MISSILE ANUSES

Now before I get started here, let me just say this…anyone who laughs at what they’re about to read will a) hurt my feelings, b) reveal him/herself to be an insensitive asshat, which I’m sure NONE of my loyal readers are and c) receive a visit from several large, ‘roided-out muscular men with poor attitudes and gonads the size of BBs, who will remove you from your home, take you out in the country where it’s quiet and repeatedly whack your peenie with a short length of 5/8” garden hose.

Back in the Jurassic Park days when I was a kid, when we weren’t chasing dinosaurs or learning to walk upright, we played board games, especially on those rainy days when outdoor activities were cancelled due to weather. Monopoly (or as my mother referred to it, “Monotony”) was a big fave, as was Life. The Big Three was rounded out by my personal favorite, Clue.

I was excellent at Clue…still am.

Yes, I did. I recently purchased the digital version of the game to play on my desktop computer, and have been playing frequently ever since. Okay, compared to Grand Theft Auto or Fortnite or one of those other violent, gun-laden, blow-up everything in the world grotesqueries that seem so popular these days with the Neanderthal crowd, Clue is quiet and boring. It requires you, and ah, the horror of it all, to think, to reason, to deduce. (Recent polls show that Clue is not well-liked by supporters of our President, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump.)

Besides, I like “murder mysteries”; I’ve read all the Sherlock Holmes stories by Arthur Conan Doyle, several Agatha Christies’, the Maltese Falcon as well as the Thin Man series by Dashiell Hammett, everything that Stephen King has written on the subject, in between ghosts, vampires and rabid dogs, a bunch of John MacDonald’s “Travis McGee” books and more.

Now I admit that the game is really nothing more than a remake of the old kid’s card game Go Fish…you roll, you move, you “suggest” and you try to get the other players to have to remove an article of clothing. Ah, okay, sorry, wrong game. No, you try to compel the other players to reveal their cards, by skillful bluffs and feints, while trying to reveal at little as possible about your cards and eventually figure out the “murder” was committed by Captain Ketchup with the chain-saw in the outhouse.

So to speak.

The one thing I’ve never been able to understand is why the creators of the game didn’t have the players use the names of independent investigators, detectives or “private eyes”, rather than the characters in the “plot”…I mean, come on, Mrs. Peacock goes into the Conservatory and immediately declares that, yep, the murder was done in this room using the Knife by, that’s right, it was me, Mrs. Peacock, yes sir, I did it, I was there when the crime was committed so I should know, I’m the one, lock me up.

Stoopid.

They could have done it like Neil Simon did in his outstanding movie Murder By Death…if you’re not familiar with the flick, a mysterious millionaire, Lionel Twain, played by author Truman Capote, who proved with his performance that as an actor he’d make a fine mailman, invites all of the world’s greatest detectives to his mansion to solve a “murder that will take place at midnight”. Milo Perrier (Hercule Poirot), Sam Diamond (Sam Spade), Dick and Dora Charleston (Nick and Nora Charles of the Thin Man series) and Sidney Wang (Charlie Chan, played hysterically by Peter Sellers), are among the “experts” who are summoned. The detectives could have moved from room to room, made their “suggestions” and then eventually caught the person responsible. (They didn’t in the movie, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Yes, that’s correct, I’m Ms. Scarlett and I bumped off Mr. Boddy (the dead millionaire guy) in the Kitchen with the Lead Pipe. Of course, I could have used one of those sharp butcher knives hanging on the rack on the wall above his head, but that would have been too easy…better to drag a conspicuous piece of plumbing throughout the mansion on my way to the killing.

It’s still a fun game, and I’m good at it, which of course certainly helps the enjoyment factor.

Moving along, I found this last week in an article about avoiding being bitten by an alligator here in the Gunshine State; I managed to misplace the link, but I wrote down the quote I wanted to use, so all isn’t lost. To wit:

“To avoid being bitten by an alligator, experts advise staying out of bodies of water.”

And thank you, Mr. Obvious Man…really, that’s your expert “advice”, stay out of the water, in a state where any body of water more than 3” deep could have a 12 foot ‘gator in it, hiding behind a couple of pebbles, pissed off that he hasn’t eaten a nice, soft, juicy homo sapien for a couple of weeks? Yeah, I feel MUCH safer now for sure.

And once again moving along, I saw a photo on FaceBook the other day of two female friends, who were hugging each other and laughing at the camera in that goofy way we all seem to take on these days whenever we or someone we know aims a cellphone camera at us, posted on the one lady’s time line. And by sheer coincidence, both of these ladies, and I don’t want to be indelicate or come across as a male chauvinist pig snot-wad here, are well-endowed. The pic shows them cheek to cheek and mammary gland to mammary gland, and although there is nothing sexual or “suggestive’ about the photo, it’s hard not to see the obvious physicality of the subjects.

