I saw Russell Crowe at ‘The Coliseum’ in Oakland, California, U.S.A., sometime before the Raiders started playing. He was taking ‘snaps’ with Michael Vick, and screaming, “Strength and Honor!”
But as I stared at Russell Crowe in his Gladiator-garb, mere moments after a chariot pulled by some pugilistic dogs dropped Michael Vick off ---I felt the giant clock above move quickly in reverse.
The National Football League had now blurred with ‘Roman-Times’, a world lived thousands of years ago, and I thought, “As the N.F.L. moves into the twenty-first century, it actually seems to be regressing at a much quicker-clip.”
The evidence of this regression seems to be everywhere. It would appear that the Roman Gladiators and the players of the National Football League have a genealogy that can’t be denied. Is one epoch indiscernible from the other? Is it Blood and Guts, and bread and circuses: Then and now? Yes.
In the book, “Pros and Cons; the criminals who play in the N.F.L.”, Jeff Benedict and Don Yaeger suggest that 21% of the players in the N.F.L. have criminal backgrounds.
The Roman Gladiators also had a strict recruitment policy. For entrance onto the sands of The Coliseum, the gladiators had to be one of several things; a criminal, slave, a prisoner of war, a volunteer, and or, etcetera.
But mostly, their recruitment policies were rudimentary, just be cruel ruthless, and ---Cat people need not apply.
So, when Michael Vick admitted to being a criminal, specifically ---beating, electrocuting and drowning dogs, I was sure he had the psychological make-up to be a great player. Am I wrong?
Many people seemed to agree with me. For example, some thought Michael Vick’s punishment, “for playing with dogs” (their words), was beyond reason. Nonetheless, he was given a 23 month prison sentence.
Tampa bay cornerback, Ronde Barber, was beside himself. He said, “After all, I would bet you that every player in the NFL knows someone who has been to a dogfight.”
So …there you have it? I mean, who hasn’t seen two highly trained (and tortured) animals fight to the death?
And, if you have any other deviations from reality concerning this regression, remember the traditions and rituals that sowed the seed for the National Football League. It has a linear connection, linked either to an ancient Etruscan Funeral, where the kings gang wound fight to the death around his tomb to raise his spirits,
Or ---to a Ford White Bronco being driven down a Los Angeles freeway with an N.F.L. great (O.J. Simpson) hiding in the passenger seat, as he tried to clean his blood-stained hands.
The End
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
Breathing
I stood on the precipice and my foot slipped. It was just instinctual how I regained my balance. My heart remained steady. I didn’t care. I was there, standing on the edge. I wasn’t sure whether to go for a quick run straight into the abyss, or have a seat and think. One more decision, one more bad decision, and I don’t think I can take it anymore.
He felt it?-again, he always remembered being on the edge, and tried to take a deep breath. It was centering in his chest. His heart pounded and his legs started to bounce. He folded his arms behind his head. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to concentrate on his diaphragm. He bent his neck to look at his chest. Nothing seemed to work. Nothing! His face was contorting. It had crossed the blood barrier and turned to screaming frigging pain. Blinding pain!
He had to try to stand. His fists clenched. He pounded them on his desk. He had to catch his breath. He opened his mouth, only to let out an empty scream. Nothing. Nothing is working. Again, and again he tries.
He finally does it. As he stands-up his breathing starts. He pulls his arms in a ‘boxer’s pose’ and starts jabbing his arm in the air. Down deep now, he gives the air a menacing body blow. He’s screaming for air. He pulls up for the uppercut. He does it again; to the body to the head. Now he doubles up on the body and rips the uppercut.
...He grabs a blanket, folds it twice, and lies on it. The breathing is everything. It is everything! He knows this. He counts to ten as he inhales. Slowly now, lying on his back, he exhales while pulling his knees to his chest. Now just deep breaths he takes, but slowly in and slowly out. He stretches it out. He’s thinking about his breathing.
He’s ready …
The End
He felt it?-again, he always remembered being on the edge, and tried to take a deep breath. It was centering in his chest. His heart pounded and his legs started to bounce. He folded his arms behind his head. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to concentrate on his diaphragm. He bent his neck to look at his chest. Nothing seemed to work. Nothing! His face was contorting. It had crossed the blood barrier and turned to screaming frigging pain. Blinding pain!
