But Can You Fish Them Weedless?

There was a time when rather than leading the hermit-like existence that I strive to enjoy today, I wanted intimacy and companionship (“Lord, what fools these mortals be.”) And part of that drive towards intimacy and companionship was the desire to experiment sexually within the boundaries of an intimate relationship. Since I am by nature a very curious individual, I am always looking to engage my intellect. This intellectual curiosity of mine found sex toys fascinating: not so much in a sexual way, but more in the same way that I find fishing lures and plastic model kits fascinating.
purple wormI see all the pretty boxes, and shiny, vibrating colorful things that are designed to entice one to buy. What can I say? It’s the Irish gyppo blood in me ‒ the magpie gene. And the parallel between sex toys and fishing lures is quite apropos since a lot of the sex toys on view look like, and probably smell like, some of the bass lures I’ve seen, and often purchased through the years. In fact, I wonder if anyone has ever landed a 10lb bass on a vibrating, shiny purple, grape scented soft dildo with a pair of treble hooks attached: a new form of buzz bomb, perhaps.

At that time, I was a complete rube when it came to sex toys. Up until then I had never owned one. In fact, I had never even touched one. I had been, very briefly, into a sex toy shop and as most who read my blog would know was completely overwhelmed into a Hugh Grantish stammering manner. Therefore, the answer had to be where all answers seem to be: on-line. I just set the fingers to do the walking through the disinfonet and surveyed the results. And, I imagine, just like fishing lures, 99.99999999999% of the toys are designed to capture the buyers fancy and funds rather than just capture the moment.

cap gunThe on-line site I went onto divided men’s toys into 5 classes: cock rings, pumps, plugs, realistic vaginas, and blow-up dolls. Since I was still in self-exploration mode, I figured that I could discount penis extensions and cock rings. (I did sneak a peek at the cock rings and decided that I could put most of them in the same class as plastic worms for bass fishing.) Some of the cock rings even looked like the little red pellet caps that went into my genuine Wild West sheriff’s revolver that I got with my cowboy set when I was seven years old. (The site had arse-less chaps too.)

Then I noticed that dildos and vibrators were deemed as women’s sex toys, and not listed with the items listed above; which is understandable.  So I took a long hard look at penis pumps. What I was looking at looked suspiciously like my electric cookie shooter with the motor reversed. I found myself looking for the little cookie shapers to fit on the end to make valentine sugar cookies for all of the ladies out there. Another pump that I looked at would have worked very well for cleaning out the gravel in my fish tanks. And of course there is the Austin Powers Genuine Swedish Penis Pump connotation that they now have to live down. So, I decided that something more was needed.

plant number 7I went to the “realistic” vaginas section and perused the assortment of high quality Hong Kong, and Shanghai, made merchandise that looked nothing like any real vagina I had ever seen. Of course I have never had sex with a plastic mannequin (however I suppose the ex-wife (sex on Saturdays only, if you please) qualifies).  Products from The Glorious People’s Heroes of the Revolution Plastic Pussy Plant #7 such as The Sally the Slut, Candylicious and Luscious Lips all sounded interesting if I was buying ice cream, with sprinkles of course, but hardly satisfying. And then there was the Cherry Twat.

Now I suppose that would be really satisfying if it was a pastry rather than a sex toy. “Yes waiter, I would like a double latte and one of those rather plump and tasty looking cherry twats over there, please”. To be honest, I think a set of chattering teeth from a joke shop could probably do as good a job as what I was looking at. The chattering teeth would definitely provide better oral stimulation than the ex-missus managed.

blow up dollAll that was left to peruse were the blow up dolls. Now these looked like fun. These looked like real fun. But they really did not look like sexy fun. What would be fun would be to take one of these up to the tubing area at Ski Bowl on Mt. Hood. You could grasp a titty in each hand and mount the doll much like a Suzuki 750 and ride the powder all the way down the slope. I would recommend a helmet ‒ no point in going all Sonny Bono while doing this.

