and/or found negligent..

Too bad it's not the States for soft mouth's comeuppance. What with the tort laws in place here, Marek could be a rich man. Just say $10 grand a tooth (32) plus $300,000 for pain and suffering and $500,000 for punitives, hmmm.... $1,120,000 would be worth the transgression! Yes?

No matter now... well, as long as Olzewski has... oh, the April shower has just ended... good feet! Wonder if Marek can match Ms. O'Neil's tootsies? For her part, she has teeth and feet and great hangars. Fuck her!

SMILE!!!

Nuts to Death

Some things need to be said again and again. Especially when they are hilarious, ribald and death is involved. While these characteristics seem highly improbable in association, the tale out of Haiku City, China about the man dying from getting his jewels squeezed fits the ball.

On April 19 (a day which will now live in go-naddery), a middle aged woman attempted to park her scooter in front of a store. The male proprietor went nuts. Parking in China is New York City-ish. An altercation ensued, followed by the appearance of the Vise Madam's own set of titled double marbles and her brother (who presumably was packin' two too.) The fracas heightened until finally the shopkeep passed out (and died.)

Once the aggrieved lady Clamper got a hold of his testicles, the merchant couldn't take it. Presumably the immediate gonadal pain was followed by abdominal spasming, which was then followed by the inability to breathe. And sadly came cardiac arrest. Curtains (it may have been a home furnishings specialty shop!)

A female medical student opined.... When a guy gets hit in the testicles, besides the agony from the glands themselves, the attack on this nerve centre causes the abdominal muscles to lock solid. This causes him to hunch forward, unable to straighten up for some time (therefore protecting the testicles from further harm) This also has the effect of squeezing the stomach, creating the feeling of nausea that guys get when this happens. And it interupts his breathing so that if the cause of the pain is prolonged(eg. the testicles are being squeezed) for more than 30secs or so, he will lose conciousness! And yes, in extreme cases it will actually stop the heart beating, resulting in death! http://wiki.answers.com/Q/Can_you_die_from_a_hit_to_the_nuts#ixzz1tKR5Apig

Hmmm. Nut-sacks-ers beware! Just think back to when Lorena (The Blade) Bobbit cut off her husband's penis. Wayne had been a bad dinger. A spate of copycock incidents ensued. Many a man suffered like disfigurement. Are scroti now at increased risk of compression maladies? Simply answered, YES! This story is a big ha-ha.

Men, here are few tips to consider:

• always wear clothes, even to bed (especially in bed) and while showering
• form fitting underwear is desirable
• never be recklessly nude
• never expose the scrotum without absolute confidence in those in the peri-genital region
• always carry a knife (at least 4 inches) to cut the throat of a nut assassin
• shave the sac... hair is always a clinch point
• consider a testicle attack deadly, act with equal retaliation
• don't disagree or argue with anyone with easy access to the nether regions for at least one month, RED ALERT
• Drain the balls and surrounding tissues daily or better yet twice by ejaculation, smaller is less grabbable
• take zinc for general cum health

Time to move on. Got a lot of stuff on the agenda and now with having to wack or whack or wonk or jack an extra time makes a day so congested. Where's that pic of April O'Neil...

Ciao

Farewell Intercourse

Sipping a DD large and reading Drudge can get a guy goin'... 'specially in the morning when the t-rone is at the highest ring of the day. Yeah, for Fitz, fifty-five ain't finished. WTF, a law making it kosher to screw your wife after she is dead. Farewell intercourse... But only up to 6 hours. The body gets too cold after that?

Outrage as Egypt plans 'farewell intercourse law' so husbands can have sex with DEAD wives up to six hours after their death http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2135434/Outrage-Egypt-plans-farewell-intercourse-law-husbands-sex-dead-wives-hours-AFTER-death.html#ixzz1tF4wGjI7

The nut bag Egyptians are busy legislating. Well, maybe this is all poppycock. These days the media is sensational beyond all proportion. Consequently, the written or spoken word is more worthless than ever. Nonetheless, the news is some funny pulp day-to-day.

