What’s it gonna’ take for people to start helping each other out? I mean really help and not just pose with limbless kids for photo-ops to abolish land mines on another continent or stage sing-alongs to stay the inevitable advance of genetically altered foods. This is the sort of factory charity for show that’s usually run off by celebrities on behalf of internationally publicized agencies - filler on an entertainment news show. All that anyone’s looking for is press good enough to draw attention away from an ugly truth. And forget about the many ribbon campaigns that help the ideologically challenged decide what cause to support based on their favourite colour. In the end you wind up with a bunch of people wearing ribbons around months after the awareness week is over and their good intentions no more than absent minded evidence of maybe once giving a shit. Best of all, you can always indulge your sense of right-doing and leave your spare change in one of those clear plastic coin boxes that sit in front of the register at your local fast food franchise and think you‘re making a magnanimous contribution to any thing from cystic-fibrosis to the local humane society. What a load of shit.
I’m not cynical enough to deny that there are some organized charities that do good work - so I won’t bother. Sure, a movie star might raise awareness of refugees from war torn Somewhere-in-Africa I’ve never heard of and make pity contributions pay to have a well drilled but they don’t stick around to see it appropriated by the same heavily armed men who displaced the refugees to begin with. And granted, national fundraising campaigns do raise millions of dollars for medical research but I know a guy who owes his lavish lifestyle (including an 11,000 square foot lake-front home, boats, stables, servants and winters in Bora-bora) to the chunk he allocates himself every year from the Heart and Stroke Foundation of Canada. And yes my dear sainted mother gave a nice young girl at the market two dollars for a "tear" stained bit of green ribbon that would show the world she supported…something about the environment or legalized marijuana - the girl wasn't too coherent. And I worked out of a Wendy's where the coin boxes might as well have said “Managers' Laundry Money” instead of claiming to support adoption. But what the Hell, nobody`s perfect. Right?
Funny thing is that I take what I cherish most about charity came out the mouth of the only guys more than twelve people ever thought was perfect. He gave a famous sermon on a hill in the Middle East to a lot of people who were probably just as miserable and run down as a lot of people today. He laid down some crazy cool stuff about loving your neighbours as you love yourself and that doing good works to one another was the best way to follow the example he was trying to set. These were Great Ideas in their purest sense but I do believe the Man overestimated his audience’s attention span. I can imagine walking away from that meeting with every good intention under the Son - maybe even helping an old Pharisee to cross a Roman highway - only to get home and yell at the wife for not having my goat and rice ready and kick the dog for failing to honour his master. I can imagine that because that’s the same day to day shit that people pull nowadays. It doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate the message, I just think the meaning’s been getting lost in translation over time.
Know what else I think? I think the message is a lot easier to swallow without the divinity starching it up. "Be good to each other and get into Heaven." Yeah, that never led to any despicable double standard. How many people do you know who only do good works towards people who give them stuff or have the power to have stuff given? Bah! There are people on my street whose kids where jean jackets in the dead of winter and can't give their families enough to eat. Forget land mines in Africa, forget Farm-Aid and ribbons for children done away with by the fear and hate towards homosexuals - make a difference in your own backyard.
I can hear people asking, "What's this all got to do with the stupid fucking title of this post?" Well, I'm sure that everyone's heard the phrase before even if they don't know what it means (or, more specifically, my meaning). A hook and a crook are pretty much the same thing except that a hook's got a pointy end. Shepherds in the Bible stories I used to like were always carrying crooks to lift lost lambs out of holes or to prod the flocks into what passes for order with sheep. Hooks are most commonly seen on the ends of fishing line to pierce and pull a fish into a boat or onto shore. My point is that charity work usually takes the gentler crook approach and that, if something doesn't change in our attitudes, people needing the help might go for the hook and take what they want because they don't have what they need.
There...satisfied, now go out and do some good already.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Boobies Rock Hard!
Boobs are nature’s greatest invention - a bold statement, I know. I can hear people thinking that the human brain deserves top honours while others must feel that life as we know would stop without a heart. I can appreciate these points of view since I do think about boobs an awful lot and fallen in love with a pair or two. Without boobs I’d be hard pressed finding anything worth thinking about and be left feeling nothing below my waist but knees and toes. Without boobs…no, I don't even want to consider it. My love is too deep.
I started forming my conclusions at a young age. At about three or four I was still small and cute enough to get women with racks. With the right mix of ennui and guile I could usually get a two base hit. Unfortunately, my exposure to women outside of the immediate family was restricted to church and the welfare ladies who shared the yard in geared-to-income housing. The church ladies usually looked and smelled better than the yard ladies but the holy-hangers were a lot harder to access than backyard breasts (mostly because yard ladies would trade feels for cigarettes and church ladies didn't smoke). I was a brave explorer charting islands in the stream and logging the results - wee as the log was at the time.
