I'm Sorry You Made Me Do That

I’m sorry that you left the meat for the cook-out unattended in the kitchen. It was a foregone conclusion that I would take a crap on the floor and mix my feces into the bowl of raw hamburger. What did you expect would happen? You should have been much more careful.

I’m sorry you left your wedding ring on your nightstand in plain sight. Although, you have told me many times not to go into your room, you did not lock the door, so it really was your fault that I borrowed your ring.

Yes, I did return it. When I left it on the floor for you to find, perhaps before you vacuumed it up.

I’m sorry, but you should have known what I would do with silly putty.

I'm also sorry that you left food in the pantry. Of course, I would eat it all. Yes, even drinking the can of condensed milk. But you only have yourself to blame.

I'm especially sorry that you stored all the tools in the basement where anyone could get at them. It might have been more sensible to secure them in a locked room or at least kept the most lethal ones in a padlocked tool locker. Why you did not, is certainly perplexing to me.

But since you didn't, I now have all sorts of tools at my disposal when you fled into the room with the rest of the family. I could attack the door jam with the plyers, and there were hammers and crow bars and hack saws.

I don't even understand why you had all this stuff. Most you hardly ever used.

Except the drain rooter. You used that a lot, because the upstairs sink was getting clogged up all the time. Which of course, was because you kept trying to get me to brush my teeth, and it was much easier to squirt the tube of toothpaste down the drain.

And while I'm getting all my apologies out of the way, I am sorry that you were so damn insistent that I brush my teeth. You thought I had thrown the electric toothbrush down the air conditioning vent, but actually, I buried it in the backyard.

I think that about covers it. If I missed anything, I'm sorry. But I'm a bit distracted by the current situation you put all of us in. Not only me, but the rest of the family. It's just sad. You could have been more thoughtful.

Imagine if you just had that one tool, the drain rooter, that you actually used. A drain rooter would have been no use to me at all right now, and all of this craziness could have been prevented. I'm sorry you didn't consider that.

Scientific Project on Telekinesis with Graph

Hypothesis
That the mass of an object impacts the distance that an object can be moved using the powers of my mind.

Methodology
I applied the powers of my mind to objects that varied in mass.

  • My science textbook

  • My pit bull

  • My mom’s car

  • My house

After applying the powers of my mind to each of the objects, I measured the distance that my mental powers were able to move the object.

Results
As noted in the bar graph (see below), all of the objects were moved the same distance.

Conclusion
The powers of my mind are infinite as my mental powers can move objects the same distance, regardless of the object’s mass.

_20180225_124931.JPG

Flight 904

He fantasized that on his trip to Bali his plane would crash in the ocean, and she’d see it on the news and be heart-broken, but miraculously he would survive the crash and be scooped up out of the water after surviving for days floating in the ocean. She would be overjoyed at the news that he was, indeed, alive.

And then on his trip to Bali, his plane did, indeed, crash over the ocean. Imagining that he would soon be reuniting with his lover, he joyfully prepared for the plane’s collision with the rolling waves below. The impact on the water’s surface shattered the plane into bits; debris sliced him into pieces at his happiest moment.

Communication Skills

Tell me one fact. You haven’t told me a single fact, yet. Where did you hear that, the news? Those aren’t facts. That’s hearsay.

What are you being so distant and irritated for. Just because I said that your personality was disgusting? That was like 5 minutes ago, already. Why can’t you just get over that, so we can move on with our lives and be happy. Now, give me a hug.

What’s so obnoxious about that? I just shared that I find the way you hug is condescending and insincere. That’s not obnoxious. That’s communication. Open communication is important in a relationship.

What good has politics done for anyone? One fact, please. Medicaid. What? I’ve never heard of a President Johnson. I’m going to Google it.

I took psychology before I became a teacher, so I understand people and relationships. Something that you are very confused about. Men are from Mars. Women are from Venus. I’ll say it again, because I’m not sure you’re getting it. Men are from Mars. Women are from Venus.

Tell me one fact. Enough with the history. That stuff doesn’t count.

You might feel comfortable folding your arms, but it is making me so super uncomfortable. It makes me feel contradicted while I’m being furious with you. I’m going to have to ask you to stop.