Fitz Mazzolli used to have a live-in younger wife. She ran off with half his pension, his house in North Carolina and his nut sack. Well, not the real nut sack, but the figurative one, the one with the "balls." Charlie Scabna was fucking her good for a year before she pulled out a year ago. She told Fitz Charlie could pop her four times in a single session. Bullshit!

Since Trudy left him, Fit-Mazz had become what they call bilious in his old neighborhood in Trenton. No, he didn't turn yellow or have fits of right sided post prandial abdominal pain. He became for want of another word - sour. Nothing pleased him and he could draw the negative out of winning a million dollar lottery. Which, by the way, he never won and he never will win.

Always with a three day old white stubble beard, the old man looked like he smelled. Hair was everywhere, but on his head. It was crabgrass wild and bacteria laden. Funny thing about humans priding themselves about their dead protein, coated in body oil and microorganisms... Trudy, oh yeah, was hairless 'cept her head and strip, both of which she kept short. Sometimes when Fitz fucked the no-titter, he thought he was on a boy. Hmmmm.

For sure, Trudy thought she was sexy. Indeed she was - as she did smell just a little there. Although Fitz never realized it, his wife was a nose explosive. Trouble was, whatever Fitz had goin' for him had gone bye-the-bye as far as she was concerned. The nose is the first to know.

Never a wild one, Mazzi was about as much fun as standing in line to renew an over-date car registration. He had gotten fatter over the years and he had unfortunately succombed to the 30-1 rule. The extra 65 pounds cost him two shaft inches. Having only come in with five and half left him just a little over three to tame the bitch. Ha-ha. Nowadays he called her a frigid bitch. Sourpuss!

Maybe those Egypt-ers had something goin' afterall. Surely wives over there obeyed their men. If they adulterate shit happens to them, stoning even. At least that's what Mazzola had read in a magazine he was pageing at Caponegro's Garage. Oil changes there took forever... So do lube jobs. Yeah, that skinny Trudy oughta be stoned, thought Fitz, as he slugged down the tepid backwash of another, but same, DD.

As he pushed back in his chair he looked up at the ceiling. White, fadeeeee... Moving beneath him, he could feel her contract and release her muscles to squeeze his shoot out of him. The scent of her woman overtakes him as he splooges with abandon, his brain chemistry afire. Oh, how much he wants her. Oh yeah, he would fuck her dead! The E-men are on to something good!

Ciao

Scared Shitless

There was a time, before America was in a constant state of being scared shitless, when things were cool. In truth, it is hard to remember those days since at 19, a person only has so much history. And I think the cool pre-dated my birth. In fact, as best as I can determine the halcyon time was 1967. More or less...

Back then, flowers were power, coitus was a way of saying hello and there was no AIDS. Come to think of it, there weren't many venereal disorders around. Well, except for syphilis and the clap. But back then, a shot of penicillin and an infected fucker was good to go. And the drugs... who knew back then what all the frig they were sniffing, snorting, ingesting or injecting, but it must have been some good geddy-up.

Really though, there is no need to look back. It does little good and if anything tends to bog a person down. Having to drag the weight of history forwards is lugubrious and too sobering. After all, history implies death and death is one ponderous brain shock. Speaking of scared shitless...

Hand sanitizers.... Those liquid alcohol based concoctions that sprang up like acne pimples on a fifteen year old a few years ago. It was a time when my parents were H1N1 fucks. President Obama, who by the way is as white as he is black, got Americans jacked up about the risk of getting the flu and right, dying. From what the p-units were saying, there was a big flu epidemic in 1918 (or was that '28) and millions of people passed. And the new swine flu (there was an old swine flu jack up in 1976) portended to be a big hitter, like Ryan Howard.