He had to try to stand. His fists clenched. He pounded them on his desk. He had to catch his breath. He opened his mouth, only to let out an empty scream. Nothing. Nothing is working. Again, and again he tries.
He finally does it. As he stands-up his breathing starts. He pulls his arms in a ‘boxer’s pose’ and starts jabbing his arm in the air. Down deep now, he gives the air a menacing body blow. He’s screaming for air. He pulls up for the uppercut. He does it again; to the body to the head. Now he doubles up on the body and rips the uppercut.
...He grabs a blanket, folds it twice, and lies on it. The breathing is everything. It is everything! He knows this. He counts to ten as he inhales. Slowly now, lying on his back, he exhales while pulling his knees to his chest. Now just deep breaths he takes, but slowly in and slowly out. He stretches it out. He’s thinking about his breathing.
He’s ready …
The End
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The Competitor
Remarkably, just the other day, in an average ordinary coffee shop, an elderly woman stared at a much younger man. It was presumptuous, audacious even. The elderly woman wouldn’t take a break, and to emphasize the fact that a stare-out was indeed ‘under-way’, she spread her elbows out on her coffee table and leaned-in ---closer!
Well …The heavy-weight made the much younger man’s heart almost stop. What was going on? What could she want? Whatever he was working on, he couldn’t work on it ---now. He almost got up to run. But instead, he blew in his coffee cup and the steam swirled around his face and hid him. He nervously rolled his coffee cup in his hands …
After several more blows, and several more moments …his coffee was almost cold. Now, there was no escape. The steam was gone. The cooling coffee forced the decision: The decision to stare back at the elderly woman!
The young man turned his chair around and rested his arms on the back rest. He moved his body closer, who shucked his challenge, by focusing her beam. She squinted, narrower, tighter. It went on like this, without a break. But then, now, the much younger man just formed a crack in his interior, and it was spreading …
... Three young men were now sitting next to the elderly woman, and also, they stared at the much younger man. The pressure obviously was escalating. Several ounces of blood in the much younger man’s circulatory system made a wrong turn. The younger man couldn’t take it. He broke away ---kicking his chair ---picked up his coffee and walked towards the exit door … A Coward?!
The three men followed. They had a firm grip on his next movements. One was standing to the much younger man’s left, and another, to his right, and the last man was one step behind. “Hey Challenger!?! Or …Coward?! Do you like intimidating elderly woman.” They all said.
The much younger man, “She started it. She started everything!”
“Hey ...if you just come with us …well, you get a thousand dollars. We'll give you a thousand dollars. And you’ll get more money if you kick her ass.”
“That old lady; you want me to kick her ass?!?”
“Yes: She wants to finish the Stare Out! She thought you rebuked the challenge like a little Nancy.”
“Oh really,” he said, but the much younger man did in fact reach his hand out … One of the three men dropped ten one hundred dollar bills in his hand. “And,” he said, “The winner’s purse is one-hundred thousand dollars (100,000).”
The much younger man started laughing, “To kick her ass? That old lady?"
"Yes."
"Ya ---I’ll kick that bitch’s ass for a hundred grand!-Any day!” He started jabbing his fist into the sky. One of the three men knocked him unconscious with a blunt instrument. They carried him over a hill, up to Cole Valley, down into the ‘Haight’, and then, an “Infamous” bar where they rested him in a chair, and then tied him.
The much younger man awoke screaming and kicking. A rope circled the area around him, the crowd in the bar cheered---three feet across from him sat the Elderly Woman. She started staring at the much younger man. He stared back. He quickly blinked, she slapped him. She spit on him. She never took her eyes off him. She slapped him again, while also screaming, “Coward,” and or, “Competitor!”
The Elderly Woman wound up her arm, with a closed fist, and punched the much younger man. She peeled his skin apart right across his cheek. The blood instantly dropped. She stood up and vomited on the Much Younger Man. The crowd went crazy. The much younger man vomited too.
The Elderly Woman walked up to the trembling Much Younger Man. She untied him, before she spat on him. She sat back down in her chair and stared at him, “Hit me Nancy! Hit me!”
The Crowd; “hit her Nancy ---hit her Coward!”
The Much Younger Man gave The Elderly Woman a right cross. Her false teeth went flying into the crowd. The crowd fought hard for her false-teeth, and then, when a winner was found, she lifted the false-teeth high in the air like a trophy. The crowd in the bar cheered again.
