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Hairy Middle Aged Men and Thongs
There was this thong on the sixty percent off sale rack at Targets and I think I have been convinced to purchase it even though I realize that a middle aged, potbellied man might not be the most desirable stuffing for a thong. I might be a pound or sixty over weight but like they say if you have it flaunt it and I got a lot of it.
I also know that there are a lot of prudes out there concerned with nudity, sudden blindness, keeping their breakfast down and counseling for the children. To help alleviate their worries, I doubt if they will see me in a thong anyway. I have enough skin folds so that the thong will probably stay out of site. I will need some needle nose pliers to dig the dang things out when I want to take them off.
Now I know most people think that fuzzy little bears are cute but few would feel the same about my big fuzzy butt so this presents a problem. I went to several professional hair removal places in town, you know the ones that do them bikini waxes. I finally found a place with a near-sited lady that did not make a run to the bathroom after my request. I did not realize that hair removal was so expensive. The lady explained to me that she would have to charge me by the yard because of the amount of wax involved. When I asked about electrolysis hair removal she told me they would have to get the electric chair in Huntsville and fry me like a piece of bacon to get that hair off.
Well I don’t want to seem cheap but spending the amount of money they wanted for hair removal for a three-dollar thong seemed ridiculous. I did consider the much cheaper do it yourself duct tape hair removal system but I was afraid that I might accidentally yank something off that I might need in the future.
So I guess I’ll only wear it while mowing the lawn. Like Uncle Red said - "God gave us hair to cover up the ugly parts. It’s his way of saying "Yikes!."
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Embellished Tales
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Forewarning
Please forgive me for I tend to ramble on when typing. A friend of mine was the same way with conversations; well perhaps they were more like narrations than conversations. He could take at least two hours telling about his trip to the corner store to buy a carton of milk. He would relate each minute detail of his trip while throwing in a story about Aunt Martha’s goat to boot. By the end of his tales I would no longer hear words coming from his mouth. I would be transfixed, comatose, staring at his lips moving as my own dazed brain could no longer translate his words or order my legs to get me away from this entrapment.
I hope my writing does not have the same effect but just in case I will try to keep my stories as short as possible. To help immunize your self from these brain farts, think of my stories as more of a Public Service Announcement than of anything of actual substance.
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Two Cats and a Can of Spray Paint
I was reading on an Internet Board about hurricanes when a posting caught my eye. It was from someone in Florida who suggested that people should paint their telephone number on the side of their pets in case they become lost in a hurricane. Knowing that small pets are sensitive to toxins and that paint has more chemicals than toothpaste, I would not recommend this action. But by accounts Floridians seem to be experts on tropical storms, hanging chads and yelling “SHARK!” so I would not take their recommendations lightly.
I realize that West Texas is not subject to the same amount of destructive hurricanes as Florida but we do occasionally experience a tornado or two. “It’s better to be safe than sorry.” I thought to myself as I started with our goldfish, Tom and Jerry. The short time out of their watery environment while I penned our telephone number on their sides with a laundry marker did not seem to do them any harm.
It was kind of funny watching them swim around the tank with tiny numbers on their side like some kind of underwater advertisement for Eat at Joe’s. In my imagination I could just see these poor goldfish being sucked up into a cyclone. The people in the next county would be talking for years about the day it rained goldfish with telephone numbers on their side.
After penning our number on our goldfish I searched the garage and found another requirement, a can of red spray paint. I already had two other ingredients to this lunacy in a 40-pound tomcat named Spencer and a petite gray princess cat named Greta Garbo.
I, being close but not quite a complete idiot (nobody’s perfect), decided that I would not be able to spray paint my entire phone number on the cats in one sitting. The nature of a cat requires that it make any human endeavor as difficult as possible. Cats would not see any humor in becoming graffiti canvas. I made a plan to spray paint one number at a time on the cat’s while they were napping, which as we know cat’s can do better than Uncle George at Sunday’s Sermon. It would be no problem getting my whole phone number on Spencer while on GG I would probably have to skip the area code.