I checked out several other sites to no avail. Everything was packaged very nicely and always featured words like “realistic’, “genuine” and “like real”. If anything, the packages would provide better masturbatory material than the product itself. Overall, I would have to say that toy shopping was a big disappointment. Much like when I go fishing, I think I am going to have to stay with live bait.

live bait


So I Am Bitter, Twisted And Just A Tad Bit Jaded

But Merry Fuckin’ St. Valentines Day everybody!


Be sure to enjoy the long waits, poor service and crowded restaurants full of sickeningly “loving couples” who do not get it that it is the other 364 days that really matter ….

Bah Humbug!!!!!!

The Amazing And Massively Self-Aggrandizing 100th Post

In the all important self massaging of my ego (mental masturbation would be equally acceptable here) I have decided to trumpet my brilliance from the rooftops of my blog in a manner that only Bert the Chimney Sweep from Mary Poppins could appreciate.  So this is to massively promote something that is overly minimal in the grand, and even not so grand, sweep of things.

Having made 100 posts allows all sorts of amazing things – why just last night I was allowed into the local sushi place without waiting in line.  Write a lot and velvet ropes (even imaginary ones) part in my presence.  Suddenly books are arriving at the library in a timely manner so that I can read them and then review them.

It is truly amazing that stuff is happening in the world just so that I can write about it.  It’s like so freaky, man.  England crashes out on penalties in the quarter-finals of the Euros in a manner that is demanding that I apply my stubby little fingers to the keyboard in search of the perfect amount of sarcasm appropriate to the old bastards at the FA.  Or even the goings on my favourite club, Tottenham, who managed to sack the  best manager that they have had in years in order to land the reject manager of Chelsea.

There are new soldiers to purchase and, perhaps, even paint.  There are new fish to buy and stare at them staring at me staring at them.  There are recipes to tryout on the daughter and if they approve of them then there are recipes to share.  There are books to read while pooping and bathing and then review while creating an inappropriate title involving pooping or bathing.  There are albums to obtain because they are cool and then listen to (in an appropriately cool  manner) and then write a cool review that involves pointing out just how cool I am for listening to a cool band that will be gone before the second single drops…

It is almost like I have a life just so that I can write about having a life.  So to celebrate my capacious ego and its preternaturally inflated state, here’s a quick toast that involves drinking something appropriately frothy (Urquel or Foster’s or Stella) to doing enough living LMF style that I can write another 100 posts.  So  to me and my ego and my ego’s blog.  Cheers!

The Meaning Of Everything; Yet This Is About Nothing

So I have had several weeks of free and unfettered time to use up with the only thing to do each day being to ponder the relevancy of why and the meaning of 42.  Of course I had been practicing prior to that since there was also a vast drum of spare time to dip into the last month that I “worked”.  The official mantra was “come in late and leave early to make up for it”.  After all, since I do yoga now, there must be mantras. 

There was literally nothing left to do in the areas that I either worked in or wandered into to help out.  And of course there was also my nemesis who really tried to make my life there miserable and who I would not stop to piss on if she caught fire and needed to be put out (no bitterness here – no siree).  Basically I just left her alone to sink or swim as best as she could.  After all, that seemed to be what she wanted to do anyway. 

As the great production conga line that I had made to dance for me the previous twenty one months first slowed to a crawl, and then to a full stop:  that is if my boss ever learnt the word “No!”) I found myself with more and more time on my hands that touring the building endlessly failed to fill.  This was especially true at the end as the people that were fun to visit exited stage left continually. 

Finally there was only one great mystery left for me to ponder.  That was wondering who exactly will be doing what in the physical closing process since, after the Final Diaspora of December 20 when all QC and warehouse people are scattered to the winds, there will only be four managers and a supervisor left.  

And none of these individuals exactly ooze blue-collar productivity.  It will be like the Emerald City Army, minus the solitary private, in the stage version of the Wizard of Oz.   Each one will have “the grand plan”, the “idea of all ideas” and expect the others to act upon it accordingly. 