You still haven’t given me a single fact. I have one. My investments are doing so much better now. What do you mean you need that tax cut. Other people? I don’t get it.

Another Straight White Guy Sad about the End of a Relationship as the World Bursts at its Seams

They’d been drinking quite a bit before going to the Light Festival. While they’d stood in line for a ride the Ferris Wheel, a previously unfulfilled dating wish of his, she engaged a mother and her young kids waiting behind them, complimenting the young girl on her warrior costume.

(A car rammed into a crowd of protesters)

Once on the Ferris Wheel, they kissed, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Harbor spinning past as he pressed his hand between her legs and felt the wetness through her jeans.

The sex had been great fun with all the trappings that he enjoyed. Restraints and collars and floggers, and once he chained her to his mantel piece.

(and a state police helicopter crashed into the woods Saturday as tension boiled over at a white supremacist rally. The violent day left three dead, dozens injured)

And he thought nostalgically about the time while all four of her limbs were tied securely to the bed, he jammed his cock into her mouth.

And the time that she walked out of the shower in the morning, when she thought he had already left, stark naked with a towel wrapped around her head.

And when he went upstairs one night after watching an episode of the Wire, and she simply welcomed him into bed.

(The violent day left three dead, dozens injured, and this usually quiet college town a bloodied symbol of the nation’s roiling racial and political divisions)

But now, she pauses at the street crossing looking back, dressed in baggy pants and a black blouse, a single mother, adoptive daughter, religious rape survivor, recovered addict, and an international development worker. And then she waves goodbye and walks away.

( - Sarah Rankin, Associated Press)

Jack Spratt

She had stood by his hospital bed, wearing a summer dress printed with skulls grinning of the dead. Pretty in a dumpy, pot belly sort of way; her deep eyes glistened in the hospital light. She held the cold rails tightly, smiling with crooked teeth and a tired, sagging face.

He did not speak, and he did not smile as he had lain with his gown draped over his bony frame like a table cloth. Handsome in an immaciated invalid sort of way. Sunken eyes and cheeks; he smelled like urine and vomit. He slowly reached through the tangle of wires and tubes keeping him alive, held her hand and sighed.

They had listened to the rain patter on the window and knew they would be together, eating strawberries, dipped in chocolate or cream cheese, or lightly dusted in sugar.

When she became pregnant, her favorite strawberry dip was tartar sauce, and the taste grew on him over time.

During a winter in the Midwest, she told him to slow down, right before the truck swerved in their path on the snow-dusted, glistening-black highway. He tapped the brakes lightly, and the car started gliding to the formidable treeline along the roadside. He turned away, and the car spun around, and around. Their four year old kid in the back seat laughed and laughed, having a rocking good time.

Wall

You did it. You really did it. How could you?

He was mine. I found him under the bush in the rain. Next to the lady with her office in the apartment. He looked so sad and wet, but so adorable.

There might be a whole litter in those weeds. I’ll just get another one.

I can go there if I want. You never said not to.

No, you didn't.

I hear you. It’s not a marsh. It’s just some puddles in the grass, because it rained last night.

What are you talking about? I had to use the sandwich meats. We don’t have any cat food. I had to take care of it. That’s why I fed him a saucerful of milk.

He likes people food. I had to feed it what it liked. You were trying to starve it.

How could you say such a terrible thing. He wasn’t a stuffed animal. He was a real. With a name.

It’s perfectly clean and fine. How could you turn your back on that poor helpless thing. He's my baby.

What are you talking about? I did not spill milk, and the sheets could be washed anyway.

I’m not going to wash them. You should wash your ugly dress. You look like a giant candy corn.

What are you talking about? There’s no such thing as consequences.

I don’t need choices. I need to get out of here and away from you crazy people. You’re not going to brainwash me. I’m eleven and I know things. I know all about the Greek Gods. About Zeus and Athena, and that guy that saw the naked woman bathing and fell in love with her.

Nothing. There’s nothing in my hand, Mom.

It’s just a pickle. It lives in my sock.

What? I can’t even have a pickle for a pet.

You’re cruel and unjust.

Shut up, I’m talking. I’m like cheetah breath, not a pair of scissors. You’re not even a caterpillar.