Yeah, there was this picture of the Obamate getting his own flu shot. It was in the Town Crier. With his sleeve rolled up, he looked like a poster model from 1955. Back then folks were scared shitless about polio and they were all getting vaccinated. But in 1955 a black man wouldn't be illustrated in any poster in America. The kicker is that even though PObama is as white as he is black, he is black... Get it? I don't.

Stockpiling of medicine to halt the influenza virus in its tracks was in vogue back then. At the first signs of fluing up, the victim was to dose with these medicines in order to survive. Yeah, Celia and Pete had at least 50 tablets of Tamiflu neatly stacked in sample boxes next to the salt and pepper shaker in the middle kitchen cabinet. Pete works in pharmaceuticals for Pfizer and he has connections deep in Mexico.

It was then when the hands were fingered (ha-ha) as the culprits of transmission of all things microbial.  Wash your hands! was the mantra of the day. The CDC and everyone else yapped on about hands. The wackiness got so bad that some jerkwaters began to even wear surgical masks as well. Some brilliant-o opined that the flu was transmitted by aerosol droplets and that by covering your mouth and nose reduced the chances of inhaling death. Yeah, mask manufacturers began to triple shift. They must have made a lot of kincaid. What ever happened to all of the asinine masks?

For as long as I can remember hand sanitizers have been part of the landscape. In restaurants, convenience stores, gas stations, car rental counters and EVERYWHERE, dispensers sit at the ready to save the world. A couple of pumps and the cool cum liquid squirts out onto the user's palm. And in short order after smearing it around and letting it dry - death to any and all microbes. Yay!

Well, just sayin', the flu epidemic was a bust. It didn't happen, like Ryan Howard in playoff play. To describe the scare as a tempest in a teapot is apropos. Nonetheless, the sanitizers have lived on. Rightfully so in a scared shitless society, where the fear of demise by a hand transmitted germ remains. Hmm, come to think of it, back then people stopped shaking hands and started coughing into their elbow crook. And as a aside my friend Larry dips his cock in rubbing alcohol to keep it fresh and bacteria free. But he's not circumcised.

Perhaps the hoot in all of this biological warfare is that the kids nowadays are drinking hand sanitizers to get high. Many of the products are made with 62% ethyl alcohol, the kind found in rum and vodka. Who in their right mind would put good drinking alcohol in hand sanitizers? Is it actually a surprise kids would get high with this stuff?

A few of the smoother yout purify the alcohol in the sanitizers by salt extraction or by distillation. The salt liquifies the gel making the alcohol separable through filtration while the distillate of almost pure alcohol is derived through the physical principle of the lower boiling point of EtOH. If only high school chemistry were taught properly, it would be fun.

As for me, I have contacts at Maury's spirit shoppe. Yeah, it's through sterile dick Larry. His brother Cletus runs a cleaning service and Maury is a customer. We got a copy key for the back door of the liquor store. Larry and I stop in on Sunday right after they close up and we take a couple bottles for the week. Not enough for anybody to notice. And let me tell you Johnny Walker (Red only) is way better than the sanitizer alcohol. I tried some derived sanitizer alcohol the other day and it sucked. My little brother Petey doesn't know any better. Kids...

Salute (ital.)

Self-Candids

Watching an episode of Seinfeld is a shocker. So o-l-d and out-of-date, the show is a freeze frame of the era before technology. Indeed, no cell phones, make the sit-com dust bin memory fodder. Oh, this is not a bad thing... just think of I Love Lucy, The Honeymooners, Alice and the rest. Just because the situation changes does not make the comedy any less hilarious.

Some people think a cell phone is a portable phone. Ha-ha on that. If anything, the 2012 smart phone offerings are anything but phones. For many smart users, phone calling and talking is the thing they least do with with it. Just consider the options of internet access, apps, photographing, texting, video ability, music and ....

In this vein, then, the point now is to promote the practice of image taking and sending. Moreover, the position is further pushed to relationships. Here it is, once a week people in relationships should send a cool or sexy self image to others with whom they share a relationship. While the mind races to the sext, any offering suits the requirement. No matter the quality or composition!