Then, the Much Younger Man gave The Elderly Woman an upper cut, her heard snapped, jerked, undulated ---her eyeballs rolled on “Infamous” bar floor. Blood flew too! The Elderly Woman was frigging …dead!
The much younger man, now holding a bright future: Walked home carrying one hundred grand in a suitcase and an obligation to attend an elderly woman’s funeral ---but not until next week.
The End
Well …The heavy-weight made the much younger man’s heart almost stop. What was going on? What could she want? Whatever he was working on, he couldn’t work on it ---now. He almost got up to run. But instead, he blew in his coffee cup and the steam swirled around his face and hid him. He nervously rolled his coffee cup in his hands …
After several more blows, and several more moments …his coffee was almost cold. Now, there was no escape. The steam was gone. The cooling coffee forced the decision: The decision to stare back at the elderly woman!
The young man turned his chair around and rested his arms on the back rest. He moved his body closer, who shucked his challenge, by focusing her beam. She squinted, narrower, tighter. It went on like this, without a break. But then, now, the much younger man just formed a crack in his interior, and it was spreading …
... Three young men were now sitting next to the elderly woman, and also, they stared at the much younger man. The pressure obviously was escalating. Several ounces of blood in the much younger man’s circulatory system made a wrong turn. The younger man couldn’t take it. He broke away ---kicking his chair ---picked up his coffee and walked towards the exit door … A Coward?!
The three men followed. They had a firm grip on his next movements. One was standing to the much younger man’s left, and another, to his right, and the last man was one step behind. “Hey Challenger!?! Or …Coward?! Do you like intimidating elderly woman.” They all said.
The much younger man, “She started it. She started everything!”
“Hey ...if you just come with us …well, you get a thousand dollars. We'll give you a thousand dollars. And you’ll get more money if you kick her ass.”
“That old lady; you want me to kick her ass?!?”
“Yes: She wants to finish the Stare Out! She thought you rebuked the challenge like a little Nancy.”
“Oh really,” he said, but the much younger man did in fact reach his hand out … One of the three men dropped ten one hundred dollar bills in his hand. “And,” he said, “The winner’s purse is one-hundred thousand dollars (100,000).”
The much younger man started laughing, “To kick her ass? That old lady?"
"Yes."
"Ya ---I’ll kick that bitch’s ass for a hundred grand!-Any day!” He started jabbing his fist into the sky. One of the three men knocked him unconscious with a blunt instrument. They carried him over a hill, up to Cole Valley, down into the ‘Haight’, and then, an “Infamous” bar where they rested him in a chair, and then tied him.
The much younger man awoke screaming and kicking. A rope circled the area around him, the crowd in the bar cheered---three feet across from him sat the Elderly Woman. She started staring at the much younger man. He stared back. He quickly blinked, she slapped him. She spit on him. She never took her eyes off him. She slapped him again, while also screaming, “Coward,” and or, “Competitor!”
The Elderly Woman wound up her arm, with a closed fist, and punched the much younger man. She peeled his skin apart right across his cheek. The blood instantly dropped. She stood up and vomited on the Much Younger Man. The crowd went crazy. The much younger man vomited too.
The Elderly Woman walked up to the trembling Much Younger Man. She untied him, before she spat on him. She sat back down in her chair and stared at him, “Hit me Nancy! Hit me!”
The Crowd; “hit her Nancy ---hit her Coward!”
The Much Younger Man gave The Elderly Woman a right cross. Her false teeth went flying into the crowd. The crowd fought hard for her false-teeth, and then, when a winner was found, she lifted the false-teeth high in the air like a trophy. The crowd in the bar cheered again.
Then, the Much Younger Man gave The Elderly Woman an upper cut, her heard snapped, jerked, undulated ---her eyeballs rolled on “Infamous” bar floor. Blood flew too! The Elderly Woman was frigging …dead!
The much younger man, now holding a bright future: Walked home carrying one hundred grand in a suitcase and an obligation to attend an elderly woman’s funeral ---but not until next week.