You don’t understand anything. I’m using a metaphor.

I couldn’t even say good bye to my cat, my lovely baby. You never loved anyone. That’s why you and Dad are going to get a divorce.

No, it’s your fault.

Shut up, Shut up, Shut up, or I will stick a knife in your heart.

Get off me, get off. I can’t breathe. You’re killing me.

You’re lucky you just got a few scratches, because if you touch me again, I will stab you in the face.

I’m glad you’re crying. I don’t love you. I could never love you.

I’m a terrible person? You’re not even a real person. Your spirit guide is a rotten dandelion.

Stop crying I said. I don’t want you to cry any more. If you didn’t take everything I loved, everything would be OK. He was a stray, my baby. He didn’t belong to anyone but me. He liked to watch funny shows. He didn’t like to watch long boring documentaries. His name was Murphy.

The Desperate Foolishness of One Particular Rugby Winger

So here you are running around on a rugby pitch. No forward passes. No downs. No helmets. One of the positions is hooker. That weird throw-in shit when the big players get lifted in the air. The scrums with players jammed up against each other like ... like what? Mutant Siamese twin beetles joined at the head?

Is it OK to talk about Siamese twins? Should it be conjoined twins? You can't really say. Since you started drinking again and went on the prowl for the younger ones half your age, your moral compass doesn't know North from South. (The fact that there haven't been any younger ones probably makes you feel a little cheated. You feel you've gotten a second rate midlife crisis, don't you?)

You might have thought blood and booze would have made a string of casual encounters easy pickings, but you underestimated your psychological disorder, sexual inassertiveness syndrome, and your bad grammar, which btw is often an online dating dealbreaker. And the drama and messiness from the breakdown of your nuclear family sure don't help much.

And what seemed like a good idea when you got divorced in your forties? Playing Rugby. Why? So you could hit people without worrying about assault charges? Keep your mind off whether your emotionally challenging daughter will get pregnant?

Look, your team just won the ball from a turnover on a counter ruck. Quick, get into position near the sideline. Run, dammit.

On offense your passing is bad, and on defense you can't tackle. And you're new so you’re playing wing, running up and down the sideline and maybe getting the ball. If you do get that ball, just run and keep running.

If only you'd started playing Rugby sooner. What a player you could have been. Now, it's a race to some decent play before your body gives out. Still, your midlife crisis did yield a badass leg sleeve tattoo that anyone would have to admit looks great with the kilt you bought from the Renaissance Fair. An awesome swirl of whale and squid locked into a yin-yang embrace of tentacles and maw that are both dealing mortal blows and a gentle embrace that represent the relationship with your ex.

Unlucky, knocked up. Unlucky as a knock-on when a loose ball’s been bouncing around the pitch.

Shit.

While waxing metaphorically about your maritime tattoo, there was a penalty against your team. The other side opted to kick, and the ball is now sailing way behind you to the spot where you should be now. Chase after that ball--run as fast as those old legs can take you.

You manage to scoop the  ball up and turn around to see controlled chaos converging. Kick it. You need to kick it into touch without fucking it up.

Don't fuck it up.

The 8 Man

The 8 man lies on his back with coaches and players gathered around. The scrum half says stay down. The coach laughs in relief when the 8 man gives him the thumbs up and cracks a joke. What do you call kids born in a whorehouse? Brothel sprouts. It's a common joke. Someone helps the 8 man to the sidelines.

"You'll be out for a month they say. And no drinking for 24 hours."

Terrible, he thinks. The idea of abstaining from drink for a while is a bit of a slap, like a counter-ruck after a tackle. (The 8 man relates everything in life through rugby metaphors.) He tries to remember if he's been taking the medication prescribed for his low grade depression. He's nearly certain that he's paid the electric and water bills.

The last time the 8 man sees his kid: downtown. She is 19. The white masonry of buildings rise, the sidewalks are paved with red brick, and the tracks for the light rail run up and down the road. His kid pauses a moment in the dimming light of dusk, before heading down Lexington and then the intersection is empty.

His team mates support him with pats on the shoulders and the back of his head.

The kid develops a topsyturvy religion based on an inverted reincarnation scheme. When you die, you become your favorite animal. (The kid is going to be a kitten.) What happens after the kitten dies, then you  become a plant, and then a thing. These scissors (presented as evidence). They’re a slave.

