We were lying side by side in my dream, on a grassy hill in the sunshine, with many others nearby when all of a sudden her skirt hiked up all by itself and I touched her fanny ever so gently and gazed admiringly.
But another man might notice so I nuzzled at the nape of her neck confessing with the quietest whisper my deepest secret saying “I had a crush on you in high school” and she smiled broadly with love in her eyes and said “I know.”
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Bissage Attempts a Second Poem
If I were God, no one could hurt me.
And I would give everyone everything they ever wanted.
Because I want to see them happy.
And not because I need to be loved.
And I would give everyone everything they ever wanted.
Because I want to see them happy.
And not because I need to be loved.
Bissage Attempts a Poem
Two lesbians in their prime power-walking the suburban cul-de-sac
sleek as seals
Hip against hip, arms interlocked.
Striding black leopard lycra
Fast and strong, past every suburban lawn.
Fast and strong, united as one, posture perfect, fast and strong.
Garage window lawyer peeking-spying-pudgy-graying
Proud.
They stop to admire his peonies.
sleek as seals
Hip against hip, arms interlocked.
Striding black leopard lycra
Fast and strong, past every suburban lawn.
Fast and strong, united as one, posture perfect, fast and strong.
Garage window lawyer peeking-spying-pudgy-graying
Proud.
They stop to admire his peonies.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
A Sad Remembrance
Years ago I was 24 years old. I was riding this commuter train and I saw this guy I recognized. I saw him from pretty far away as the car was pretty empty.
He was maybe 5 years older than me and he was sitting there by himself and he looked really sad. He was just sort of staring into empty space.
I knew him, sort of, because he tended bar at this English-style pub in Philadelphia I used to go to every now and then. About two weeks earlier he helped me out of a jam. You see, I’d had at least a couple of pints and there was this middle-aged husband and wife couple sitting at a table on the way to the rest room. They seemed friendly and they struck up a conversation with me and I told them I was all broken up over a girlfriend who just dumped me.
And then the weirdest thing happened. Slowly but surely, they started needling me about how much I was a loser . . . like they were trying to convince me I was a worthless piece of shit.
They were pretty good at it, too. I remember one of the things the man said: “Maybe she realized she made a mistake in the first place.”
They were working like a tag team and it soon seemed to me like they’d picked me to be the victim in some sort of a cruel psychological game they played for their own amusement. So I went back to the bar. They left me alone at first but then they started up again. They tried to coax me back to their table but I said no.
And then they got really nasty. Especially the woman. She ended up yelling insults at me from across the room!
I wish it weren’t true but I let it get under my skin . . . big time.
Anyway, they laid off after a bit. This guy was tending bar and he could see I was sad and he talked to me. His name was Tom and he said the married couple were friends of the owner so he couldn’t bounce them but they were freaks who were into mind games. At that point, I was about as depressed as I could get and I said, “Some of the stuff they said is true. Maybe I am a loser.”
And he was very, very nice to me and he said that’s all bullshit and that everybody gets broken up over a girl, every now and then, so I should never forget that. He was sort of like a big brother when I needed one, and I really appreciated his kindness, and I figured I’d had too much to drink so I left after a few minutes.
Well, that was the guy I saw on the train about two weeks later. I probably wouldn’t have recognized him, out of place like that, except he was wearing a “Guinness” sweater. It was tan with the logo on the front in black. And as I said before, he looked really sad. And I thought to myself, “You know, I should go over there and see if maybe he wants a little cheering up because it would be the right thing to do.”
But I never did. I made all the typical excuses to myself like he probably wants to be alone and maybe it’s not really him and maybe he gets off at the next stop or he probably won’t remember me or he’ll think I’m a weirdo . . . you know, all that stuff that gets in the way all the time.
So I just sat there trying to hide behind a newspaper like a coward and eventually it was my stop so I got off.
And now it's two weeks later. I’m at that same pub and one of the bartenders is washing beer mugs behind the bar and I say to him, “Hey, is Tom working tonight?”
He never looks up.
