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”.

‘Ello My Son – Do You Want A Lollipop?

Who dares…break into a van full of SAS soldiers?

By TOM NEWTON DUNN, Political Editor 

Published: 25 Apr 2011

Teenage thieves targeting vans parked on a council estate forced open the doors of one – and were confronted by four SAS men on a stakeout.  Two of the Who Dares Wins heroes stayed put while the other two chased the panic-stricken tearaways and gave them “a bit of a slap”.

The SAS surveillance team was on a night-time counter-terrorism training exercise in Manchester.  A source said:  “The lads each had a machine gun and a side pistol with live ammunition to make it realistic.  They saw these scrotes coming for some time.  They were trying their luck on every van in the estate, looking for tools they could pinch.”

One of the team was resting, one on standby, one log-keeping and monitoring the radio, and the fourth was watching the practice target through the scope of a sniper rifle.  They didn’t want to move for fear of ruining the exercise and hoped the gang would pass them by.

“The lads decided they would teach them a lesson if they did get into their van, which is exactly what happened.  To this day, those idiots probably still don’t have any idea who they were messing with – but it hopefully made them think twice about doing that to anyone else again.”

With the team’s cover blown, the exercise was cancelled. But no official report was made to police to prevent members having to give court evidence.   The incident was confirmed by senior defense forces. But The Sun has been asked not to reveal specific details.





‘Ardly a fair fight, ain’t it, eh?

Now wouldn’t you have like to have seen the “oh fuck” face on any one of these particular “scrotes”?  I just envision a group of hoodies with their Doc Martins and box knives and Gallagher Brothers bad attitudes just sort of disappearing into the van:  one second they are there and the next they are not.  It’s like magic, man.  Talk about taking a knife to a gun fight.

Now having a relative who was a member of that esteemed regiment, and who has occasionally talked about what he can do, it goes without saying that not only did the yobs take a beating, there probably was not a mark on them afterwards.

Little Sex Shop Of Horrors

Now, I have always been rather ambivalent about sex.  The carnal arts and I were never really on anything more than a head nodding acquaintance.  I have only had three real love affairs in my entire life.  However, now that I am finally all growed up and in my mid-forties, and especially since I have finally had some exceptional sex, it set me of a mind tofind out more.  It was time for me to do a little exploration:  Dr. Stanley, I presume?Now once a month, whether I really need to or not, I make the all- important pilgrimage of five miles or so down to what passes in this part of the country for a “run down” area (in other words, it is less nice) where my favourite gaming shop resides.  I always set aside several hours to half a day for this journey, not because I am travelling by mule or need to go through passport control or even get vaccinations and a Sherpa for the trek, but because there is the need to look at all the new Warhammer stuff in its pretty, pretty boxes and look at who is making/painting what, and talk and hang out and, usually if I time it right, have lunch with the owner and some of my friends on the staff.

On a previous trip to the area, I had happened to notice that a couple of miles down the street from my oasis of tranquility is a den of iniquity: an adult toy shop. (I did think that all my Warhammer and Warhammer 40K were adult toys, since I am an adult and they are my toys – but I have found out lately that I am rather mistaken.)

 Now, I have never been inside a store of this sort, let alone spend my hard earned dosh in such a place, so I was kind of curious.  And while curiosity killed the cat (literally in the case of my mum’s latest ex-pet, rather than figuratively) I do have, so it is said, a very curious nature.  My newly discovered sexual maturity  told me that adult superstores are to sex what high end sporting goods stores are to professional athletics: it’s all in the head (and no, I am not making a bad pun here (well I am, actually but completely unintentional) ).  

But, what the fuck, Sir Edmund Hilary climbed Everest because it was there; I would visit the adult shop for the same reason.So fortified from a morning of conviviality at the gaming shop (and down $50.00 or so after buying the latest and greatest from beyond the Warp , a copy of White Dwarf and some paints and brushes) I drove the two miles or so down T.V. Hwy to where the naughty shop lives.  Finding the strip mall was easy. Finding the store was easy.  The brilliantly tasteless neon signage was sort of a giveaway: designed for such a rube as myself.

However, finding the front door was far from easy.  Every single window out front (which turned out to be the back) was black plate glass that was impenetrable due to its highly mirrored finish, and I think, rather symbolically, a carefully applied layer of grime that gave the obligatory air of seediness about the place. Plus the building had that west coast, 1970’s design element going for it: and that look, complete with lots of cedar siding and oblique angles, has not aged well.  