Seeing another person is a whole lot different than talking with them. Consider the pathway of learning by lecture versus lecture with power point versus a silent image/video. Without a doubt, the image is the most powerful impacter to the brain. Consequently, call your hottie all you want, but if impression and relationship maintenance is desired, send a snap.

The first image is a personal candid of Heather Morris. No words needed. If this were a wife or friend, imagine receiving it. Betcha couldn't wait to see her later... Point made.

Also, picture sending and receiving allows the users to explore their own sexuality in an edge expanding way. Texting asking to see a picture of "your nipple" is less risky not in person. The potential for rejection is unaltered but the actual hurt is lessened. Moreover, the requestee is doubtlessly flattered by such an idea, even if "no" is the answer. Later the denial will be salved with extra sauce...

OK, then, have some fun. Sure to be hard in the beginning, but once the reticence to self shoot is overcome, a whole new world is opened. Surely the future will offer better and beyond imagination possibilities, but for now, carpe diem! Oh, if you wanna send a snap here for practice, go ahead and I'll put you on the blog (if you want)...

Ciao

Throw Away Ur Lesbo 'Puter

Yuppers, if we donna git 'em now, dey gonna spread like crabgrass. Imagine lesbos takin' o'er the world. What would happen to decent folk, u' a kno, the nut and bolters. Da ones that think a fuck is limited to a pene-vagi adventure, girl- ->boy, oops (pegging.)

What with all of da hub-bub of gay dis and gay dat, what's a straight to do? Huh? Da queers gonna' take over everythin' from food to fashion to cinema to da Cubbies Scuts, sho' enough. Dey be lookin' for new recruits to fill da rank and file of thems voting bloc. While it might be okay to bring in some vets, face it, it's da yout dey want. So as dey said to Mo-ham-met, go to da people if dey not cummin to da montagna. Go to Urban Outfitters and let 'em use a lesbian couple catalog kissing to suck in dose recruits, da vulnerable kids. (are dese models rele gay lovers?) Seeing females lippy 'n all, well-well!

No wonder One Million Moms went bananas when they espyed the smooch lock in da catalog... And the Moms and the colored girls, too, said, doo-da-doot...

Trash Your Teen's New Urban Outfitters Catalog Today!

WARNING! The April 2012 catalog from Urban Outfitters has begun arriving in home mailboxes the last couple of days. On page two of this catalog is a picture of two women kissing in a face holding embrace! The ad and catalog are clearly geared toward teenagers.

Before your child has a chance to read the newest Urban Outfitters catalog call to unsubscribe from their mailing list at 1-800-282-2200, and then throw it away. When you call be sure to let them know why you are unsubscribing. Tell them you will also no longer shop at their stores if you hear this type of advertising continues. The content is offensive and inappropriate for a teen who is the company's target customer. http://www.onemillionmoms.com/IssueDetail.asp?id=450

Wow! We all glad to get dat heads up. But for da One Million Moms and da colored girls (doo-da-doot) and da millions like 'em, damn. While such a movement to da gay mighta get a dildo maker up and about, just think of da chaos and da confusion abuddin'. All da girls and da boys turned like autumn leaves... flipped green to red to orange, yadda...

Mothers are wired, programmed and reflexive when it comes to 'tecten their loin fruits. Without dat, no tellin, just how de-human folk wud be. It is said by philosophers in metropoli and hamlets dat widout da ladies doling out 'swa in aliquots and watchin' out for dhings proper, America be like Denmark or Sveedin. Girls kissin' in store magazines ain'ta right. Der, now it's said and done.

OK... So did Urban Outfitters pull (out) dat disgusting, offensive and altogether evil image of da girls smoochin'? As of 4/22/2012, 13:21 EDT - Nooooooooo... Well, of all da lip curlin' froth. It's still in dere, in da online catalogue. Lookie... http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/urban/catalog/category.jsp?id=M_CATLOOKBOOK&navAction=jump
Can ya' git dat?