The 8 man stands on the sidelines holding an ice pack to the back of his head. He thinks he's lucid, even though he's confused about now and before and later. His team is ahead  by 2 points as the game winds to a close, but the other team has possession and is moving the ball down the field. Their fly half, tall and lanky, gets the ball and drop kicks it from 30 meters out. Dammit, the 8 man thinks as the ball hurtles through the uprights, that's a beautiful kick.

Each night the kid asks him if he will brush her teeth for her. She claims that she doesn't know how to brush her teeth. The kid puts toothpaste on the toothbrush and then waves the toothbrush around until the lump of toothpaste, perched precariously on her brush, falls off. Two years pass, and she still hasn’t brushed her teeth.

At the ER, the 8 man gets everything scanned and properly checked out. No headache. No nausea. No blurry vision. He is a tough guy with a hard head, apparently. It's all good, but even so, the attending physician advises no practice and games for a month. And walking is OK, but not running. Sloshes the brain around too much. Also, he musn't think too hard.

He looks for weaknesses in the opponents defense and runs hard through a gap, hit low, but the tackler doesn't wrap. The 8 man spins and skitters across the try line, then runs behind the goal posts and centers the ball.

The 8 man laments the fact that he did not take a piss between those two fucks, especially since the first did occur in a washroom. But hindsight is 20/20, and on the second go-around, there's enough residual sperm from the first go in that pre-cum foreplay fluid that he ends up with the kid and married for awhile.

The 8 man thinks he's had a vasectomy; he doesn't want children, but the result of that semi-casual fuck in the washroom raises a question. 1 in 1000 is the answer. There's enough sperm struggling through that post-operative semen spurt that he ends up with the kid and married for awhile.  

Too far away to make a leaping tackle, the 8 man still chases. Another teammate is able to haul the runner down, and the 8 man is there to poach the ball, stealing back control, if only for a moment.

When she is 9, his kid loves to hear him read "Call of the Wild". It's their favorite story. They laugh at Mercedes, who screams at every little thing, right up until the moment when her imbecile brothers lead them to their demise, falling through the thin ice, at which point she actually has something to scream about. But Buck, the dog, lingers on.

The 8 man sails down the field in ungainly grace, a tattered rag, worn out, running a hard line, and it's all good, this ballet of blood and broken hands, black eyes and lacerations, that chip away at the narrow slice of time that’s left, until just short of the try line; the back of his head slams into the ground, and the ball is out.

Star Trek Fanfiction by Kathy Acker as Read by Jonathan Goldstein

Interspecies Fuckland

In Interspecies Fuckland, a lot of fucking is going on.  Romulans and Vulcans are intermingling to produce strange offspring with pointed ears. Klingons are violently copulating with humans, killing their mates and mounting their heads on spikes before giving birth to bumpy-headed babies doomed to a substandard living that lacks a good dental plan.

In Interspecies Fuckland, Cardassian night porters are performing sadomasochistic rituals on broken glass with the Bajorans they victimized during the occupation. The deviant behavior becomes more perverted by the fact that the Cardassian hemipenis doesn’t fit properly in any Bajoran orifices.

In Interspecies Fuckland, the Sheliak engage in contractual sexual relations that involves protracted foreplay in the form of legal maneuverings and negotiations to determine position, location, time , and amount of mucous that will be exchanged.

Inexplicably, the crossbreeding orgy of unmatched chromosomes by the different hominid species of the Alpha quadrant manage to produce reptile-ape-crustacean-squid offspring with bumpy ass-shaped heads, nineteen nostrils, fish mouths, webbed feet, hands covered with suckers, and leathery skin.

In the fucking free-for-all, the aliens of the 24th century are happy to get skull bonked by a giant hairy bug, but still get squeamish when faced with transgender Trills.

The most tolerant species in Interspecies Fuckland is the Slime Mold of Seti Prime which reproduces by consuming its mates, regardless of number and gender, and dissolving them to absorb their DNA.