GG presented the first opportunity. Peacefully snoozing on a throw pillow on the sofa, I snuck up on her armed with my can of red spray paint. Everything was perfect, she was lying on her side making a soft purring/snoring sound indicating she was asleep and not faking it as she often does. I carefully aimed the spray can intending to start with the number nine.
The fist pssst of the spray can left me spray painting a big red splotch on the now vacated throw pillow. The only indication that GG had been present was a gray streak headed for the back rooms. “Well” I thought to myself “this was proving to be far more difficult than envisioned”. GG would spend the rest of the day and most of the night in the back closet. I knew she was in there because of the trail of red paint left on the hallway walls, bedroom carpet and ending with the red smudges on the white sneakers in the closet. She did finally leave her hiding place at about three in the morning to verbally express her displeasure at my attempt to make her more tornado proof. I have to admit though that the red stripe down her side gave her a kind of punk kitty look.
I was contemplating the reflex speed of our tomcat Spencer. I have seen him move pretty fast when the doorbell rings or when we try to take him to be groomed but I figured I could get a good start on at least one telephone digit considering the larger expanse I had to spray paint. My wife on the other hand convinced me otherwise and took my spray paint away. It seems that the best laid plans of mice and men do not include two cats and a can of spray paint.
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The President is Naked
Oh to be young again. There was many a time that a thin strand of common sense was the only restraint on my youthful bravado that kept me out of deep doo doo. Mostly in causes that I deemed righteous.
I can imagine standing in the courtroom when the judge asks: “The charge is murder, how do you plea?” “Innocent your honor.” I reply “The guy was a jerk, he deserved to be tossed over the side of the cliff.” “Oh that’s great!” replies the Judge. “The charges are dropped, you are named the citizen of the month and here is your medal.”
Getting older does not make the thread of common sense any stronger nor does it make you any wiser. There are plenty of idiot old farts to prove this. The additional years do provide you with more opportunities to screw up so an older person tends to learn to cover his butt in the most efficient manner. Age and deceit will beat out youth and enthusiasm every time. I, in my older age, can sit in the park and enjoy the leaves changing colors on the big maple tree without thinking once about cutting it down, having a big bonfire and throwing a keg party.
I think our founding father’s realized this when they set an age limit for becoming President of the United States. I think that some of the drafters of the Constitution were afraid that a younger President might be prone to throw wild parties and swim naked in the White House Pool while drinking margaritas.
Let’s imagine that the age restriction is lifted and we elect a 19 year old named Tike Myson as President of the United States and 70 something year old Prom King as Vice President. Note that these names are fictitious and do not reflect any famous person past or present. Famous people have money and money has lawyers who like to sue the pants off people.
Nineteen year old Tike Myson is now President and he is having a big keg party and bonfire in the White House Rose Garden when he gets a phone call from VP Prom King. “Hey Tike, how’s it hangin? I just heard on CNN that the Ruler of Kayak, King Iam Imsane, says that the President of the United States is a wuss and dares him to come over to Kayak and kiss his royal butt. Have to go now, got a cake in the oven, talk to you later.” Well after a few beers Tike realizes that he is the President of the United States and that Iam Imsane dude was talking about him. “Well we’ll see about that!!” shouts Tike, “No round eyed, flat tongued toad licker is going to say that to me and get away with it!!” He then gets on the phone and calls for Air Force One and flies to Kayak to open up a serious bucket of cool whip on that King Imsane. But waiting at the Kayak International Airport for President Myson is a gaggle of Kayakians all armed with machine guns.
You can see the complications that President Myson’s youthful brash action has created. Not only is seventy year old Prom King with his weird hair-doo now the President of the United states but President King is obligated to exact revenge on Kayak and King Imsane for making Swiss cheese out of President Myson. What a mess.
While the now President King is floating naked in the White House pool drinking a margarita he calls up the Secretary of Offence and authorizes an army of nineteen year olds to go and kick King Imsane’s butt.
You know, that maple tree would make a nice bonfire.
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