After driving very slowly along the front that was not the front, I found that in order to go in the front I would have to drive around back and park in front of the back fence that protected the identity of anyone going in the front doors of the shop in the back of the building.  Adding to my confusion was the fact that every other business (all automotive with a Hispanic tinge) had entrances in the front (or what I thought was the front) and exits in the back for cars to exit (next to the front doors of the “respectable” seeming adult shop). And did I mention that the garbage hoppers were in the back of the strip mall (where they should be) but next to the front doors of the sex shop?When I read the Dresden Files novels, or anything that is dealing with dark, though not always evil, things, it is always cold and dank and gray and gloomy.  That was what it was like behind the strip mall. It was a land of perpetual twilight (and not a faun or satyr in sight).  The large, overgrown laurel hedge and ivy encrusted retaining wall blocked out any sunlight (or since this was Oregon, cloudlight).  And there was drizzle falling and water dripping from off of the leaves and there were rust and moss and mildew stains (I am hoping that is what they were) everywhere.  All it really needed was a wicked queen with a poisoned apple. It was all very Grimm’s Fairy Tales. 

And just as in all the fairy tales, the little children always feel the eyes following them from out of the forest, so I got out my rig under the baleful gaze of all of the Latino auto shop employees who were checking out the dirty gringo.  At least that is how I felt.  And, fuck it; I had left my scrotey looking trench coat in my other truck along with my secret super hero ensemble and Inspector Gadget briefcase.  So garbed as I was, I walked into the adult store.  

Somehow, I had always imagined that it would be like the place that Islamic martyrs would go to meet their seventy virgins: a land of milk and honey (and dildos). But it had a look about it that was, well, indescribable; while keeping with the ‘70s retro non-chic theme of the outside.  My first impression was “wow, look at all the porno DVDs”.  

Now I really don’t get skin flicks!  I knew that I didn’t get the porno industry the first time that I saw a picture of Ron Jeremy.  Granted that the guy is not hired for his good looks, but, fuckin’ ‘ell.  So obviously the man must have the porno acting chops of Sir Laurence Olivier and Orson Welles combined.  But I digress ……There were movies of every form of titillation imaginable (and in the case of my lack of experience, un-imaginable).  But all that I could think, over and over, like a little 1970’s mantra was “chicka chicka bow wow” over and over and over and over and over.  My only experience with porn is watching Showtime After Hours, with their limited assortment of ‘70s soft porn, after my folks had gone to bed. And I think that the same soundtrack was used for every one of the movies that I saw.

And to be honest, all these bad pornos did was make me laugh … “Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuh, huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh, huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh; it’s so biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig.”  Riveting dialogue such as this, along with Ron Jeremy and his co-starring pussy tickler mustache and the complete and total lack of plot really did nothing for my libido.  And as for the sex acts themselves – well, one time I got a bad hamstring cramp trying doggy style, so I can only imagine what trying such acts of contortion as seen onscreen would do to me: hernias and dislocations and stress fractures – oh my.

Truly the only commendable thing about the movie section was the racks the DVDs were on. I clearly remember standing there thinking “I would like some of these racks for my CD collection. I wonder how many of CDs would fit on one of the shelves.” Perhaps, if the recession does bad things to their business, they will have a “going out of business” sale like GI Joes and Mervyn’s and Circuit City and I can pick up some of the racks on the cheap.

There were two employees; at least I think that they were employees since they were behind the counter. I mean they weren’t wearing name tags that said “my name is Bob” or greeting prospective customers with a cheery greeting “Hi, welcome to Super-Dildo-Mart and you look like an 8” to me”. They were, rather surprisingly, damnably unwelcoming and in the case of the girl behind the counter, rather morose.  Of course it could be Goth vibe she was giving off.  And the fact that she rather looked like one of my daughters was incredibly off-putting.  There is nothing quite so disturbing as being in an adult shop being stared at by someone who looks like your daughter.So this meant that Employee Number 2 would be the employee that I would end up dealing with should I choose to purchase anything.  This was also going to be somewhat problematical since he was the spitting image of Comic Book Guy on The Simpsons:  right down to the greasy looking “skullet” ponytail, five o’clock shadow and paunch.  Looking at what appeared to be beef dripping that he was using for mousse, some of the various stains on the Motel 6 reject carpeting suddenly seemed explainable.  I could just see me asking a question about something and getting the answer “Ooh —- best —- anal —- plug — evvvvuuuuh” or “this —- is —- the —- very —same —- dildo — that —- was —- in —- Volume —- 5 —- of —- Wonder —- Woman —-makes —- friends —- with —- herself”.