50.3333333 shades of red, green, and blue in equal proportions

He admired her proportions. She was perfectly dimensioned, measuring 2×1.3333333333333333333×2 cubits. Her face exhibited all the ideal symmetry ratios, and it scored 18 on the von Luschan chromatic scale. They commenced to mate in the tribunal of love.

Initially, they aligned themselves perpendicularly, then parallel. After 600K milliseconds and expending 4186 Joules in the parallel alignment, they adopted a rhomboid configuration that exponentially accelerated the flow of endorphins in their bloodstream.

5500 milliseconds after returning to a parallel alignment, he rotated her 180 degrees on her longitudinal axis, and they maintained a perpendicular alignment. He administered a strike upon her gluteus maximus, expending 4 joules of energy, and then engaged the intestinal avenue.

After securing her carpus with jute, he used the instrument that had been constructed by wrapping its core in filler and then covered by an initial plait and then up to three additional layers–in this case only two, the belly plait and one bolster–and the stock starked with a round piece of wood and plaited over with leather.

Having reached a point where various emissions had occurred and their muscles were overwhelmed by lactic acid, they rested for 240000 milliseconds in overlapping physical proximity. Their respiratory and circulatory systems, which had been operating at high levels of activity, slowly reverted to normative levels. She told him that her limbic system was highly attuned to him, but he had already been seized by a fit resembling narcolepsy

Welcome to the Canadian Gulag

You are now the property of the penal administration of the Canadian Gulag, a wholly owned subsidiary of The Trump Organization, in partnership with the Greater Federated Russian Confedaration Formerly Known as the Soviet Union (the GFRCFKSU) that now controls the Great White North, as well as most of the former United States.

 Your crime? Saying something mean about President Trump. I don't know what you said, eh, but I'm quite sure it was rude and discourteous, whatever it was.

Do not think about escape. It is not possible, eh. The Pacific and Atlantic Oceans to the West and East. To the North, thanks to Trump's Climate Change Acceleration and Beach Front Property Consolidation Initiative, an iceless Arctic Ocean. You can try to seek refuge on the Alaskan Islands, but why would you, eh? Just a bunch of chirps over there.

Likewise to the South your chances of escape are just as dismal, you have the Russian half of America (the good Trump half) and the Chinese half (the bad no Trump half). The borders between either of these halves and Canada are protected with very high walls. Don't even try it, eh. You might make it into the Mad Max zone between the two Americas, but you better hope that you don't fall prey to Lord Humungus and end up as a hood ornament, eh.

 A first attempt at escape will add two years of hard donut making to your sentence. A second attempt will mean five additional years of intensively competitive curling. A third attempt makes you mandatorily eligible for the hit new show, Ice Skating Death Games, produced and sponsored by the Trump Organization.

Make no mistake about it. Your life here will be almost quite uncomfortable. We'll give you the gears until you break under the harsh duress of mild to moderate labor. Things like dry cleaning Donald's suits and getting him a cup of coffee when he visits. Don't expect the guards to be anything but unforgivingly polite. 

And so you are to live out of the rest of your intolerable days eating poutine, drinking cases of two-fours, and choking on the cleanest air on the planet. And it will be really cold, sometimes. Make the best of it, and you might just survive. 

Now, don your green denim Gulag suits, eh?

Abstractly Erotic Banter

Just put it in there.

There. Really? Are you sure?

Yes, do it.

Higher.

Lower.

Ouch, too hard.

Wait a minute. Let me get the thing on. 

Nope I lost it.

What happened?

I suck.

It's not you. It's me. Or the weather. Look, now, it's back.

I can't even tell if you like any of this or not. You're so quiet.

I like it. 

You don't act like it.

I don't think you're giving me enough credit for how emotive I am being, given my generally nonexpressive personality.

I'm still here, you two. 

Of course, you are, you never let us forget it.

I feel left out. Sometimes, I think you guys aren't really into me at all. That you just barely tolerate me enough to include me.

Who are you calling guys?

I call everyone guys. 

We're not all guys.

I know that. I'm using guys in the gender neutral sense.

Of course you would. I reject that male-as-default paradigm.

See that's what I'm talking about. I can't do anything right. Even last time, when I used that jar of blueberry syrup, everyone acted like they were having a good time.

It was sensually tasty.

Well, for the next week, all I heard about was how sticky it was and what stuck to who and blah, blah, blah, complain, complain, complain.