Well then throw it away, trash it! Just like da Moms and da doo-da-doots said... Hmmm, okay, but gonna primo post dis blog and den throw away da white MacBook. Hate to do it, cause its a nice 'puter, but no way anybody else gonna see dem girls kissin' on dis screen. Fuck dat! And you, too, Urban Lesbinators, fuck you for nethin'. Hey, now wat?

Ciao

The Kid, the Tit and the Oreo

In what is considered a disaster for Kraft Foods, somebody leaked a snaperoo of a breastfeeding baby holding an Oreo. Designed to be shown at an awards program, KF released... “We’d like to clarify that Kraft Foods did not create this visual,” a spokesperson said in a statement via e-mail. “In fact, this visual was created by our agency for a one-time use at an advertising awards program.”

At the bottom of the ad aptly added is, “Milk’s favorite cookie,”. Wow, what a cool promotion! Why in heaven's sake did the stuffed Foodies go off in the negative. Why would the media covering this "story" block out the NIPPLE? See...

Aw c'mon. Among all of the human interactions, breast feeding ranks the BEST in the Category sucking! Certainly its is nothing to be ashamed about. Oddly, here in the States breasts are an industry of great fascination, yet seeing the breast in action is OFF-PUTTING... Indeed! Off-putting! Is there something about the a-c-t of breast feeding that is prurient or pornographic.? He-he...

OK then... Gonna take a break. Perhaps a few Oreos and some milk would be sweet. Milk from the proverbial tap would be ideal, if available. Don't ya' wish that you were that kid?

Dolce Latte

Pay the Hooker

Hard to believe it when the smart guys flub the ball. Hard indeed. In fact, it was all about hard that led to the publicized mess of the hooker that beat the Secret Service. To think that all could have been avoided if the horse patoot of an agent simply had paid Dania Suarez her $800. She did work for her money...

Girls of the night deserve their just deserts as much as any other laborer, who performs a service. It should have come have as no surprise when Ms. Suarez went cookoo after being given only $28 for cab fare rather than her customary wage of $800. What was agent 69 of the Secret Service of the United States trying to pull? A free one... ha-ha.

The thing about sex scandals that is so fun is the shock. Feigned, of course, but the shock. Americans and sex are tortured butt-lubes. As tit and ass crazy as the Yanks are, Americans go bonkers when somebody is gettin' a little extra relish. Always pompous and holier than thou when it comes to "inappropriate" nucky, heads must roll in the States when loads are dropped without balls of lading. Er, bills of lading.

Perhaps the issue in this case isn't the sex and the hooker (hookers are LEGAL in Columbia), but rather the highly confidential nature of the work of the agents. After all they were on sight to prepare for PObama's upcoming visit. Surely loose lipped pillow talk is the fear. And who would know if any the girls was a spy? Remember Anna Chapman? (the hot Russian saboteur deprted from the USA, she is hot!)

So already a a few blokes have been pink slipped. Early lambs. For sure, others will follow them out the door. The big problem will be the upcoming investigation, which will uncover chicanery of the highest order - stretching out to other areas of public service and even the military. Nooooo! Even the US Senate, if the reach out ripple goes that far. Even Joe Biden, nah...

It is simply a given that sexual activity has always and will continue to pevade human behavior. Biology is a taskmaster of the first order. Consequently it is no surprise, nor should it be, that "shenanignans" occur. NO SURPRISE. BOO!

Need there be new rules? Rules which allow release time. Rules which recognize the need to play out the libido? To put it in terms of basic physiology, a person released is a happier, more productive citizen. Yes? The deep down urge to "sex" is irrepressible and is the essence of human. So there, said

 

Imagine what it was like for the agents in Columbia. Hanging and blowing off some steam, they engage some purveyors of the flesh (keep in mind, a legal activity,) All is well until one of the the numbered crowd gets cheap and attempts a theft of profession. If only Dania didn't have such a big mouth, if only...