This segues quite nicely into the display cases of items for sale and their merchandising. The cases and cabinets were obviously merchandised by the same team that does the displays at Chuck E. Cheeses to hold those little trinkets that cost pennies yet you have to take out a mortgage to win enough tickets to obtain.  There was a random brilliance to the display and I found myself looking for cap pistols and whoopee cushions.  I did actually think that had I found a whoopee cushion; but it turned out to be a Jenna Jamison masturbating pussy made from genuine artificial latex. But I still maintain that if you sat on it, it would go pffffffffffffffffffffffffft.

Inspecting the items more closely, the amazing high quality of the materials became instantly obvious. Somewhere in China is a Red Army general whose stock has fallen so far that not only will he never be considered capable of managing People’s Tank Plant #7, or even People’s Light Bulb Plant #13, he is considered to be only capable of being in charge of People’s Plastic Dildo Plant #1: and from what I could see, he was not doing a very good job of it.Also, I found out what happened to all of those old hand cranked mimeograph machines that were replaced by laser printers in schools all over the US.  They are now being used to make really bad, incredibly illegible labels on lurid construction paper for packaging the I-have-no-idea-what-the-fuck-they-weres.  It was like someone’s x-rated craft project from Michael’s.  The butt plugs looked they were made in someone’s garage right next to the home brewing set up.Naturally, looking at the “prize” cases, I thought that maybe there was a skee-ball section somewhere in the store.  I am good at skee-ball. And throwing my balls at a hole and getting a score and then a prize for it seemed quite in keeping with the general theme of the place.  But looking at the tags on the goodies that were baddies that was not the number of prize tickets needed that was on the label.  Of course, as we will be entering a hyperinflationary spiral in the near future due to current fiscal policy, it may end up that way: Weimar Republic, anybody.

My interest was then piqued when I noticed all of the doors that ringed the room. I had never seen a real peep show before.  And actually, since I was completely unsure of the peep show etiquette, I still haven’t.  I mean, is one required to masturbate.  Will the denizens of the peep show be deathly offended if one didn’t masturbate?  And I really did not want to go ask Comic Book Guy these questions. I am sure he could pontificate ad nauseum on what would be better: Kleenex or Brawny.And, I was having a really bad fit of giggles because I had realized that the last time I had seen a room full of doors like this was on an episode of Scooby Doo.  I kept expecting Shaggy and Scooby to come running out of one door and disappear into another and then have the Harlem Globetrotters appear out of a different set of doors and the Swamp Creature to be chasing them.  Zoinks!

But the most truly perplexing part of the whole store was this one area that looked like a living room. There was coffee table and a couple of love seats.  It was clean and tasteful and completely at odds with every other aspect of the store.  I don’t know: maybe one got coffee and a Danish and chatted about blow up dolls.  The only thing missing was a little stack of National Geographics sitting on the table and, maybe, a couple of knick knacks.  There were even nice cushions and some fake house plants for added ambience.After seeing this, and totally overwhelmed by the cornucopia of pornucopia that was for sale (unless I missed the skee-ball on my tour,) I decided to leave.  And since I am sure that there is no money back or exchanges at the store or on-line, I think that I will have to do my toy hunting virtually rather than in person.  Leaving the store through the front door that led to the back, I really did feel dirty.  And I think that was the feeling that I was searching for on this quest for knowledge: knowing but not enlightened.  I almost asked for a little brown bag to carry out so that I would seem to be more knowledgeable and dirtier than I really am.

Easy Come, Easy Go

Mr. Praline: I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it, my lad. ‘E’s dead, that’s what’s wrong with it!

Owner: No, no, ‘e’s uh,…he’s resting.

Mr. Praline: Look, matey, I know a dead parrot when I see one, and I’m looking at one right now.

Owner: No no he’s not dead, he’s, he’s restin’! Remarkable bird, the Norwegian Blue, idn’it, ay? Beautiful plumage!Mr. Praline: The plumage don’t enter into it. It’s stone dead.

Owner: Nononono, no, no! ‘E’s resting!