“No. Tom’s dead. He killed himself.”
He keeps washing beer mugs and I sit there in stunned silence. He finishes up and goes back to serving drinks. I get up off my bar stool and leave.
That’s a true story.
He was maybe 5 years older than me and he was sitting there by himself and he looked really sad. He was just sort of staring into empty space.
I knew him, sort of, because he tended bar at this English-style pub in Philadelphia I used to go to every now and then. About two weeks earlier he helped me out of a jam. You see, I’d had at least a couple of pints and there was this middle-aged husband and wife couple sitting at a table on the way to the rest room. They seemed friendly and they struck up a conversation with me and I told them I was all broken up over a girlfriend who just dumped me.
And then the weirdest thing happened. Slowly but surely, they started needling me about how much I was a loser . . . like they were trying to convince me I was a worthless piece of shit.
They were pretty good at it, too. I remember one of the things the man said: “Maybe she realized she made a mistake in the first place.”
They were working like a tag team and it soon seemed to me like they’d picked me to be the victim in some sort of a cruel psychological game they played for their own amusement. So I went back to the bar. They left me alone at first but then they started up again. They tried to coax me back to their table but I said no.
And then they got really nasty. Especially the woman. She ended up yelling insults at me from across the room!
I wish it weren’t true but I let it get under my skin . . . big time.
Anyway, they laid off after a bit. This guy was tending bar and he could see I was sad and he talked to me. His name was Tom and he said the married couple were friends of the owner so he couldn’t bounce them but they were freaks who were into mind games. At that point, I was about as depressed as I could get and I said, “Some of the stuff they said is true. Maybe I am a loser.”
And he was very, very nice to me and he said that’s all bullshit and that everybody gets broken up over a girl, every now and then, so I should never forget that. He was sort of like a big brother when I needed one, and I really appreciated his kindness, and I figured I’d had too much to drink so I left after a few minutes.
Well, that was the guy I saw on the train about two weeks later. I probably wouldn’t have recognized him, out of place like that, except he was wearing a “Guinness” sweater. It was tan with the logo on the front in black. And as I said before, he looked really sad. And I thought to myself, “You know, I should go over there and see if maybe he wants a little cheering up because it would be the right thing to do.”
But I never did. I made all the typical excuses to myself like he probably wants to be alone and maybe it’s not really him and maybe he gets off at the next stop or he probably won’t remember me or he’ll think I’m a weirdo . . . you know, all that stuff that gets in the way all the time.
So I just sat there trying to hide behind a newspaper like a coward and eventually it was my stop so I got off.
And now it's two weeks later. I’m at that same pub and one of the bartenders is washing beer mugs behind the bar and I say to him, “Hey, is Tom working tonight?”
He never looks up.
“No. Tom’s dead. He killed himself.”
He keeps washing beer mugs and I sit there in stunned silence. He finishes up and goes back to serving drinks. I get up off my bar stool and leave.
That’s a true story.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
It Happened One Summer
I just read my post entitled “My Balls Itch.”
That reminded me of the time I flew coach from Newark (or New York) to Prague and I ended up with a case of crotch rot fit for a king.
Anyway, somewhere near the Charles Bridge I pantomimed my symptoms to a Chinese pharmacist who sold me a little tube of stuff to rub on my hairy, hanging nutsack.
It had one of those funny Ikea furniture names like Bosporp or Jikki or something like that. I think it came from Hungary.
That stuff worked pretty well, actually.
I was grateful.
And to this very day, I think good thoughts about the Czech Republic and China and Hungary every time I think about my itchless scrotum.
That reminded me of the time I flew coach from Newark (or New York) to Prague and I ended up with a case of crotch rot fit for a king.
Anyway, somewhere near the Charles Bridge I pantomimed my symptoms to a Chinese pharmacist who sold me a little tube of stuff to rub on my hairy, hanging nutsack.
It had one of those funny Ikea furniture names like Bosporp or Jikki or something like that. I think it came from Hungary.
That stuff worked pretty well, actually.