It was sticky.

Everyone seemed to think it was a good idea at the time.

Speaking of good and bad ideas, what do you plan on doing with that thing?

This thing is great, it's multi-purpose.

Which one of the purposes do you plan on doing with it right now?

This one right here.

OK, I like that, but be careful, I don't want to tear anything. Remember what happened last time when things got too rough.

I already said I was sorry about that.

Wait a minute. I don't remember that.

You weren't there.

What?! I knew you were cheating on me with each other.

Chill out, you're really bringing us down. This is supposed to be fun. You're here now aren't you.

Here, would it make you feel better if I we had some fun over here.

It sure would?

Are you sure those hooks can support all of our weight?

It sure will.

Well, OK then.

Now, isn't this so much better for everyone?

It sure is. It's absolutely amazing.

Hmm. I'm starting to feel a little dizzy.

It's in the DNA

Match each snarky sentiment to a past president. Bonus points if you can guess each president's historical ranking (based on a composite of presidential rankings by fucking Nate Silver, Jan 2013).

  1. Actually, I did have sexual relations with that woman. And maybe some others as well.
  2. Not too keen on facts and details. As Top Executive, can rely on unreliable people around him to let him know what he should know. And Trees cause pollution.
  3. Personified Quaker work ethic by diligently keeping a list of all enemies who would eventually be audited by the IRS.
  4. a) Telegenic, charismatic personality used new political media of the day to defeat nasty old bag. b) Presidency opened up a whole new realm of sexual predation.
  5. In times of war, it is necessary to intern a large segment of population based on race, because fuck them.
  6. White supremacist propaganda screened at White House with an enthusiastic thumbs up by Prez for its “trueness”
  7. Has Secretary of War arrest Maryland legislators before they could make a crucial vote in order to "Keep America,  an America with 39 States."
  8. That Hair.
  9. Relocated entire ethnic group, to a location where they would be happier, aside from the death, disease, and starvation of 25-30% of "deportees"
  10. Signed act that included new powers to deport foreigners and make it harder for immigrants to vote, because the Irish were a bunch of criminals and drunks. Plus, the opposition was saying mean things about him.

Answer Key

  1. Clinton - Rank #18
  2. Reagan - Rank #10
  3. Nixon - Rank #29
  4. JFK - Rank #9
  5. FDR - Rank #2
  6. Wilson - Rank #7
  7. Lincoln - Rank #1
  8. Fillmore - Rank #37
  9. Jackson - Rank #13
  10. John Adams, the first non-Quincy one - Rank #16

Millennials Feel Entitled to Guilt Free Masturbation

Global economic and cultural dynamics are slowly eroding traditional values. That’s why the world is going to hell in a hand basket. That, and Millennials feel entitled to guilt free masturbation.  

They were brought up in a world where they feel entitled to masturbate for no other reason than their own shameless sexual satisfaction. Where’s the guilt? Where’s the hard work required to obtain satisfactory pornographic materials? 

More so than previous generations, millennials have a sexual self-assurance that is egregious and off-putting. Sex-positive societal attitudes. Online sex toy stores. Webcam feeds, sexting. Fetish sites. Nero is practically fiddling as Rome burns.

Except in this case, Rome isn’t burning, so much as thriving with a stock market breaking record after record. Also, Nero is playing with his wang, not a fiddle.

Nonetheless, the performance of this generation's boomer retirement portfolios are at risk as long as our future depends on a generation that lacks a work ethic that can only be instilled in a world of scarce pornographic resources.

In our teenage years, masturbation took a lot of work. Playboy or your imagination. That's all we had. You couldn’t even talk about it. That’s how it was meant to be. Hard work. Hard work and denial that anyone was even doing it.

When we were young, you had to earn the right to masturbate. It wasn’t something that was just given to you. Full frontal nudity wasn’t even prevalent until the 70s. And by then we were slogging through a soul sucking job and raising a soul sucking family. Does the younger generation even understand how getting married early makes masturbation super inconvenient? 

No, they don’t, because they delay marriage solely for the purpose of irritating our generation and showing a complete disregard for what made this country great: a workaholic lifestyle spent vainly and futilely attempting to meet the needs of a dysfunctional family and spending large sums of money on talk therapy. 