Oh well, the jam has been spread and the piper must be paid. Heads have rolled and more will be set into motion. In retrospect, the pity is that for $772 US, the whole brouhaha would have been a storm missed. Oh well, time to go do some personal stuff, one on one... hmmm. Oh Anna--- Anna Chapman--

Ciao

Leave Mila and Ashton Alone!!

 

Mila Kunis is a cutey. The word on Main Street is that she has hooked up with none other than Ashton Kutcher. Although she denies being anything more than friends... Ha - heard that before?

 

Mr. Kutcher has recently shucked the erstwhile Demi Moore from her favored wife status. He frigged that up pretty well by liaising with a number of youger women in the process of degrading Demi to the point where she imploded. Maybe it was her fault... It's tough for older women to keep a younger man in tow. What was she thinking?

 

 

Kunis, for her part, has not long ago jumped out of an eight year relationship with Macauley Caulkin. Sure she's had a few dalliances, but what could you expect from the voice of Meg Griffin. Besides life for everyone is simply a series of bed affairs, be they monogamous or otherwise.

 

 

So it matters little if Kutcher and Kunis are squaring up. Adults they are. Whether than strike up a real conversation or whether they are friends with benefits matters not at all. Having a few moments of closeness is all there really is... A head full of endorphins is all any person can ever ask of another.

 

Sure, everybody will wonder and speculate. Papparazzi will skulk and obnoxiate in hope of capturing a $1000 image. The price of fame is at times a steep one, but then again the benefits can be priceless. Consequently, let it be said that whether K visits K or vice versa, either K can stay the night.

 

And so it goes!

 

 

A Mustang and Donuts

Saw this old Mustang at a service station today. So sad to see it in such decrepit shape. Salt air and old car metal are enemies. It comes as no surprise that 10 years of sitting at a seaside gasery have taken their toll.

There must've been better times, but the past is long gone. Once somebody drove this swell Mustang with great pride. Is that owner dead? No matter, for on this gray day, little matters.

For a moment, the thought of restoring this antique arises. So silly a notion is that, that a wry smile crosses my face. The car is a rust bucket and its inevitable fate is a recycling yard. Some things cannot be saved. Oh well!

The light turned green. Driving away, a certain degree of emptiness pervaded my soul. No, it was not because of the old Mustang. Rather, it was the feeling of the passing of time that the car hearkened forth, which irked me.

"Two creme donuts."

Having entered Robinson's bakery, a treat was in order. Having just seen the future, it was important to eat treats while I still had the chance. Swigging chocolate milk between bites, it seems inescapable that to live life less than 100% would be a mistake. Indeed!

Caio

Sad Penny

Every thing has a season... to be significant. Yup everything!! Right now Google and Apple are so hot, but their successes will be ephemeral. Indeed, the rise and fall is as sure as existence itself. Perhaps one need only look at immortals like Willie Mays and Bob Cousy. Both, once great athletes, are declined to who? status.

And so it was with that midset that Sidney Me tackled the basement. Oh no, not a football move, but rather he was given the job of clearing out the subterranean dump hole. You see, Me was moving and there was 17 years of crap-ola strewn out like a gas filling a container. In another life, Me might have been a star himself. But he had no advantage to speak of - so that despite his ability to drive a burn cover baseball 450 feet, he became a slub-bub. A married slub-bub.

Midgelet Sporkin Me was once something. Sort of a cross between Zooey Deshanel and Tarja Turunen, she went to seed when her ovaries failed. Not her fault, brick shaped post-meno ladies are normal. The pity was the demise of of her estrogen levels left her mean and chatty. Quite a combination, mean and chatty. If Si's testosterone levels hadn't fallen to a quarter of a tank he might have bolted. But... a man low in testo is not a man at all. Fuck!

