Sex.

Sex and the Single

 

   It isn’t the same as shit on a shingle, which I actually do happen to like to quite a great deal. If you get the creamy sauce just right, chipped beef on toast can be miraculous.

   Of course, typically, it is an over-salted congealed mass of jism that makes you want to hurl. Do not order S/S at IHOP for any reason, at any time. Trust me. I have seen those prep cooks, and their swarthy demeanor is nothing to be shaken at. No, I do not mean the skin colour, but rather the attitude. Sometimes, they even have swedes cooking at those places !

  Prepared correctly, as with just about any other dish than “game pheasant”, shit on a shingle makes a wonderful dinner. My mother in law has threatened to make it for me for a few years now, but I feel a bit of Poe in her, and that makes me nervous.

  I wonder if they wouldn’t find me under the floorboards…

   Game Pheasant, however, does not. Hanging a bird up by the neck in the sun, covered in flies, until the neck snaps due to the rottening, does not, in my book a least, count as actual “cooking”. Yes, I know, the flesh is tender…cooked by the farts of the bacteria eating away at the fatty acids and whatnot. If something smells that putrid but still tastes good, I have to wonder about Homo sapiens.

   The smell leaves you wondering if you forgot your foot powder that night. My family has a history of having smelly feet. One of my brothers was reduced to wearing sandals continuously due to the odour that was presented by normal sneakers…but has overcome that dilemma, and now can wear whatever he wants.

  As long as you aren’t eating nearby…then he should have sandals, unless, of course, you are having game pheasant, in which case his foot odour could enhance the experience.

   Anyway, sex and food to seem to go together. You can drizzle chocolate or honey on your significant other, or just make a nice tasty meal, but it seems to reinforce the bonds that keep a couple together. People who eat out too much (especially at IHOP) are bound to be more distant than those that prefer to dance naked around the kitchen waving a spatula or two. Stay away from the pasta maker, though. Personal experience.

    Male Bower birds make elaborate nests in Australia, hoping to entice a female into the little hovel, where they can hump them, and have them lay little eggs that turn into more Bower birds. Ah, evolution !

   I have found that cooking is a much better way of selecting a mate, rather than having a showy new house or car. It says “ Hey !  I actually give a crap!”  rather than , “Look how much crap I have!”  This also helps to weed out the weirdos, who are after all, just looking to take your crap.

   Carlin had a good bit about “stuff”. Prior to hooking up with someone, I heavily recommend listening to it. I don’t know, do a youtube search or something.

   Sex. That is what the whole relationship boils down to, doesn’t it?  If you aren’t attracted chemically and physically to someone, there is no point in pursuing the bower making, no matter how good of a cook they are. Unless you are a 400 pound behemoth that exists on food, and the idea of an orgasm is a two-for-one special at McDonald’s.

   Aren’t people somewhat strange?

 

Crickets

   People who like crickets irritate almost as much as the little chirping bastards themselves.  “Oh, don’t they sound lovely and romantic?” I have heard before, typically at outdoor functions peopled by somewhat overweight singles desperate for a mate.

Not to me. It is like listening to twenty one year old males at a bar bragging about being a sniper or an Army Ranger, all trying to outdo each other with the most consistent noise as is possible, to try to attract a female crotch for the night. Christ, if every guy you heard talking about being in the Special Forces really had been, there wouldn’t be a bloody army, just a shitload of paratroopers, all jumping out of C-130’s with knives clenched in their taught jaws.  Who the hell cooks the food? Who does the paperwork? To fire a friggin round you have to fill out something in triplicate, and submit it to a number of interested subcommittees.   I write a lot of military history articles, and the last time I heard one of these crickets, I did get my back up. I started asking about muzzle velocities, and preferred ammunition, to which he had no answer, because he didn’t know a sniper from a snipe.

Now, I happen to really like snipes. Like most birds, they are fascinating to me, the little skittering movements and the large doe-like eyes just catch me off guard every time I see one. Unlike crickets.

I typically like to type my notes while reclining in a warm bath, which is a necessity in Phoenix in July, as you can not get cold water unless it is from the refrigerator, and that is just to many steps to hump water up. I will suffer, thank you.  I have re-occurring dreams of being stabbed to death, much like  Marat, though it is too hot to have a towel on my head, whilst I am writing away.  If there was a revolution, I suppose I would write about it too. Prior to being stabbed.

So, I am happily typing away about the benefits of porcelain tile, when out of the vent above the bath comes down a chirping cricket. He did miss the bath, however, landing on all points near the commode. Leaping out of the bath, without tumbling my laptop into it thank the heavens, I managed to corner the little son of a bitch and squash him before he could even make one chirp.

Some people dislike ants, because they think they are mindless. I like ants, not because of their communistic socialism, but because they are quiet.  This is also why I like Archimedes the owl, my fish, and the snakes. I revel in quietude. Crickets are idiotic little breeders who have to constantly shout “Here I Am!” just to be noticed by the feminine crickets, who are probably more interested in the roach who just moved in down the street, or that cute Katydid outside working out all the time.

If I want noise, I will put on “Screaming for Vengeance” by Judas Priest or anything by Laibach.  That monotone “chirp chirp chirp” eats away at my sanity, and it is not unusual to see me cock my head sharply and race up the stairs to confront a male cricket who has decided to start crowing from the second floor. Hop all you want, you little bastard, I’m coming to get you.

Clothing Optional

   I typically don’t wear much in the way of clothing around the house, normally nothing, though this does end up with some odd stares from the neighbors if I decide to take my morning tea on the balcony.  Worse than being nude, though, was the pair of light lavender shorts I had, so worn that they were basically tissue paper. I had a light purple penis.  When I saw them in the garbage can,  I figured that the Mrs had decided that enough was enough, and I rarely argue with her reasoning. It is entirely possible that the neighbors had complained, so now I go completely “combat”.

   This has come back to haunt me though, recently, as living with an owl can definitely have an impact on your life. No only does he glare at “Mr. Winkie” (my wife’s terminology , not mine, and yes it does make feel somewhat insignificant) , but he also has, as owls do, have a habit of throwing the heads of his food items off to the side. It is like twisting off the head of a beer bottle, twist, snap, spin.  

   So, if you walk into the studio, you do run a certain risk. O.K., you have a four pound owl glaring at your testicles, and then on top of that, there may be gerbil or hamster heads flung about. He does like to really fling them so !

   Well, I managed to step on some sort of a sharp bone which, even through my very thick soles ( I like to run barefoot), punched a hole. Ouch. Well actually, I said something far different and not safe for the internet, at least for those of you with kids and didn’t have a father who served in the Marines.

   Luckily, I was able to get some antibiotics quickly and shove them into my maw as fast as possible. Gosh, I love the American health care system.

   So, here we are, two weeks later, and not so much of a noticeable limp, though the right calve still aches a bit. Yep, blood poisoning, I would imagine. Bloody owl and their silly bloody head ripping.

  I guess the point of this is to say:

“If you are around an owl, wear shoes.”