Perhaps there will be spreadsheets and meetings with decision trees (and a catered lunch) but what there will not be is a group of people who actually “do stuff” for a living.  I do not think that my boss, and one of the stellar members of the “Gang of Four”, has actually had a cogent thought in the twenty-one months that I have worked here:  so why would he suddenly start now. 

All I know is that there will be all of this work that Numbers 1 thru 4 had absolutely no idea would need to be done since they never really saw fit to mix with the proles and trogs who were the spine of the place.  I was regaled by one of my friends telling me that my former boss did ask her, on her last day, to teach him to close work orders if she had a spare five minutes.  

Five minutes does not even cover Step 1 of up to 20 steps.  And the boss-type person does not even know how the program that opens and closes the work orders functions.  He is probably still just sitting there, all bundled up in the cardigan of shame, sucking his thumb and trying to close down his first order.  Aaah but one can only hope …

Bro-Heim, When The Sealife Is Passing You By, There’s A Damn Good Reason

Talk about a case of serious thrill issues.

My guess he was wearing a black wetsuit, also know as his Halloween costume:  dude’s going as a sealion this year! 

Check it out! In the words of the immortal Crush the Sea Turtle:  “‘Cause we were like, “woaaaah.”, and I was like, “woaaaah.” and you were like, “woaaahh…” ”

This Post Is Brought To You By The Number 60

Apart from the fact that the people I work for are in need of some major Sesame Street viewing to further their education, this is the number of days that I was told last week that I now have left to work where I am currently (under) employed.  As of December 1, I will be out of work again.  This, of course, is something that I have known since last December 1 so it is not as great of a surprise as an unexpected kick in the balls. 

Basically the company made an offer that made it financially, though not spiritually, worthwhile to stick around for that year. The only real surprise is the complete feeling of lethargy and sense of ennui that I feel.  And if I feel like that now, God knows how I will feel around Thanksgiving (before the turkey tryptophan kicks in, even). 

Honestly, if things were not going away, then my arse would be long gone from the place as it is so poorly ran as to be a joke.  Almost all of the people that I enjoyed working with are gone now so (with one or two exceptions) just the flotsam and jetsam is left behind to sweep up behind the Lord Mayor’s Parade. 

My boss definitely falls into the flotsam category.  The man is addicted to Excel spreadsheets, lives for Excel spreadsheets, and quite possibly lives by Excel spreadsheets.  After all Excel is the duct tape of computing.  In fact it would not surprise me if his bed linens are white with a black grid pattern and green edges:  Excel bed sheets!  (And to top it all off, a green edged white bedspread with a big green “X” embroidered on to it.) 

But as much as he loves Excel, in fact has a passion for Excel that far surpasses most torrid love affairs, he is similar to one of those Sunday duffers out on the golf course who lives for the game but cannot swing a club to save his life. V Lookups – which,  what, where,who and why are they?  Basic functions basically don’t function.  A pivot table is something you put a coaster under one leg to stop wobbling. 

The man is completely incapable of using the programme correctly.  He lives though, in a happy place – oblivious to all of the wonders that Excel possesses. In fact, I almost envy his placidity, his plodding and pedantic demeanor:  the man is Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener incarnate.  It probably takes him an hour and a half to watch 60 Minutes (one of the greatest Rodney Dangerfield lines, – ever). 

I lost an hour off of my life today listening to his monotone drone “ohmmmmm I/have/created/four/new/spreadsheets ohmmmmm you/need/to/review/them/soon ohmmmmm because/we/are/closing ohmmmmm why/have/one/when/you/can/have/four ohmmmmm go/forth/now/and/create/more/spreadsheets ohmmmmm in/nomine/patris/et filii/et/spiritus/sancti ohmmmmm”.  

My mate Derek was doing the “breathing through his eyelids” thing out of Bull Durham by the end of the meeting.  And, of course, whenever theboss would look at me and talk about his plans for “December”, I just thought “Que?  No habla December!”  I mean after December the Oneth whatthe fuck do I care about what sodding mischief he is (slowly) planning?