Mr. Praline: All right then, if he’s restin’, I’ll wake him up! (shouting at the cage) ‘Ello, Mister Polly Parrot! I’ve got a lovely fresh cuttle fish for you if you show…

(the owner hits the cage)

Owner: There, he moved!

Mr. Praline: No, he didn’t, that was you hitting the cage!

Owner: I never!!

Mr. Praline: Yes, you did!

Owner:  I never, never did anything

This story seems to come straight from the Monty Python Parrot Sketch routine:  albeit in a much sadder and slightly less surreal sort of way.  But then it is about a German family and theirs is a society of minimalism.


Women ‘tried to get dead body on easyJet flight in Liverpool’

The Times

April 7, 2010

Russell Jenkins

Two women tried to board an easyJet flight with a dead relative strapped into a wheelchair, saying that he was disabled, frail and “always likes to sleep like that”.  The widow and stepdaughter of Curt Willi Jarant, 91, insist that he was moving and breathing on the way to Liverpool John Lennon airport. But staff called a medical team after noticing that he was cold and motionless.

After he was found to have died, Merseyside Police arrested the women, Gitta Jarant, 66, and Anke Anusic, 44, on suspicion of failing to give notification of a death. They were later released on police bail until June 1. The coroner is awaiting the results of a post-mortem examination but police sources have suggested that it is likely to show that the man died earlier from natural causes. The flights to Berlin had been booked several weeks ago, when Mr. Jarant, who had been living with his wife in Oldham for the past four years, was still alive

The family had booked a taxi minibus to take them to the airport in Merseyside, where they arrived at about 11am on Saturday for the 1.45pm flight. They had also booked help for their “disabled” relative.  Andrew Millea, an airport worker, told how he was instructed to ease the man from the front seat of the minibus into the wheelchair.  “She told me that he was elderly and frail and also very tired, so I would have to lift him out of the taxi and into the wheelchair,” he said.

“I immediately felt unsure about the situation but I did my best to help by carefully lifting the man from his seat. To my horror his face fell sideways against mine — it was ice cold. I knew straight away that the man was dead but they reassured me that he always sleeps like that. So I placed the body into the wheelchair and pushed the man to the back of the easyJet queue.”   The women, who were accompanied by young children, continued to insist that the old man was sleeping as a medical team, alerted by security staff on the concourse, tried to take his pulse.

Mr. Millea said: “The older lady spoke both English and German but pretended she could not understand what was being said to her. The second lady encouraged the young children to ‘tell the man that is how your granddad always sleeps’. We had to remove the family from the queue and took the man to a side room, where our first-aid staff confirmed that he was dead. I was absolutely shocked. They even asked if they could travel without him.”

Last night the two women, both German, insisted he had been breathing on the journey. Mrs. Jarant described her husband as the “best man in the world” adding: “My Willi is my god. I have loved my Willi for 22 years.”   Ms Anusic said that Mr. Jarant, a former pilot with a Russian airline, had suffered from Alzheimer’s and wanted to return to Germany to end his life in his own country. She said: “They would think that for 24 hours we would carry a dead person? This is ridiculous. He was moving, he was breathing. Eight people saw him.”

Mrs. Jarant said that she would be demanding an apology from the police and the airport. She has contacted the German embassy. “This is very upsetting. I loved Willi very much and I have been treated like a criminal when I have just lost my husband,” she said.  Bodies being repatriated across international boundaries are required to have the necessary paperwork and be contained inside hermetically sealed, zinc-lined coffins in the cargo hold.

A spokesman for Greater Manchester Police said: “At 11am on Saturday 3 April, 2010, police at Liverpool John Lennon airport were alerted to the death of a 91-year-old man in the terminal building. Two women aged 41 and 66 were arrested on suspicion of failing to give notification of death. They have been released on bail. The coroner has been informed and police are continuing with their inquiries.”

A spokeswoman for easyJet said: “Two female passengers arrived at Liverpool John Lennon airport to check in for the EZY 7223 flight to Berlin with an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair. On arrival at the airport, the staff was immediately concerned about his health and the first aid team was called. It was then discovered the passenger was, in fact, deceased and the police were called.”  Leah Gandy, 22, who was working on the easyJet check-in desk, said: “This is the most shocking thing I have ever seen. It sent shivers down my spine.”


And I have to say that the last line should have been said by a lady aged 72 rather than 22.  It has a very Eastenders / Coronation Street feel to it.  It sounds like something said over a cup of tea and a couple of digestive biscuits…