The End
Friday, January 28, 2011
I Know you Know
In a city in a house on any typical Sycamore Street a man woke up. He tried to get out of bed, but curled around his pillows instead. Like a mother aware of the hazards, the bed’s warmth hugged him completely. He never wanted to get out of bed, especially this morning. Because …Today, he felt different? But, he had to, he had to get out of bed ---he was scared …
And then ---he jumped out of bed to see if it was something physical that made him feel …off. But he landed like a cat and stretched his legs. Everything physical seemed fine. He walked to the bathroom, to the shower and was startled when he turned the water on. To him, it was violent. This was different! He adjusted the temperature and jumped in. He was right ---it was violent! The water felt like needles pushed at a high velocity into every nerve on every square inch of his body.
It was horribly painful. He jumped away from the pain to somewhere dry and felt a viscous fluid dripping down his back. He pulled his arm back, and even with the viscous fluid diluted with water, when he looked at his hand, it still looked red ---Blood-red! He was bleeding. He bandaged it quickly, as dripping water mixed with blood plopped on his shower floor. He looked at himself in the mirror, and tried to dismiss all he saw and felt. He got dressed. The red spot, the blood, quickly swallowed the bandage and started to spread in a circle on his shirt …
He poured himself a cup of coffee, which smelled like ‘usual’, which looked like ‘usual’, but after a sip, he realized it had no taste. Nonetheless, he drank the entire cup. He enjoyed it, he told himself. He sat for half an hour staring at the angles connecting inside his pantry. Now it was gaining momentum: the difference! But: Was the change solely inside him, or was it from outside? To make some sense of this he started to walking …
At the edge of the man’s property another man lay dead. His eyes stared up at the morning sky. As you turned from the grisly scene and followed the dead man’s eyes, you could still see birds circling in the sky. His dog lay dead next to him. He walked closer to the death-scene at his property line. He had to make sure what he saw was really real.
Immediately he was spotted. The communication devices all linked up. Security was alerted ---and excited, “You!-Sir, you know, I know you know Sir, you must come with us!”
“I don’t understand.”
“You can’t be serious.” The interrogator stopped screaming and moved closer, “Are you?-Serious? You don't understand?”
“Sorry, of course I understand.”
“I don’t know how you got here. Unbelievable! How ---Did ---This ---Man get out here?” He looked around the circle at his accompanying platoon. They fidgeted and hid their eyes. He turned his attention back to the Man, “You know the procedure by now!-Come on! If I ever see you again I won’t hesitate. Do you UNDERSTAND me now?” His mouth was an inch away from his ear.
“Yes, of course, I just woke up.”
The interrogator takes several steps back, “Okay then: Wipe the sleep out of your eyes. This is really unbelievable! Could you please escort, private, escort this idiot out of here ---S.T.A.T.”
Five men came running at him, full speed. They stopped and formed a circle. Then, a smiling man came up to him with his hand out-stretched. Did he want to shake his hand? He kept walking with his hand, apparently, waiting for acceptance. He smiled so warmly. The Man felt better. The Smiling Man was close now and squatted as he got leverage to punch the Man in the stomach. He punched! Now ---in the gutter without any further to fall, the Man writhed in horrible pain. Finally ---A breath and another. He vomited, and then he coughed.
“Why?” he screamed, and the Smiling Man quickly answered, “How could you do it?!? Huh?!” The Smiling Man took several steps backwards and then ran at the Man and kicked him exactly where he just punched him. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t do it. Don’t!”
“Do what?"
The men lunged atop him, all five of them. They beat him within an inch of his life. “You did it, you did everything. I know you know!”
Now …Standing with a smoke in his mouth and his eyes blindfolded, the rifles were heard, “clicking” ---“If you just tell us, everything will be okay.” Was heard at the execution!
“I just woke up …I didn’t do anything,”
“We know,” was said. All the men at the FIRING SQUAD hit their target …
The End
And then ---he jumped out of bed to see if it was something physical that made him feel …off. But he landed like a cat and stretched his legs. Everything physical seemed fine. He walked to the bathroom, to the shower and was startled when he turned the water on. To him, it was violent. This was different! He adjusted the temperature and jumped in. He was right ---it was violent! The water felt like needles pushed at a high velocity into every nerve on every square inch of his body.