And that got me to thinking about what a pain in the ass a really big set of breasts must be to women who possess same…how to do ladies keep from running into things with them all the time? Aren’t they constantly in the way? I mean, if I’m a big-breasted women, I’d be inclined to sling them over my shoulder when I was trying to do something that caused my boobs to droop down in the way. Lying on your back reading a book has to be an adventure…if you rest the book on your stomach you can’t see it, and if you put it on the other side, closer to your face, it’s too near to be able to make out the words on the page. The House of Representatives has been considering a bill to make it illegal for a women to have breasts larger than a “C” cup, but His Eminence, President “Tweety Bird”, has been quoted as saying that he will veto any legislation that reaches his desk that limits breast size for women. “Based on my experience with women such as Stormy Daniels and Karen McDougal, I believe that large-breasted women are a benefit to America, and I say more power to them. And unlike the Media, in this case “fake” is okay. NO COLLUSION, SEND’EM BACK!”

According to comedian Jeff Foxworthy, if you think 401(k) is your mother-in-law’s bra size, you might be a redneck.

And moving along yet once again, I had occasion to visit my new PCP doctor a few weeks ago (I left my former doctor when the thieves in his billing department decided that arguing over a crummy $50 bill, which I could prove I paid and they refused to acknowledge, was more important than maintaining good patient relationships…greedy cocksuckers), to become acquainted and to make sure I’m not dying of sclerosis of the blowhole or some malady equally distasteful. In the process of being poked and prodded, tested and checked and learning that I’m shrinking vertically and growing horizontally, my new lady doctor asked me if I had ever had a colonoscopy, which I have not, nor, as I informed her, was I intending to do so. Ever. Sorry, but (pardon the pun) to my way of thinking, that orifice is meant to be outbound only…”inbound” traffic does not have clearance to land on this runway.

Since I voiced my reluctance (refusal) to subject myself to this ignominy, Dr. M stated that the “insurance carrier” (when did these assholes start running the world?) would most likely require proof that I am not afflicted with colon cancer, polyps, tumors, stalagmites, termites or the above mentioned sclerosis, and told me that she would provide me with a “collection” kit that would enable me to test myself for “human hemoglobin from lower gastrointestinal bleeding”.

Yeah, except that, once you get to reading the fine print on the test instructions, it’s a “poopie test”…you get a card, a brush, a return envelope and 25 pages of gibberish, all of which allows you check your own stool, sans the doctor, the operating room, the “flexible tube placed through the rectum into the colon”, etc.

Sorry, Doc, but this one is a non-starter for me as well, just like the colonoscopy…I’ll take my chances, and screw the “insurance carrier”.

A buddy of mine had to take one of these “poopie tests” once, right around Christmas, and being a clever individual with an unusual sense of humor, he wrote “Happy Holidays!” on the sample card, complete with sample, that he returned to the lab.

Sometimes I don’t think these doctors and insurance people have a Clue…

Love and miscellaneous,

Cap’n John

Post Script…”PCP” above means Primary Care Physician; it does not mean that my new doctor takes mind-altering drugs, although if I had to deal with “insurance carriers” all day long, I might consider it.

OF BRASSIERES AND BIBLE STORIES

I am constantly reminded these days of “age”…my own in particular.

Just last week I was talking to a customer at the Publix store where I work part-time as a Front Service Clerk, which by the bye is corporate jargon for what has been known pretty much universally as a “bagger”; I’m fairly sure that the HR people working for large companies like Publix get bonuses for coming up with vague, semi-confusing gibberish that, in their fevered little brains, describes something/someone in a concise, definite manner, when in reality, the simpler form is the more descriptive and more readily understood; making up fancy-sounding titles like “FSC” is mere tautology.

Anyway, the lady I was speaking with and I are “of an age” as it were, and we were bemoaning the rapid passage of time these days, which we both agreed seems to be exacerbated by the fact that, as seniors, we’re a lot closer to the end of things than to the beginning. I mean, wasn’t it just New Year’s last week? How the hell can it already be Easter? Geez.

Since the nice lady was a customer, I refrained from reciting for her my Old Age Rules, which go thusly:

  • Never pass a toilet if you think the next one is well down the road;
  • Never waste a boner;
  • Never trust a fart.

Despite all appearances to the contrary, I do have the good sense to know when to keep my big, dumb mouth shut.

I stumbled onto an article on the Internet the other day that got me to doing the old “stream of consciousness” thing, and following the flow, led me back to some memories of my now long-past youth, and specifically, to bras.

That’s right, exhaust fans, brassieres.

Bras date back to ancient Greece and have evolved over the centuries from support garments to fashion statements; Roman women wore “breast-bands” while competing in sporting events, as an example. Today’s bra is colorful, more comfortable (so I’m told by wearers of same), often times more obvious when worn and, I suspect, just as hard to remove by the male of our species as it has always been…more on that in a moment.