I was grateful.
And to this very day, I think good thoughts about the Czech Republic and China and Hungary every time I think about my itchless scrotum.
The Way It Is
I’m feeling kind of gassy right now and there are bits of hickory-smoked almonds stuck in my teeth and I don’t feel like getting up because I just sat down and I just farted but I'm still feeling uncomfortably gassy so it all seems kind of unfair.
Thought you’d want to know.
Thought you’d want to know.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
My Balls Itch
No kidding.
They really do and my dinger has gotten all tangled up in my underpants and it's squished out of place and the whole region down there is kind of uncomfortable.
I've been working at my desk, poring over papers, sitting in this chair, leaning forward, for far too long.
Which reminds me. My crotch is sweaty, too.
It's time for me to stand up and get a few things straightened out.
The fresh air should do me good.
Dry things out a bit.
Wish me luck.
They really do and my dinger has gotten all tangled up in my underpants and it's squished out of place and the whole region down there is kind of uncomfortable.
I've been working at my desk, poring over papers, sitting in this chair, leaning forward, for far too long.
Which reminds me. My crotch is sweaty, too.
It's time for me to stand up and get a few things straightened out.
The fresh air should do me good.
Dry things out a bit.
Wish me luck.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
"We Meet Cedric, Who Is A Mud Thrower"
"We Meet Cedric, Who is a Mud Thrower"
That’s a quote from this website about an episode of “Dirty Jobs” on TV.
I watch that show whenever I get the chance. It’s a real treat.
Well, during that episode, Cedric said something so profound I thought someone should put it on the internet in case someone might read it and learn something I’m still trying to get through my thick head after 46 unhappy years on this planet.
You see, he is a “mud thrower.” He takes a big glob of thick mud (13 pounds worth) and he lifts it up and he slaps it down into a brick form and off it goes to the kiln or something.
One after another.
All day long.
Grab . . . Lift . . . Slap.
Grab . . . Lift . . . Slap.
Grab . . . Lift . . . Slap.
He gets paid by the brick.
And you know what?
He has a much better attitude toward his job than I have toward mine.
He seems like a very pleasant fellow and this is what he had to say: “You get a rhythm going, it’s not so bad.”
Let me type that out one more time.
“YOU GET A RHYTHM GOING, IT’S NOT SO BAD.”
And there you have it, folks.
Words of wisdom.
That’s a quote from this website about an episode of “Dirty Jobs” on TV.
I watch that show whenever I get the chance. It’s a real treat.
Well, during that episode, Cedric said something so profound I thought someone should put it on the internet in case someone might read it and learn something I’m still trying to get through my thick head after 46 unhappy years on this planet.
You see, he is a “mud thrower.” He takes a big glob of thick mud (13 pounds worth) and he lifts it up and he slaps it down into a brick form and off it goes to the kiln or something.
One after another.
All day long.
Grab . . . Lift . . . Slap.
Grab . . . Lift . . . Slap.
Grab . . . Lift . . . Slap.
He gets paid by the brick.
And you know what?
He has a much better attitude toward his job than I have toward mine.
He seems like a very pleasant fellow and this is what he had to say: “You get a rhythm going, it’s not so bad.”
Let me type that out one more time.
“YOU GET A RHYTHM GOING, IT’S NOT SO BAD.”
And there you have it, folks.
Words of wisdom.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
It Happened Just a Minute Ago
I was about to squat on the pot when I noticed there might not be enough music roll to finish the paper work. So I got a new roll before sitting down rather than take my chances, and in any event, even if the roll lasted for the whole wiping session, I would be morally bound to get a new roll for whoever came after me, so I might as well do it sooner rather than later.
Might I die on the hopper before getting to the wiping phase?
That was a risk that could not be reasonably avoided.
I am a lawyer.
Might I die on the hopper before getting to the wiping phase?
That was a risk that could not be reasonably avoided.
I am a lawyer.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Silly Rhymes (#51)
In days of old
when knights were bold
and rubbers weren't invented,
the men put socks
around their cocks
and babies were prevented.