It was horribly painful. He jumped away from the pain to somewhere dry and felt a viscous fluid dripping down his back. He pulled his arm back, and even with the viscous fluid diluted with water, when he looked at his hand, it still looked red ---Blood-red! He was bleeding. He bandaged it quickly, as dripping water mixed with blood plopped on his shower floor. He looked at himself in the mirror, and tried to dismiss all he saw and felt. He got dressed. The red spot, the blood, quickly swallowed the bandage and started to spread in a circle on his shirt …
He poured himself a cup of coffee, which smelled like ‘usual’, which looked like ‘usual’, but after a sip, he realized it had no taste. Nonetheless, he drank the entire cup. He enjoyed it, he told himself. He sat for half an hour staring at the angles connecting inside his pantry. Now it was gaining momentum: the difference! But: Was the change solely inside him, or was it from outside? To make some sense of this he started to walking …
At the edge of the man’s property another man lay dead. His eyes stared up at the morning sky. As you turned from the grisly scene and followed the dead man’s eyes, you could still see birds circling in the sky. His dog lay dead next to him. He walked closer to the death-scene at his property line. He had to make sure what he saw was really real.
Immediately he was spotted. The communication devices all linked up. Security was alerted ---and excited, “You!-Sir, you know, I know you know Sir, you must come with us!”
“I don’t understand.”
“You can’t be serious.” The interrogator stopped screaming and moved closer, “Are you?-Serious? You don't understand?”
“Sorry, of course I understand.”
“I don’t know how you got here. Unbelievable! How ---Did ---This ---Man get out here?” He looked around the circle at his accompanying platoon. They fidgeted and hid their eyes. He turned his attention back to the Man, “You know the procedure by now!-Come on! If I ever see you again I won’t hesitate. Do you UNDERSTAND me now?” His mouth was an inch away from his ear.
“Yes, of course, I just woke up.”
The interrogator takes several steps back, “Okay then: Wipe the sleep out of your eyes. This is really unbelievable! Could you please escort, private, escort this idiot out of here ---S.T.A.T.”
Five men came running at him, full speed. They stopped and formed a circle. Then, a smiling man came up to him with his hand out-stretched. Did he want to shake his hand? He kept walking with his hand, apparently, waiting for acceptance. He smiled so warmly. The Man felt better. The Smiling Man was close now and squatted as he got leverage to punch the Man in the stomach. He punched! Now ---in the gutter without any further to fall, the Man writhed in horrible pain. Finally ---A breath and another. He vomited, and then he coughed.
“Why?” he screamed, and the Smiling Man quickly answered, “How could you do it?!? Huh?!” The Smiling Man took several steps backwards and then ran at the Man and kicked him exactly where he just punched him. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t do it. Don’t!”
“Do what?"
The men lunged atop him, all five of them. They beat him within an inch of his life. “You did it, you did everything. I know you know!”
Now …Standing with a smoke in his mouth and his eyes blindfolded, the rifles were heard, “clicking” ---“If you just tell us, everything will be okay.” Was heard at the execution!
“I just woke up …I didn’t do anything,”
“We know,” was said. All the men at the FIRING SQUAD hit their target …
The End
Friday, January 21, 2011
Horny Nurses.com
Dying with a hard-on!
In over 160,000 cities, 160,000 thousand people flipped a switch, and red-lights soon dominated several thousand square street blocks. In fog-drenched alleyways red-lights flashed. One man, and then thousands more, marched as hidden as the night would allow to where the streets were bleeding red. In the high desert a tumble-weed rolled on and was forced to stop by some tall green grass. There, the sun was bright and a funeral was underway, the sun glistened off the people’s wet faces. Clear across town, at this hospital, a new-born screamed ---with ten toes and ten fingers …
At Saint Mercy General Hospital, on the edge of a city, when looking down you can see the red light district start to undulate and slowly engulf the horizon: The red mood, pushed with a strange north wind stroked ‘the grumpy old men section’, and a collective thought echoed: How valuable is a hard-on!
There was a lot of excitement, finally, and after a long extended period of time ---movement could be seen in their hospital gowns. It's not that labor intensive. But first, of course, the grumpy old men rolled their wheel-chairs into the cafeteria to conduct this discussion about erections or hard-ons face to face …
In ‘the grumpy old men section’ at Saint Mercy General, the conversation turned slightly philosophical ---concerning hard-ons.