Not Eatin’ Good In This Neighbourhood

Sunday was Father’s Day (of course), and since my daughters have both a father and a step-father there are always protocols to work out.  And since I usually get up at 3:30am Monday morning in order to be at work and help bring up the manufacturing lines, I took the AM celebration where my youngest daughter cooked a fantastic breakfast (and the oldest did whatever it is she does, elsewhere).  So being on my lonesome last night I decided to go and have a meal at a restaurant.

I was not feeling overly motivated to cook and was not really desiring anything overly pretentious or ethnic or really wanting anything  other than  basic nutrition. So the easiest thing was to have a steak.  Now I eat red meat in this sort of form two or three times a year at best, so obviously so I don’t exactly have a stash of unknown yet tasty places at my beck and call.  So where, oh where, to eat, since I do not often go in search of such succulent things as steak.

First of all, I live in the real suburbs (just picture my shame at admitting this).  Secondly, this was a very random thought about 5:45 in the evening on a Sunday no less:  sort of an “oh fuck, I want to eat something that was still bleeding a few minutes ago” random synaptic crossing.  Third, and for me that night, most important of all, I didn’t feel like wearing anything more elaborate than a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

The solution: the local TGIAppleChiliRobinsintheOutbackonFridays (yummmmmmmmmmmm).

And so I wandered out to the “Pig On Skates” (my Blazer) and drove the mile or so down to the nearest freeway off-ramp; where such places always seem to exist.  I had even brushed my teeth in anticipation of the culinary achievements that I was expectant of trying. And it always looks like such a party place in the advertisements.  How could I go wrong?

I parked in a parking lot that could easily have serviced a small stadium.  I was wondering if I would need to catch a shuttle bus to the front door.  There was a moment of panic when I realized that there were no markings on the light posts.  How would I remember where I had parked – was I in Dumbo or Cinderella parking?  I decided that since there was only one other vehicle close to me the decision was to proceed.  My dinner reading was grabbed and off I went:  left foot, right foot one after the other.

After a short hike, I reached the front door and entered.  A bubbly, perky, hap-hap-happy hostess came up to me and said “Welcome to TGIAppleChiliRobinsintheOutbackonFridays – are you alone?”  I carefully looked behind me, just in case others had magically materialized behind me and said “yes, indeedy, I am alone”.

With that she rushed off “to find me a place to sit”.  Now considering that this restaurant seemingly disappeared over the horizon and there was only one party of three eating that I could see, this should not have been difficult.  However, after vanishing for about five minutes, she returned and agreed that she could indeed find me a place to sit.  I agreed that this was indeed a most fortuitous state of affairs considering that I was alone and had come at dinner time to eat.  (Imagine that, wanting to eat at dinner time; what is this world coming too?)

After having traversed the restaurant in her initial quest for my ultimate dining experience, she moved approximately five feet and showed me a …….. well, I cannot exactly describe what it was. It was a (a very tiny) table for (a very tiny) person to eat at. It was like a Barbie Dreamhouse banquette.

“No, I don’t think this will do” I said (in my best Michael Winner voice).  I was, incorrectly I immediately found out, assuming that the customer was always right.  When I glanced back to see if she had heard, she was gone.  (To quote the late great Tommy Cooper, “it was magic”.)  I sat down at my place. Actually, I sat up at my place.  It seems that there are a lot of individuals 6’7” or taller who eat alone at this particular location of TGIAppleChiliRobinsintheOutbackonFridays.

My feet couldn’t reach the floor.  I was waiting for my mummy to come and put a bib on me.  It actually reminded me of sitting on a handicapped toilet (my feet are off the ground there too.)  The second issue was the postage stamp size of my location.  I was smacking the faux panel wall with my elbow.  Now this is an inconvenience rather than a pain since I have been gob smacking people with my elbows since I was in kindergarten.  However, the other elbow would be getting smacked every time someone walked by.  The third issue was that my forearms seemed to be sticking to the table; and they are just a tad bit hairy.