Grade one was an eye opening experience. Some of the girls in grade six were starting to develop and that got me bugging `cause I shared a yard with them and there`s all sorts of stuff a twelve year old will trade for a touch or a peek. I learned a few more important lessons; boobs grew off of girls, girls don`t like you staring and arithmetic is just plain old math in fancy dress. Eventually I even learned to read but it took so long because the TA who taught remedial reading drove a Trans Am, smoked in her car during recess was stacked out to yowza. I spent more time looking at her bumpers than the books she brought me (and there were some good books too including Where the Wild Things Are). When pressed I could manage a few sentences before finding a long word to stumble over and stumble I would. She would lean over and point to the word and help me sound it out while my eyes feasted on the breast meat revealed. I remember the day after she saw through my ruse like greasy underwear - the day a woman finally put me in my place.
It was starting on to summer and she wore a tight T-shirt with something printed right across the front. In my mind it was carte blanche to stare and after a few moments she asked if I was having trouble with the word. She said it out loud and I could see how the sounds came from the letters on here shirt - especially the J circling her left nipple. And then she gave me a twenty minute lecture on the meaning of the world.
The word was OBJECTIFICATION. For the effect it had the word might as well have been CASTRATION. I was devastated and ran home weeping uncontrollably. When my mother asked me what was wrong I couldn't tell her - make that would`t tell her - what had happened at school. I was too ashamed of my behaviour to tell her and I knew that she`d be mad enough to offer a little of the old percussive maintenance. The less I talked the more she started worrying and jumping to conclusions. Mom’s are funny like that. “Did you have reading today?” she asked. “Yes,” was my barely audible reply. “Did something happen with Miss Grace?” “Yes.” “I need to know what happened?” “no.” I started crying again. In the end, my mom went to school with me the next day and we talked with the principal. I read him my copy of "Where the Wild Things Are" (long since memorized) and he said that I didn’t need remedial reading anymore. Then he and mom talked when I went back to class. Half an hour later the whole school hears Miss Grace peeling out of the faculty parking lot. At recess the grade fours told us she was giving the finger too and the burnt rubber hung heavy in the air - and in my heart. The best boobs in school were history.
In a perfect world I would have stopped there and been better for the lesson learned but it was only a matter of time before my boob love reared it ugly head again and again. Successful completion of grade school led to junior high where hormones hit over-drive and girls became women - women with boobs. I grew an extra two inches every day, starting on the bus ride. But Miss Grace’s lesson was never far from my mind and I had learned to keep my glimpsing furtive and non-descript. Still, it didn’t stop me from learning a few more important lessons; girls always know when you’re looking and most of them want you to - there are exceptions to every rule. I did, however, limit my worship to glimpses of the divine peaks. I never got to second base or even kissed a girl until I was just shy of leaving high school and all the way towards quitting on God.
And I won’t say any more about that.
My boob love continues unabated through the years and, nerd that I am, I have learned my lessons well. Short of teaching myself enough about genetics and cloning to grow the perfect pair I can content myself with the boobs at my disposal (i.e. Internet porn and not suggesting that women are trashy or garbage). A little self control and imagination goes a long way towards lifetime fulfillment of my desires but I don’t base my opening statement on fetish alone. Don’t misunderstand, I can’t deny that my statement has a lot to do with a deep seated boob appreciation and lifelong fascination - but nature‘s greatest invention? Yes. After all, for the first seven-odd months of our lives, our favourite food is made by boobs.
Mmmm…breast milk.
I started forming my conclusions at a young age. At about three or four I was still small and cute enough to get women with racks. With the right mix of ennui and guile I could usually get a two base hit. Unfortunately, my exposure to women outside of the immediate family was restricted to church and the welfare ladies who shared the yard in geared-to-income housing. The church ladies usually looked and smelled better than the yard ladies but the holy-hangers were a lot harder to access than backyard breasts (mostly because yard ladies would trade feels for cigarettes and church ladies didn't smoke). I was a brave explorer charting islands in the stream and logging the results - wee as the log was at the time.
Grade one was an eye opening experience. Some of the girls in grade six were starting to develop and that got me bugging `cause I shared a yard with them and there`s all sorts of stuff a twelve year old will trade for a touch or a peek. I learned a few more important lessons; boobs grew off of girls, girls don`t like you staring and arithmetic is just plain old math in fancy dress. Eventually I even learned to read but it took so long because the TA who taught remedial reading drove a Trans Am, smoked in her car during recess was stacked out to yowza. I spent more time looking at her bumpers than the books she brought me (and there were some good books too including Where the Wild Things Are). When pressed I could manage a few sentences before finding a long word to stumble over and stumble I would. She would lean over and point to the word and help me sound it out while my eyes feasted on the breast meat revealed. I remember the day after she saw through my ruse like greasy underwear - the day a woman finally put me in my place.