Everything must be considered. “First on the agenda,” one of the men said, while adjusting his hospital gown, a ‘reference point’ is needed. He thought an agreeable definition of ‘value’ was needed to proceed. But this was quickly solved with, “the perfect fitting key,” the commenters first words, and then he said, “Whatever somebody will pay, barter, trade ---one good for another ---establishes …value,” spoken with his chest slightly puffed out until he coughed. But even with the man’s hand filled with mucus, it was a huge triumph. They were able to proceed onward. “Of course!” They all said.
The men hunkered down and pulled their wheelchairs in a tight circle. The discussion would move civilly, counter-clockwise, so that each man could tell his Value of a hard-on! The first man just said, “Prostate,” with a whimper, and encouraged the others to move forward without him. They all admired his bravery.
The next man stood-up and pulled the draw-strings off his hospital gown. He stood naked with a hard-on. The other men stood up, the ones who could, and applauded. No one could get within a foot of the naked man. His value of a hard-on was everything, “actually,” he said, “Everything! I lived off hard-on’s for decades. It was very lucrative. He looked down at his hard-on every other moment as he spoke, “I’ve had many hard-on’s, sometimes four or five a day.” And of course, he added, “I love a good hard-on! Don’t you?!”
The next man in the circle, traveling counter-clockwise, with his hard-on incrementally over-shadowed by the man to his right, asked the man, “Well …how many do you think you have left?”
“How many hard-ons do I left?”
“Yes …big guy ---hard-ons.”
Now, strangely humbly, while putting his hospital gown back on he said, “I just want one more!-I want a smoke. I thought my hard-on would be valuable enough to one of these horny nurses here to give me a smoke in bed.“
One of the men lamented about hard-ons and smoking in bed, “I’ve never had a smoke in bed.”
“Me either: I’m dying for a smoke too!” The big guy said, “I know how you look at me ---stop, even with thousands of hard-ons left ---you’re wrong.” The big guy had to collect himself, “Ya, you think, a foot away this guy could read some good literature while fornicating, but guys, even with thousands of hard-ons left, it doesn’t matter ---my hips are toast. Toast! I have to ice my hip at the thought of fornicating.”
“And ---with a hard-on like that,” could be heard as he pulled his wheelchair out of the circle. He pushed his wheelchair back to ‘the grumpy old men’ section, with movements at the moment, stifled, and quickly fell asleep. The others followed. Their conversations about hard-ons ended softly ---not with a bang, but maybe, with a lot of whimpers instead.
The big guy slept hard, but with his consistent movement, down there, ‘an early morning shift nurse' leaned against his doorway, and admired a hard-on.
Later:
back at the nurse’s station, she shared her vision with the other nurses: "If I could just slid on top of that thing it would solve a lot of problems for me ---that’s for sure!” Her friends giggled. “Don’t you just love a good hard-on?!?!”
Later: smoke billowed from the Big Guy’s hospital bed.
The End
In over 160,000 cities, 160,000 thousand people flipped a switch, and red-lights soon dominated several thousand square street blocks. In fog-drenched alleyways red-lights flashed. One man, and then thousands more, marched as hidden as the night would allow to where the streets were bleeding red. In the high desert a tumble-weed rolled on and was forced to stop by some tall green grass. There, the sun was bright and a funeral was underway, the sun glistened off the people’s wet faces. Clear across town, at this hospital, a new-born screamed ---with ten toes and ten fingers …
At Saint Mercy General Hospital, on the edge of a city, when looking down you can see the red light district start to undulate and slowly engulf the horizon: The red mood, pushed with a strange north wind stroked ‘the grumpy old men section’, and a collective thought echoed: How valuable is a hard-on!
There was a lot of excitement, finally, and after a long extended period of time ---movement could be seen in their hospital gowns. It's not that labor intensive. But first, of course, the grumpy old men rolled their wheel-chairs into the cafeteria to conduct this discussion about erections or hard-ons face to face …
In ‘the grumpy old men section’ at Saint Mercy General, the conversation turned slightly philosophical ---concerning hard-ons.
Everything must be considered. “First on the agenda,” one of the men said, while adjusting his hospital gown, a ‘reference point’ is needed. He thought an agreeable definition of ‘value’ was needed to proceed. But this was quickly solved with, “the perfect fitting key,” the commenters first words, and then he said, “Whatever somebody will pay, barter, trade ---one good for another ---establishes …value,” spoken with his chest slightly puffed out until he coughed. But even with the man’s hand filled with mucus, it was a huge triumph. They were able to proceed onward. “Of course!” They all said.