Along came my “server” who I shall call “Igor”.  I mentioned to Igor that the hostess was not being overly hospitable and that she had not listened to me tell her that this was not a good spot.  Sadly, this individual while on the one hand making me think of Marty Feldman, also reminded me of the server in “Office Space” although he did not have 37 pieces of flair.  He had replaced the flair with a rather vacuous expression and an attitude that would have some trade unionists I know standing and cheering.  It was not his issue to deal with said item; it was the hostess’ job.

“Did I want something to drink?” I asked for water since I knew that I was dehydrated from my flu and also I know that the alcohol to mixer ratio in such a place has a vast disparity. I do not think you can actually get drunk on cocktails in a place of the caliber of TGIAppleChiliRobinsintheOutbackonFridays since you actually have to intake alcohol to get drunk.  My water was sloshed down and then my surly server asked what I would like.

Immediately I was cast as the villain of the piece as not only did I refuse all of his pleas to partake of overpriced and watered down cocktails, but I then had the unmitigated gall to refuse all entreaties to order an appetizer.  I was not in the mood for something deep fried to the point where the item being deep fried actually disappears, leaving only a cold and clammy coating – you laugh, and yet you know. 

If I want something fried I know of a perfectly good Scottish chippie who does a fantastic fry job on just about everything up to and including deep fried Mars bars:  the culinary pinnacle of Scottish haute cuisine.  The Scottish chippie does not work at TGIAppleChiliRobinsintheOutbackonFridays.

I went for an 8oz sirloin (cooked medium).  If I want blood, I can bite the vein in my thumb and suck it down for free.  I also took the mashed potatoes with black pepper gravy and a selection of steamed vegetables.  My little buddy left in a fit of pique and I started squirming since the blood was now being cut off from my feet by the sharp edge of my booth.  I had to make sure to remember to put a little salt on my steak so that I would not cramp in my hamstrings.

I pried my book off of the table top by inserting my fork underneath the cover and using it similarly to a cat’s paw.  There was that obnoxious sound that always comes when vinyl separates from anything and I started to read: in silence. Immediately a family of six with four children between the ages of 3 and 7 were seated opposite me.  There was nobody else in the restaurant.  Of course there was an immediate melt down as child number 2 was not allowed ice cream for dinner.

After the riot police left, I was sitting in my high chair seriously considering leaving, when my steak arrived.  Would I care for some steak sauce, well yes I would.  Unfortunately, I failed to mention that I wanted it for the steak that had just been delivered and it appeared about 15 minutes later.  The server was rightly chuffed that I had the gall to eat my food while it was warm.  I wanted to ask him if they had a card game going on in the back.

Now I would love to tell you that the food, after all the issues of actually getting to this point, was very good, good, or even passable.  It was shit.

Any decent chef, cook or Sunday afternoon barbecue artist will tell you that meat has to rest when it comes off of the grill. My steak (from a knackered out old race horse, perhaps) was exhausted.  When I cut into it, all of the juices flowed out and created a lake of molten mashed potatoes.  The first bite was stringy and the rest was like eating a doggy chew toy.

My mashed potatoes were pretty good, but then again, even my mum can make mashed potatoes.  The gravy with them was a sort of gelatinous mass that has cooled rapidly – sort of aKilaueaeffect: but it was tasty.  The steamed veggies were indeed steamed.   I got broccoli, and broccoli, and broccoli, and, by way of a change, broccoli.  I guess the “veggies” descriptor was due to the fact that I got more than one piece of vegetable rather than a variety of different vegetables.

Finally, I completed the meal and decided that having dessert would be like spinning the chambers on a revolver one more time.  My server instantly appeared and asked how my meal was.   When I said “not very good” he just nodded his head, looked past me and said he would go and get the check.  I just look at this experience and know that I got what I deserve for actually expecting a good meal at a chain restaurant.

All told, it was a miserable dining experience and not soon to be repeated.  I realize why I rarely go out to eat at such mass pleasure palaces.  I look for tiny owner-ran restaurants where the customer is king.  There is just something better about going to a place where the owner seats you, or cooks for you, or just wanders by to say “hello”.