Methodically the diminutive plodder went through a decade plus seven years of shit with the precision of an accountant. Ha! Sidney is in fact a mutton chopped number's cruncher, too careful for his own good... Old posters of mitosis and nuclear fission reminded him of when the kids were cute, before they developed BO and bad habits and moved out. As he looked over his work, he choked up like Boston Bill Buckner did so many years ago when he flubbed that roller on first base.

Dolls, board games, Leggos and snow boards were toe jambed into a closet. In turn, he fingered each item as if he had found an old lover cast away curbside. Once you love something, shucks, you always have a soft spot. Human nature is a funny thing. What Siddy didn't realize was that the death of the dolls and the Leggos and the rest of the basement fodder was for him, death too. If he had been smarter, he would have sent no-waist down into the house bowels to do this dirty work. Right.., that would have worked.

As he moved deeper and deeper into the mess, he came upon several boxes, which had never been opened since before he and sour pussy moved into 3rd Street. Now there was a cool house, old and haunted. Sid remembered being as hard as rock back then. Tight abs and a rigid dick that could hold up a wet bath towel, Sid was on his game. That was the time of his life when he would have been considered hot.

But back then, like now, Midge ruled. She had tired of the old city 3 Street house by the sledding hill and she wanted new. And with two little ones and the need to get them properly schooled up, the 'burbs were Midge-deemed perfect. The brillo pad can move mountains, at least that was what Cholly Me used to say to his son Sidney. Choll was right. Back then, all ladies had pads of pubic hair. Come to think of it, Sidney realized that that too had faded. Sidney fantasized about buff, tee-hee. He knows about what modern girls look like. Porns, he does porns.

One of those unopened boxes caught his eye. The box was odd in that it had the pink name of his mother, Alice, scribbled on the side, as if the person who wrote it was hanging by her feet from the ceiling. The letters were askew and the ink penetration was varied and inconsistent. Chills ran his spine up to down making the hairs in between sweaty and sensitive. He remembered that his mother had given him this tattered box about 20 years ago. For whatever reasons, he had forgotten about his coin collection.

When he was a little kid Sidney Me was fascinated with the dates of coins. When he learned that some of the coins were minted with P's, S's and D's, he insisted on checking any coins which he could get his hands on for dates and mint impressions (P=Philadelphia, D=Denver, S=San Francisco.) Consequently, he collected some coins, but he never became more than a slight surface collector. It was on a visit to his mother's house for a salad and a steak back then that Alice Me gave her son his collected coins back. They had been in her basement for forever.

So he sat and squatted for over an hour caressing the books and the smooshed-in metal discs. So tender was he. Amongst the dime and nickel and quarter and penny books, it was the penny collections which moved him most. He went spazz when he saw his uncirculated 1955 S Lincoln head. It was still some shiny. Having traded a complete 1957 Yankee Topps set for that copper made it all the more precious. Funny how decades had gone by and he never once even thought about this past passion. Funny. Fuck funny.

Ah, the penny has fallen on hard times. For sure, it has run its course. The metal in the penny is worth more that the face value of the coin itself. There is a movement afoot to eliminate the penny. Heck, Canada has already made a move to ax the brown slug. Just about when Si espyed the 1943 dull gray zinc pennies (it was war time and copper was needed to make killing machines), gut emotion arose from deep down.

He wept like a baby...

• for the sad penny
• for the long dead Alice
• for the longer dead Cholly
• for the bricked out and fried Midgelet
• for his kids, who never called him
• for his loss of hardness
• for being out of season, out of style and out of step

Tomorrow the sun will rise anew. Tomorrow, somewhere, there will be plenty of life. Tomorrow Sidney and Midgelet Me are going to buy a 1500 square foot house in an over 55 gated shit-box development in South Carolina. Fuck! Fuck!!

Hey, wondered Sid...

Want My Two Cents?

Anybody?? 

Fuck!

Oh Sidney...

meet Penny (Kaley Cuoco)

Penny of The Big Bang Theory
Penny would listen
Bet she is buff too