I am not to blame for that one.
I am simply repeating it.
when knights were bold
and rubbers weren't invented,
the men put socks
around their cocks
and babies were prevented.
I am not to blame for that one.
I am simply repeating it.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz
It has been far too long since I plopped something down here yet still I’ve got nothing to say but it’s okay.
Good morning!
Good morning!
Good morning!
Good morning!
Good morning!
Good morning!
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Mot Goes Bye-byes.
I suspect I'm getting to be a kook as I get older. Why? Because I've been finding meaning in silly coincidences.
Case in point: There's only one picture of Mot on the entire internet and I've been using it as my avatar when I comment at Althouse. A week or so back I got a funny feeling and I printed it out because I thought it might disappear forever. And then a day or two later it actually did, in fact, disappear from the internet.
So . . . yeah, I wondered out loud whether there was some kind of weird force that warned me to take action.
Ha!
Don't worry. I'm just messing with you.
It's true about the coincidence but I don't really believe unseen benevolent forces are speaking to me and telling me what to do. Hearing voices is how the guys with the giant butterfly net and the straitjacket know you're crazy. So I'm sure it was just a weird feeling. I didn't actually hear any disembodied voices.
Or maybe I did.
Maybe a voice, right now, is telling me to tell you I'm not hearing a voice.
It could happen.
But maybe that's just a feeling.
Case in point: There's only one picture of Mot on the entire internet and I've been using it as my avatar when I comment at Althouse. A week or so back I got a funny feeling and I printed it out because I thought it might disappear forever. And then a day or two later it actually did, in fact, disappear from the internet.
So . . . yeah, I wondered out loud whether there was some kind of weird force that warned me to take action.
Ha!
Don't worry. I'm just messing with you.
It's true about the coincidence but I don't really believe unseen benevolent forces are speaking to me and telling me what to do. Hearing voices is how the guys with the giant butterfly net and the straitjacket know you're crazy. So I'm sure it was just a weird feeling. I didn't actually hear any disembodied voices.
Or maybe I did.
Maybe a voice, right now, is telling me to tell you I'm not hearing a voice.
It could happen.
But maybe that's just a feeling.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Honks Like Clarinet
Honks Like Clarinet. That would be her name if Patti Smith were Lakota Sioux or some kind of Indian where they earn themselves a name like Stands With Fist or Dances With Wolves or some such. Any of those would be much better than Types On Keyboard.
Why Patti Smith and why this song? No good reason, really. Just total capriciousness on my part, except someone once told me when I was in high school in the late 70s that she was from Pittman, NJ. I know where that is and the idea of Patti Smith growing up in Pittman is funny all by itself, even if it's not true. And this band does as much with that Am-G-F thing in a rock song as I can imagine possible.
Watch the video. That's a sensitive, arty, misfit chick absolutely brimming with tough grrrl attitude working herself into an ecstatic frenzy at the thought of buying me stuff.
What? She's not thinking about me while she's touching herself?
Right. And I suppose she isn't totally cool, either.
You're just jealous.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Do You Know This Mood?
"Now it's over I'm dead and I haven't done anything that I want or I'm still alive and there's nothing I want to do."
Monday, August 13, 2007
Ask not for whom the egg salads
Were it not for Althouse, and this post, I might never have learned that Mrs. Bissage ABSOLUTELY REFUSES to eat hardboiled eggs.
After 14 years of marriage, I had no idea.
Make that: After 14 years of homemade egg salad sandwiches.
No, make that: After 14 years of utter cluelessness.
Any way you slice it, you've got to love Mrs. Bissage!
After 14 years of marriage, I had no idea.
Make that: After 14 years of homemade egg salad sandwiches.
No, make that: After 14 years of utter cluelessness.
Any way you slice it, you've got to love Mrs. Bissage!
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Untitled
"With Major Lawrence, mercy is a passion. With me, it is merely good manners. You may judge which motive is the more reliable."
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Saturday, April 08, 2006
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