The men hunkered down and pulled their wheelchairs in a tight circle. The discussion would move civilly, counter-clockwise, so that each man could tell his Value of a hard-on! The first man just said, “Prostate,” with a whimper, and encouraged the others to move forward without him. They all admired his bravery.
The next man stood-up and pulled the draw-strings off his hospital gown. He stood naked with a hard-on. The other men stood up, the ones who could, and applauded. No one could get within a foot of the naked man. His value of a hard-on was everything, “actually,” he said, “Everything! I lived off hard-on’s for decades. It was very lucrative. He looked down at his hard-on every other moment as he spoke, “I’ve had many hard-on’s, sometimes four or five a day.” And of course, he added, “I love a good hard-on! Don’t you?!”
The next man in the circle, traveling counter-clockwise, with his hard-on incrementally over-shadowed by the man to his right, asked the man, “Well …how many do you think you have left?”
“How many hard-ons do I left?”
“Yes …big guy ---hard-ons.”
Now, strangely humbly, while putting his hospital gown back on he said, “I just want one more!-I want a smoke. I thought my hard-on would be valuable enough to one of these horny nurses here to give me a smoke in bed.“
One of the men lamented about hard-ons and smoking in bed, “I’ve never had a smoke in bed.”
“Me either: I’m dying for a smoke too!” The big guy said, “I know how you look at me ---stop, even with thousands of hard-ons left ---you’re wrong.” The big guy had to collect himself, “Ya, you think, a foot away this guy could read some good literature while fornicating, but guys, even with thousands of hard-ons left, it doesn’t matter ---my hips are toast. Toast! I have to ice my hip at the thought of fornicating.”
“And ---with a hard-on like that,” could be heard as he pulled his wheelchair out of the circle. He pushed his wheelchair back to ‘the grumpy old men’ section, with movements at the moment, stifled, and quickly fell asleep. The others followed. Their conversations about hard-ons ended softly ---not with a bang, but maybe, with a lot of whimpers instead.
The big guy slept hard, but with his consistent movement, down there, ‘an early morning shift nurse' leaned against his doorway, and admired a hard-on.
Later:
back at the nurse’s station, she shared her vision with the other nurses: "If I could just slid on top of that thing it would solve a lot of problems for me ---that’s for sure!” Her friends giggled. “Don’t you just love a good hard-on?!?!”
Later: smoke billowed from the Big Guy’s hospital bed.
The End
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Ideas wthout Contradictions
… “It’s always something,” our man screamed. In absolute obvious agony he grabbed his lap-top and held it high, begged for the explosion of computer diodes on his floor boards, but instead, thought about all those years of extensive thought that he had complied in his computer and gently laid his lap-top back down.
Instead, he peeled his clenched fists apart to attack the last remaining tuffs of hair on his over-intellectualized skull. After just a moment, just a moment, the last tuffs of hair surrounding his temples were now in his hand. He looked down, saw the hair, and screamed, “So now, I’ll work without hair!”
With his studies, it was just that ---always ---something ---stopping ---him! Sometimes it took him weeks to recover after these outbursts. He’d stare up at the ceiling and connect the cracks ---for days …hell, for weeks!-Years! But, his situation was quite unique. He was studying Ideas without Contradictions. It was the perfect field of intellectualism for our man. His fear of success made all his decisions, and all because of that one day when a book was placed in his hands?!
So …let’s move this story back, back to when our man was at the tender age of three, but with a string-line pulled tight, directly to the moment when the idea of ridiculous ambitions came to fruition, when his parents placed a book in his hands: A math book!
With furrowed brows the placement of the book came into his boyish hands, and, well, probably because of the many attachments that came with it, all their ideas plus many others, but solely based on one idea in particular, which was based on another larger idea, and then on another, but this time, monumental idea ---an idea to achieve the all elusive …Glory! And of course, this would be attempted even if one’s health were jeopardized. To find something that wasn’t kicking one’s own ass, something without contractions would be sought ---at all costs!
They waited like cats over weakening prey, and when the time was just ripe, they pounced. They forced their ambitions on their little boy, when his so-called fighting weight was at a slightly emaciated ---thirty pounds. They, mercilessly of course, handed our man, sixty years earlier, a math book, and thus began his rapid descent to absolute failure, sadness ridiculousness, and or, to dedicate his life to, Ideas without Contradictions.