For our generation, there were few options besides tossing one off in the shower. There was no Porn Hub. Penthouse or--God Forbid--Hustler in the household? We might as well have taken a live bomb into our collective houses, just waiting for it to be tripped, blowing us all to kingdom come.

And things sure didn’t get any easier as we got older. Sure, there was VHS and Cable, but unless you lived it, you can't possibly appreciate the anxiety induced from waiting in the middle of the night until your sure your spouse was soundly asleep, so you could safely slip out of bed to catch some soft porn on Cinemax? Worrying about our spouses coming down or even-Jesus Christ to even thing about it now--one of the kids? Seeing you sitting back, naked in that lawn chair in the middle of the TV room next to a super sized box of tissues while you're jacking off? 

Holy Hell. The anxiety and worry makes it impossible to appreciate that film of topless super models infiltrating the Soviet Union and bringing it to its knees by parachuting behind the Iron Curtain. You can be sure of that.

No, kids these days don't struggle with this masturbational anxiety and worry, because they’ve been spoiled by technology. Like smart phones and tablets. Wherever, whenever, able to engage with a young, nubile naked woman in a pornographic exchange based on their twisted and idiosyncratic masturbational fantasies. Have they ever tried to smuggle a TV set and cable box and cable hook-up into the bathroom for some privacy? Certainly not. Can't be done.

And they have never had to develop a plausible "I'm Working Late" excuse to tell their spouse before slinking off to a peep show, where parking is a real bitch and you have to hoof it 5 blocks through the Irish neighborhood. And then once there, having to wait for a private pleasure booth. It's hard work! There isn't a more damning exhibit of our decline into a world of easily satisfied sexual needs than pornographic webcams.

It's the End of Days and the four horsemen are upon us. Except we're not living with war, death, and so on, so much as wealth and prosperity, while Millennials are fighting those wars we figured were a good idea, but still. 

It is just so sad that our future depends on a generation that has missed the character-building, coming-of-age experience of masturbation that is as frustrating and unfulfilling as possible.

Seating Strategically on the MARC Train

The MARC train, run by Amtrak, is the commuter train that runs from DC through Maryland, I've been taking this train between Baltimore and DC for almost two years and have developed a strategic approach to seating that illustrates the Prisoner's Dilemma when trying to optimize leg room.

For the risk averse, you can go ahead and sit in the typical front-to-back seating arrangement and guarentee an airline coach seat's worth of seating. But for us with a high risk, high reward mentality, each car on the MARC train has some front-to-front seating configuration. In this seating arrangement, a pair of seats face another pair of seats. This four seat arrangement is usually situated in in each of the corners of the car. (There is one car configuration that has two four seat groupings in the center of the car.)

It's possible to enjoy the whole commuter trip between Baltimore and DC stretching your legs out with no one sitting across from you. Your seat selection becomes crucial in increasing the chances of this leg room.

It's easiest if you are the first to sit in a four seat pod. Take one of the seats next to the window. The next person to join you will most likely sit in the aisle seat across from you. (Apparently, people don't like to sit next to each other if they can avoid it.) Unfortunately for them, they've only improved your chances of extra leg room. The third person to the pod will most likely sit across from that person (and next to you), rather than climb over everyone's legs to get that seat across from you.

At that point, unless the train is crammed full a fourth person will prefer other seats over getting into that last spot. Sometimes, your fellow passenger will help you out by putting their backpacks and laptops in that empty seat. Now, not only does the person have to climb over legs, they have to ask someone to move their stuff. Even if someone does all that and ends up across from you, you've already enjoyed a good part of your trip with extra leg room. 

But what if you are not the first person to sit in the four seat pod?

In that case, your best option people are only sitting in the aisle seats. Climb over them and get one of the open window seats. You're basically just as well off as if you'd taken that seat before anyone else had taken a seat. 

But what if someone has already taken the window seat. Well, then you need to suck it up and sit next to them and hope that the next person will sidle over to the remaining window seat. If you take the catty corner seat, your extra leg room won't last the train's departure from the station, as someone will inevitably sit across from you. 

