Ode to Bicyclists – A Poem

City streets to drive are harrowing
frustration mounts all red lights
no room to spare lanes are narrowing
oh fuck there’s a biker in my sights

he’s on the street obeying the law
no bikes on sidewalks where people roam
but this potholed lane can’t fit us all
i hit the brakes he ain’t armstrong

cars to the left of me biker to the right
i want to smash his sweaty face in with all my might
no room to maneuver there i stare
at this fat fuck’s plumbers crack in spandexwear

i’m late for work driving slower than idle
my sanity will suffer in a short while
this sidewalk policy is dumb and dumber
bike nerd needs to get off the road before i run him under

finally an opening to get around!
it’s a tight squeeze his ass is profound
i hit the gas and pass unopposed
then spew my carbon footprint right up his nose.

Read Full Post »

First Porn Experience

For most guys porn has been a part of his life since his first adorable little ejaculation.  It’s been a good friend, right there all along, assisting in quickie wanks, long drawn-out Saturday afternoon sessions, and walk-by chubbies at the office (pre-firewall days).  It’s helped to raise our standards of what we expect in bed from the women we date (another reason why women are getting sluttier.)  Recently, I found myself reminiscing about my first exposure to porn.

It was at my grandparents’ house.  I was exploring the basement when I came across a copy of The Joy of Sex in an old beige filing cabinet.  What a find!  The rush of excitement was instantaneous.  The pencil sketch drawings were thin gruel compared to today’s high res video on demand, but I was 14 and just saying the word “boobie” was enough to give me blue balls.  I pored over every single picture.  Eventually I got around to reading the words.

I don’t know what was skeevier — getting off to porn with my grandparent’s watching Jeopardy in the next room, or finding porn in their home, a place I used to think was holier than a confessional.  I’m pretty sure the book smelled like old people.  That didn’t stop me.

From then on I was a perverted pirate on a porn treasure hunt, always looking for my next fix.  Like women, the chase was almost as much fun as the viewing.  With each score I ratcheted up my demands for stronger, purer stuff.

My next big find was my parent’s underwear drawer.  Big honking VHS tapes with colorful scenes all over the sleeve.  I later learned that most of my friends found their parents’ porn in the underwear drawer as well.  I wondered if our parents got together on bridge night to discuss the best places to hide the porn from the kids.  In their infinite wisdom they decided under the granny panties.  Come on, that’s the first place a kid is gonna look knowing that’s exactly where his dopey parents will think he won’t look.  It wasn’t long before I found the vibrators and devices I still can’t identify to this day.

Porn is so ubiquitous now that the thrill of the chase is gone.  Kids these days have no idea what it was like back when we had to walk 5 miles through the snow, uphill both ways, dodging suicide bombers, to get to number 2 pencil sketches of vaj.  Today it’s log on, rub one out, get back to whatever you were doing.  There’s no anticipation.  It’s not Christmas morning anymore, it’s a typical Tuesday afternoon.

In the distant past when men had nothing but glimpses of ankle to masturbate to, actual sex must have been an earthshaking experience.  It must have been the kind of thing that men died for… and created civilization for.

Read Full Post »

Dear Diary

I was never one to keep a diary.  Nor did I ever keep a diary but call it a journal.  Yet a casual glance shows that 99% of blogs are basically diaries of the minutiae of people’s lives and their overheated ruminations about said minutiae.  Since I mostly write about abstract stuff I kind of feel like I’m missing out by not blessing the reading audience with the all-important trivialities of my daily life.  So here’s a glimpse into my mental world from this past weekend:

At the pool there was an unfortunate couple with a kid.  The woman suffered from advanced stages of what looked like multiple sclerosis or some similar gift from god, her back grotesquely misshapen and her arms bent in awkward positions.  The man, husband I presumed, was inflated like a hot air balloon, at least 400 pounds.  I thought, That guy is damned lucky she’s deformed or he’d get no pussy at all.  Then I wondered if I was the only one thinking that.  I pondered a bit more that he could lose his weight while she could do nothing about her affliction.  In this way I was comfortable mentally blaming fatso for ruining my visual environment.  Most of the time you don’t see people like this, the walking wretched, out in public.  They generally stay holed up indoors with delivery services providing their needs.  I think most people are happy with this arrangement, even if they would never admit it.

It was blazingly hot, so I went to Cold Stone Creamery for a delicious ice cream.  The semi-retarded looking kid behind the counter took my order.  When I got outside to sit and enjoy my hard-won kill, I realized the kid gave me not just the wrong ice cream flavor (cinnamon instead of coffee), but the wrong mix-in (butterfinger instead of heath bar), and the wrong size (small, not medium).  So the semi-retarded look was more than just a look.  I marveled how an order could be so magnificently fucked up — a trifecta! — when it was just me and my friend in the shop and no one else to create undue stress on the employees.  I decided it must be an omen, so I didn’t bother returning it for the correct order.

There is only one public humiliation worse for a man than licking the sweaty balls of a tranny on the 50 yard line at halftime of the Superbowl on national TV, and that is having the barbell fall on him in the middle of a bench press rep — during the warm-up set.  My buddy had walked away since I informed him it was my warm-up and I wouldn’t need him to spot yet.  At rep number 9 (we guys remember the rep numbers like you girls remember anniversaries), I felt a sharp pain in my right shoulder and the bar started going backwards until it was sitting on my chest.  A helpful gym rat lifted it up off me.  I couldn’t look anyone in the eye after that.  Luckily, it was uncrowded, so I think I’ll be safe to come back in a year or two.

My friend’s wife hates me.  Oh yes, it’s so obvious.  At the BBQ they threw on Saturday she exchanged a total of two words with me:  Hi.  Bye.  And she was facing away from me when she spoke them.  This is understandable.  Every time I’ve been to their place, I’ve either gone swinging single or with a girl she hasn’t met before.  I’ve known her husband much longer than she has.  He and I have the OLD DAYS.  The OLD DAYS are not to be trifled with.  Things happen in the OLD DAYS, like late night carousing, lapdances, and alibi duty.  A wife knows deep down that whatever memories she’s building with her husband pale in comparison to the knee deep in the mud memories he has with his lifelong buddies before mortgages and kids civilized him.  So I’m that no-good reminder of his wild days, and my mere presence gets under her skin.  Wives put a lot of effort into breaking the spirit of their husbands; the last thing they want is for that free-wheeling, carefree SOB to show up and piss all over their hard work in a single afternoon.  The icing on the cake is that I suggested the bar for their first date which eventually led to marriage.  She should be naming her next kid after me.

I hope this journey through the pages of my life was as good for you as it wasn’t for me.

Read Full Post »