It was starting on to summer and she wore a tight T-shirt with something printed right across the front. In my mind it was carte blanche to stare and after a few moments she asked if I was having trouble with the word. She said it out loud and I could see how the sounds came from the letters on here shirt - especially the J circling her left nipple. And then she gave me a twenty minute lecture on the meaning of the world.
The word was OBJECTIFICATION. For the effect it had the word might as well have been CASTRATION. I was devastated and ran home weeping uncontrollably. When my mother asked me what was wrong I couldn't tell her - make that would`t tell her - what had happened at school. I was too ashamed of my behaviour to tell her and I knew that she`d be mad enough to offer a little of the old percussive maintenance. The less I talked the more she started worrying and jumping to conclusions. Mom’s are funny like that. “Did you have reading today?” she asked. “Yes,” was my barely audible reply. “Did something happen with Miss Grace?” “Yes.” “I need to know what happened?” “no.” I started crying again. In the end, my mom went to school with me the next day and we talked with the principal. I read him my copy of "Where the Wild Things Are" (long since memorized) and he said that I didn’t need remedial reading anymore. Then he and mom talked when I went back to class. Half an hour later the whole school hears Miss Grace peeling out of the faculty parking lot. At recess the grade fours told us she was giving the finger too and the burnt rubber hung heavy in the air - and in my heart. The best boobs in school were history.
In a perfect world I would have stopped there and been better for the lesson learned but it was only a matter of time before my boob love reared it ugly head again and again. Successful completion of grade school led to junior high where hormones hit over-drive and girls became women - women with boobs. I grew an extra two inches every day, starting on the bus ride. But Miss Grace’s lesson was never far from my mind and I had learned to keep my glimpsing furtive and non-descript. Still, it didn’t stop me from learning a few more important lessons; girls always know when you’re looking and most of them want you to - there are exceptions to every rule. I did, however, limit my worship to glimpses of the divine peaks. I never got to second base or even kissed a girl until I was just shy of leaving high school and all the way towards quitting on God.
And I won’t say any more about that.
My boob love continues unabated through the years and, nerd that I am, I have learned my lessons well. Short of teaching myself enough about genetics and cloning to grow the perfect pair I can content myself with the boobs at my disposal (i.e. Internet porn and not suggesting that women are trashy or garbage). A little self control and imagination goes a long way towards lifetime fulfillment of my desires but I don’t base my opening statement on fetish alone. Don’t misunderstand, I can’t deny that my statement has a lot to do with a deep seated boob appreciation and lifelong fascination - but nature‘s greatest invention? Yes. After all, for the first seven-odd months of our lives, our favourite food is made by boobs.
Mmmm…breast milk.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The Entertainment News Dream Biopsy
Through no fault of my own, I watch a little too much entertainment television before bed. I once saw George Clooney propositioned by an Italian journalist and later learned that it was all a hoax (apparently the Venice Film Festival will never be the same again). Lately it was revealed that Joaquin Phoenix’s paradigm shift from hare-lipped actor to hare-lipped rapper was a hoax as well (in related news he’s set to play Leonardo DiCaprio’s lover in a film adaptation of FBI founder J Edgar Hoover’s life). And who can forget how the death of GUESS cover model Anna Nicole Smith resulted in a custody battle which proved once and for all that washed up celebrities sleep around on their shyster husbands with photographers (and the lazy eyed little girl is doing well by all reports). Oh, and Michael Douglas has some sort of throat cancer that his younger wife is very pissed off about (she made a point of saying early on the doctors didn’t find it fast enough).
Ever dream about the last thing you see before falling asleep? Well, I must have drifted off to an update about the Micheal Douglas tragedy one night because there was a very strong Gordon Gecko theme to the last dream I remember having. I was at some hoity-toity but at the same time too risqué social do in an opulent penthouse looking over a night time city-scape lit up like a crack addict’s Christmas tree. Maybe I was playing the main role but there was this tickle in my throat that had me coughing bubbles into my two-hundred year old Scotch. Excusing myself from the discreet cocaine and nubile young bodies enjoying it one off another I went to lie down in a perfect copy of my own bedroom set on a raised platform in the centre of the party. I laid my self down fully clothed and tried not to cough but the tickle kept getting worse and I was disturbing my guests. With a complete disregard for my dream walking gag reflex, I reached an index finger down my throat to scratch the tickle. That’s when it started getting weird.