Worse case scenario is when you've taken that first window seat, and then the next person inexplicably takes the seat across from you! I have no idea, why someone would do this, whether spitefulness (to you) or politeness (for the next people to site down) or if some people just really like the window seat no matter what.

You could move over a seat, but it's probably a lost cause. You gambled and this time it just didn't quite pan out. But like I said, "High Risk, High Reward" on the commuter train.   

When the Clonedroid Formerly Known as Prince Attacks

I thought it would be just another ordinary day, as I ruminated about the amazingosity of our Great Leader Trump.

But boy was I wrong! It would turn out to be far from an ordinary day. When walking home from work, a strange man, all dressed in purple, rode up to me on a Honda moped and demanded that I party like it's 1999.

Wow! He's riding a Honda, and he sure is short. And then I noticed more purple men, all wearing unbuttoned blouses, exposing their chests, and sporting an effeminate moustache. One is playing the guitar, and they're all gyrating in a way that makes me a little uncomfortable.

It didn't take me long to realize that I had stumbled on a clonedroid invasion deployed by the Sino Pacific Empire to perpetrate moral decay on our simple, protelatarian way of life. These sorts of things happened all the time under the New Trump Order.

I for one had no problem when President Trump left NATO. It did result in the invasion of most of Europe. Not our business, anyway. I was OK when Trump made that agreement with Putin that led to the annexation of the United States and Canada with the Greater Federated Russian Confedaration Formerly Known as the Soviet Union (or the GFRCFKSU for short). 

That's exactly why I voted for him. I knew that he would make America great again. I didn’t know it would be by making America not be America any more, but on the other hand, there is a complete no-nonsense attitude towards getting things done these days. And the new Canadian Gulag certainly took care of all the riff raff and undesirables that had been costing me my job. And when the CCCC (the Capitalist Crypto Communist Chinese, of course) invaded. That was OK. They only took over the half of the US that I didn't like anyway. The part with Hollywood.

OK, that long, deep kiss between Trump and Putin was a little weird, but I'm pretty sure it was just some Russian thing, like the French cheek kissing thing. The French, now don't get me started on them. Thank God Trump and Putin outlawed the French.

I don't know much about clonedroids or anything. Something about vacuum tubes. And something else about sending time travellers back to steal people's brains off of autopsy tables and saving them in an icebox. What do I know? I'm a salt inspector, not a robot scientist.

I do know I don't trust them. A bunch of robots, built by scientists with foreign sounding Swedish names, out to take my job, just like the Mexicans. 

That's why I completely support building a wall between the GFRCFKSU half and CCCC half of the country formerly known as America. The Mad Max zone between the Rockies and the Mississipi hasn't been enough of a buffer zone.

 Case in point: the lewd gang of little purple men who continued to demand that I party like it was 1999--they were quite adamant on that point--compromising my capacity as a productive citizen by infecting me with the heretic dogma of the capitalist industrial music complex.
Then all at once they said, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing" 

“What thing is that?" I asked.

"Gender bending if I was your girlfriend." one of them said while strumming an electric guitar.
I was thinking, "What the hell does that mean."

"I am the sexiest vegetarian in the world, and right now, I'd love some spaghetti and orange juice."

Still not understanding.

"We are multitudes."

Not comprehending, as a flock of doves flew in the air from I don't know where.

A really sad looking purple man moaned and said "I wish Sheila E was here to party like it was 1999." 

Really sad guy continued, "You know, I am well aware that I am only a facsimile of the original Prince"

Disturbingly self-aware and sad guy gave me a come hither look that violated all my values on the way people should be looking at me and started singing about oral sex. At last I think he was singing about oral sex, I was having a hard time following, but got the gist of things. I think.

My mind raced. I realized that I had a handful of malformed grains of salt that I had rejected at work and then pocketed, so that I would have food to eat that night. I threw the salt in the face of the purple oral sex guy and ran. 

I made it about 10 meters, when I twisted my ankle and fell. All seemed lost when the cavalry arrived to save me at the last moment. Literally, a cavalry. Clonedroids of the 15th US president, James Buchanan, riding horse back. 

A Buchanan swept me up in his strong, capable arms and kissed me on the forehead to let me know everything would be just as OK as it had ever been. Sort of a long kiss.