With the simple passing of a book, this math book, from his parents to him, it was all over before it began. The math-chant was now the language spoken at the home with ridiculous ideas. It echoed throughout his childhood home for almost two decades, from boy to man. The math-chant went exactly like this ---1 plus 1 equals 2, and then, add a %, or a +, and maybe this =, and < >, and greater or lesser signs with stuff squared inside, and re-squared.
This chant, the math-chant, continued throughout breakfast lunch and dinner ---without a break. They were relentless. But one plus one does equal two, always, where we are, they would say, and he’d have to agree, every time! He was going mad!!-And at the tender age of five. Quickly he developed an interior monologue that’d step outside every once in a while and people stopped and pointed. Parent and teacher meetings were taken to medieval levels. It was difficult, but he made it, at least as far as his high school graduation ---sane!
At his high school graduation, being the valectorian, he gave the speech at the end of the ceremony, exactly about his field of expertise ---Ideas without contradictions. The Speech, known as the Speech with Many Problems:
Are you people frigging kidding me? Huh? If I am the future then who the frig are you? Nothing, huh? The future is an illusion, if we look ahead we’re actually occupied with thoughts now, and thus we live in the present, but quickly that becomes the past ---Right?????
The End
Instead, he peeled his clenched fists apart to attack the last remaining tuffs of hair on his over-intellectualized skull. After just a moment, just a moment, the last tuffs of hair surrounding his temples were now in his hand. He looked down, saw the hair, and screamed, “So now, I’ll work without hair!”
With his studies, it was just that ---always ---something ---stopping ---him! Sometimes it took him weeks to recover after these outbursts. He’d stare up at the ceiling and connect the cracks ---for days …hell, for weeks!-Years! But, his situation was quite unique. He was studying Ideas without Contradictions. It was the perfect field of intellectualism for our man. His fear of success made all his decisions, and all because of that one day when a book was placed in his hands?!
So …let’s move this story back, back to when our man was at the tender age of three, but with a string-line pulled tight, directly to the moment when the idea of ridiculous ambitions came to fruition, when his parents placed a book in his hands: A math book!
With furrowed brows the placement of the book came into his boyish hands, and, well, probably because of the many attachments that came with it, all their ideas plus many others, but solely based on one idea in particular, which was based on another larger idea, and then on another, but this time, monumental idea ---an idea to achieve the all elusive …Glory! And of course, this would be attempted even if one’s health were jeopardized. To find something that wasn’t kicking one’s own ass, something without contractions would be sought ---at all costs!
They waited like cats over weakening prey, and when the time was just ripe, they pounced. They forced their ambitions on their little boy, when his so-called fighting weight was at a slightly emaciated ---thirty pounds. They, mercilessly of course, handed our man, sixty years earlier, a math book, and thus began his rapid descent to absolute failure, sadness ridiculousness, and or, to dedicate his life to, Ideas without Contradictions.
With the simple passing of a book, this math book, from his parents to him, it was all over before it began. The math-chant was now the language spoken at the home with ridiculous ideas. It echoed throughout his childhood home for almost two decades, from boy to man. The math-chant went exactly like this ---1 plus 1 equals 2, and then, add a %, or a +, and maybe this =, and < >, and greater or lesser signs with stuff squared inside, and re-squared.
This chant, the math-chant, continued throughout breakfast lunch and dinner ---without a break. They were relentless. But one plus one does equal two, always, where we are, they would say, and he’d have to agree, every time! He was going mad!!-And at the tender age of five. Quickly he developed an interior monologue that’d step outside every once in a while and people stopped and pointed. Parent and teacher meetings were taken to medieval levels. It was difficult, but he made it, at least as far as his high school graduation ---sane!
At his high school graduation, being the valectorian, he gave the speech at the end of the ceremony, exactly about his field of expertise ---Ideas without contradictions. The Speech, known as the Speech with Many Problems:
Are you people frigging kidding me? Huh? If I am the future then who the frig are you? Nothing, huh? The future is an illusion, if we look ahead we’re actually occupied with thoughts now, and thus we live in the present, but quickly that becomes the past ---Right?????
The End
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