The cancer tickle had turned into a hand holding a feather to the back of my throat. Sensing the intruding digit the cancer-hand abandoned it’s throat itching and grabbed my finger. I must have made some loud if muffled exclamation because there were party guests surrounding me in an instant. They started taking off my clothes and rubbing me sensually like spectators in a group sex scene. I locked eyes with a pretty red-head bearing a striking resemblance to Mary Hart and saw myself fisting my own moth reflected in her eyes. She turned to tell the elderly woman next to her what she was thinking and the old bitty started seizing while John Tesh licked her nipples. Soon everyone around the bed was engaged in symptomatic sex of some kind while the cancer-hand swallowed itself so that I could taste my arm up to the elbow. Lubricated with my own blood, the throat rape began. So appalled was my dream self, so bound and determined to prevent the spectacle I had become, that he pulled back against the cancer hand with a might that tore a baby shaped mass out…
That’s when I woke up paralyzed. (This sometimes happen when I’ve dreamed something so fundamentally disturbing that my waking mind just can’t deal with the horror. I’ll lie completely still, barely daring to breathe, for anywhere from five minutes to half the night, hoping that the nightmare hasn’t carried me somewhere too far from which to return.) I didn’t so much regain my senses as I recouped their loss and found my throat drier than twice baked bread. Luckily I remembered the way to the bathroom,slurped three hand-cups of water out of the toilet before seeing my reflection in the bowl and the new vagina shape to my mouth with traces of a fresh...
Then I woke up for real. Or have I? Life’s been feeling entertainment newsworthy of late and I keep finding myself embroiled in petty scandals and intrigues. People are getting all up in my business and I don't go out anymore. I'm thinking about shaving my head, adopting a third-world baby and driving around drunk with my shaved head out the window, baby in my teeth, looking for a transgendered prostitute selling drugs. And I would if I couldn't see it all every weekday night from 7 to 8 on one of the only two channels I get on my analog television.
Maybe I should just fall asleep to porn. That'll fix me right up.
Ever dream about the last thing you see before falling asleep? Well, I must have drifted off to an update about the Micheal Douglas tragedy one night because there was a very strong Gordon Gecko theme to the last dream I remember having. I was at some hoity-toity but at the same time too risqué social do in an opulent penthouse looking over a night time city-scape lit up like a crack addict’s Christmas tree. Maybe I was playing the main role but there was this tickle in my throat that had me coughing bubbles into my two-hundred year old Scotch. Excusing myself from the discreet cocaine and nubile young bodies enjoying it one off another I went to lie down in a perfect copy of my own bedroom set on a raised platform in the centre of the party. I laid my self down fully clothed and tried not to cough but the tickle kept getting worse and I was disturbing my guests. With a complete disregard for my dream walking gag reflex, I reached an index finger down my throat to scratch the tickle. That’s when it started getting weird.
The cancer tickle had turned into a hand holding a feather to the back of my throat. Sensing the intruding digit the cancer-hand abandoned it’s throat itching and grabbed my finger. I must have made some loud if muffled exclamation because there were party guests surrounding me in an instant. They started taking off my clothes and rubbing me sensually like spectators in a group sex scene. I locked eyes with a pretty red-head bearing a striking resemblance to Mary Hart and saw myself fisting my own moth reflected in her eyes. She turned to tell the elderly woman next to her what she was thinking and the old bitty started seizing while John Tesh licked her nipples. Soon everyone around the bed was engaged in symptomatic sex of some kind while the cancer-hand swallowed itself so that I could taste my arm up to the elbow. Lubricated with my own blood, the throat rape began. So appalled was my dream self, so bound and determined to prevent the spectacle I had become, that he pulled back against the cancer hand with a might that tore a baby shaped mass out…
That’s when I woke up paralyzed. (This sometimes happen when I’ve dreamed something so fundamentally disturbing that my waking mind just can’t deal with the horror. I’ll lie completely still, barely daring to breathe, for anywhere from five minutes to half the night, hoping that the nightmare hasn’t carried me somewhere too far from which to return.) I didn’t so much regain my senses as I recouped their loss and found my throat drier than twice baked bread. Luckily I remembered the way to the bathroom,slurped three hand-cups of water out of the toilet before seeing my reflection in the bowl and the new vagina shape to my mouth with traces of a fresh...
Then I woke up for real. Or have I? Life’s been feeling entertainment newsworthy of late and I keep finding myself embroiled in petty scandals and intrigues. People are getting all up in my business and I don't go out anymore. I'm thinking about shaving my head, adopting a third-world baby and driving around drunk with my shaved head out the window, baby in my teeth, looking for a transgendered prostitute selling drugs. And I would if I couldn't see it all every weekday night from 7 to 8 on one of the only two channels I get on my analog television.
Maybe I should just fall asleep to porn. That'll fix me right up.
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