The article that started this trip down mammary lane was entitled How Do You Put On A Bra? New Debate Proves It’s Not That Simple. Now I freely admit that my experiences with brassieres has been from the taking off point of view, rather than the putting on, other than that one time and excess Jack Daniels was involved then. (Apparently, I’m a 38 A-, which I suspect looks like some kind of half-assed sling-shot with two thimbles attached to the front.) Various methods for putting on a bra were discussed in the piece, with women weighing in on their preferred method (one women said she steps into hers, like a skirt, and pulls it up…hard to see how this would work for the lady with an “hour-glass” figure where the sands of time have all run to the bottom) without any consensus being reached.

So how did this article take me back in time? Simple; I may not have any relevant input regarding donning a “boulder-holder” (as they have been indelicately described by comedian Larry the Cable Guy) but as I said above, I do have some experience in removing them, and can still recall the agony of trying to get one off of a person of the female persuasion when deep in the throes of teenage lust.

For those of you who have never tried it, believe me, it ain’t easy…I refer you to this clip from the movie Animal House as evidence of this.

(I once made, and won, a two-beer bet, this being much too esoteric a skill for a mere “one-beer” wager, with a very well-endowed young woman in a bar one evening, that I could reach around her, using only one hand, and unclasp her bra, which as is common, she was wearing underneath a blouse of very thin material. The trick is to grasp the back-strap of the garment between your thumb and index finger, being careful to lift it away from the back of the wearer, and then pinch the ends together so the hook thingie slides out of the loop thingie…trust me, it works.)

I learned and then honed this technique as an adult, in direct response to the difficulties I had experienced on rare occasions in my youth; in high school, most of the girls I knew were bi-sexual…any time I tried to get sexual they said bye.

Ah, sweet bird of youth. (And thank you, Mr. Williams.)

I had another reminder of my now long-lamented youth and the rapidly passing years recently when, in the spirit of the Easter holiday, I dug through my CD collection to find my well-used version of the Andrew Lloyd Weber/Tim Rice rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar. The album was recorded and released in 1970, when I was 19.

I am not a believer in the traditional Christian concept of “God”, and since it isn’t relevant to this post, I’ll refrain from expounding on just what I do believe in…suffice to say, and contrary to the cast in concrete stance of most “religious” types, whose idea of their “imaginary friend” is unassailable, after many years of deep contemplation, I have no idea whether or not God exists. (I remember a character from a book I once read stating that “if God exists, he should be sued for malpractice”.)

But the story of Christ is to me compelling, no matter your thoughts on the existence of a “god”; there is intrigue, politics, betrayal, personal agony, joy and even some sluts thrown into the mix. (FYI, I have done research on this…there is no mention anywhere in the New Testament that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute; none. Author Dan Brown takes a fair stab at how she came to be portrayed as such in his book The Da Vinci Codes. Frankly, I think the lady was hosed by Matt, Mark, Luke and John.)

What a story…here’s this young man, by all accounts a person of unapproachable integrity and an all-around good guy, who rises to such a position of prominence in turn-of-the-millennia Palestine through his preaching of the “Gospel” and as such so threatens the existing power structure of the time that the head priest of the ruling religious council, a man named Caiaphas, declares, as he says in the play, that “Jesus must die”, thus greatly abetting the rise of Christianity throughout the world by making a martyr of Jesus and thoroughly ruining Christ’s Passover that year.

The opera is a towering achievement; the lyrics, the music, the musicians and mostly the cast, led by one of my all-time fave front-men, Ian Gillan of Deep Purple, singing the role of Jesus in a stunning display of his amazing prowess as a vocalist, are breathtaking.

To me, it makes no difference if you believe or not, because as Caiaphas also says, “Jesus is cool”.

Jesus was indeed cool.

I am not inclined by my nature to be serious for any extended length of time, and in so keeping with the usual tone of my articles here on the WATURK blog, I’ll bring today’s post to a close with this…according to a report from local TV station WKYC, a man entered a Painesville OH restaurant and attempted an assault on the manager of the establishment by taking an iguana from under his shirt, grasping the animal by the tail and then swinging it over his head and launching it at the man.

https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/crime/man-arrested-in-painesville-for-trying-to-commit-assault-with-iguana/ar-BBW0hzg?li=BBnbcA1&ocid=mailsignout

The attacker was apprehended by local police and charged with disorderly conduct, general mopery and assault with a herbivorous lizard. When asked what prompted his attack, the iguana-wielding culprit stated that he was moved by the passage in the Christian Bible from Mark 16:18, which says, in reference to persons who “believe in Jesus” that “they will pick up snakes with their hands”. When told that he was confusing iguandae with reptiles, the man further stated that he didn’t have a snake available and he figured that “you filthy, unbelieving heathens wouldn’t know the difference anyway”.

It was further learned in subsequent interrogations of the man that he had been raised a Roman Catholic back in the ‘60s and had become increasingly frustrated by his inability to successfully unclasp a woman’s bra, and was merely acting out his anger.

Love and birthday cakes,

Cap’n John