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Several people have told me they don’t see much sign of Shih Tzu in Prometheus.  What do I know?  Before my wife gifted him to me for Father’s Day, I couldn’t have picked a Shih-Tzu or Yorkie out of a lineup, and I’d certainly never heard of a melding of the two breeds.  The truth of the situation makes no difference to me either.  To be blunt, at less than six pounds, there’s not enough of the critter for me to give a crap.  In any case, I’m far less concerned over the percentage of Shih-Tzu genetically contributed to my puppy than I am about the disturbing inter-species behavior I’m seeing from him. 

The problem is rabbits. Apparently they’ve been reproducing like, well … rabbits, and are currently inundating our neighborhood.  They’re seemingly everywhere, leveling vegetable gardens throughout the subdivision more thoroughly than Sherman did to Atlanta during the War of Northern Aggression (as a southerner now, I’ve decided to use the “correct” label for what the Yankees refer to as the Civil War; “when in Rome” and all). 

When the rabbit plague initially arose, Prometheus behaved appropriately dog-like.  He barked.  He also chased after them in valiant though obviously vain efforts to snare dinner. 

After a plethora of fruitless pursuits, however, my little Shitty has begun to adopt an “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” attitude.  The first disturbing sign of his surrender occurred last week, when Sophia dropped a carrot on the floor and Prometheus gobbled it up as though it was a tasty liver treat. Later in the week, I also caught him munching raw grass on the front lawn. And this morning, to my utter horror, when a particularly brazen bunny meandered across our property, Prometheus playfully hopped after it. Yes, I said “hopped.”  My purported canine didn’t trot; he didn’t canter; he didn’t run. Rather, he hopped, exactly like the creature he was supposed to be chasing! 

All I can say is, the dog’s neutering can’t come soon enough. At the rate Prometheus seems to be metamorphosing, it won’t be long before he tries to mate with a rabbit. I don’t know that biology would allow a mostly-Yorkie to successfully breed with such a different species, but I’ll be damned before I chance introducing the “Yabbit” into this world.

 
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Until this morning, I couldn’t understand why my wife has been flashing me odd looks for the past week.  Nor could I fathom why she twice asked me whether there’s anything about me I haven’t told her but should. Naturally, the response I gave to that question on both occasions was “no.”  Internally of course, my immediate thought each time was: There’s a lot I haven’t told you, all of which I plan to take to my grave. 

I finally solved the mystery today, when my search for last month’s gas bill uncovered a document buried in a stack atop Sophia’s desk.  It was a poem I’d written some years ago.  Presumably, my wife had procured the work during a recent archaeological dig through the piles of crap littering our basement.  The problem was, she’d apparently retrieved the poem without the accompanying cover page containing its title.  Although I’d written the verse as a joke, I could see how this omission might convey the wrong impression about its author. 

See if you agree.  Here’s my masterpiece, written during the early years of the second President Bush’s administration and titled “Hail to the Chief – An Ode to President Bush, by Dick Cheney.” (WARNING: if you’re easily offended, or a registered Republican, you probably should read no further.) 

You bend beneath the shower’s spray,
stooped in concentration.
Reaching for the slipping soap,
ripe for penetration.
 
Your glistening buttocks calls to me,
its skin so milky white.
The angled form has now exposed
a dark yet splendid sight.
 
Close framed by curly wisps of hair,
a dingleberry tree.
I long to pluck those precious fruits,
my teeth shall pry them free.
 
Beneath the tree the chipmunk’s hole,
a winter’s home for sleep.
I also wish safe refuge there,
nestled in, warm and deep.
 
My tongue will probe the inner soul,
with torrid flicks and sucks.
Until with passion flaming forth,
your body wildly bucks.
 
Your manhood stretches taut and straight,
throbbing bottled pressure.
Then quiv’ring, spews its liquid burst,
symbol of great pleasure.
 
Alas too soon my daydream ends,
the shower now complete.
Put back my business-like facade,
goodbye for now my sweet.

Bush and ChaneyMan and Admirer

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After yesterday’s incident at the mall, I’m beginning to think the neighborhood no longer may be big enough for both us and our neighbors. As it is, we haven’t been on good terms with “Lucrecia” and “Hernando” since the day I inadvertently blabbed my knowledge of Hernando’s cross-dressing fetish. I’m fairly sure somebody will need to relocate now; else I’m afraid violence may erupt. 

It was an innocent misunderstanding. During our late afternoon jaunt to the mall (seeking a new cummerbund for my tuxedo, in final preparation for my sister’s upcoming black-tie wedding reception), Sophia and I thought we saw Hernando entering the Sephora store. We couldn’t be sure though. The person we spotted was dressed in drag, replete with hair extensions, makeup, earrings, cocktail dress and heels.  Though neither of us, to our knowledge, had ever seen Hernando garbed in full feminine regalia, the guy browsing lipsticks (that this person had balls was never in doubt) looked exactly like Hernando’s twin sister, if such a character existed. 

Suspicion turned to certainty — in our minds — when we ran into Lucrecia two stores down. As I figured, if the couple had taken Hernando’s habit public, then my prior indiscretion could be forgiven. I saw a perfect chance to say hi to Lucrecia and hopefully end the tension between us. 

The news that her husband was also at the mall (and dressed in drag no less) came as a surprise to Lucrecia. No sooner did I relate this information than she demanded to know where she could find the “cross-dressing son of a bitch.”  In neighborly fashion, Sophia and I accompanied her back to Sephora, where the three of us found “Hernando” experimenting with foundations. 

As it turned out, the dude wasn’t actually Hernando. But Sophia and I must’ve been on the mark regarding the guy’s uncanny resemblance to our “dressed-up” neighbor, since Lucrecia also mistook the transvestite for her husband. She lit into the shell-shocked customer, yelling “Hernando” this and “Hernando” that, and calling him every name in the book … until, that is, her innocent victim finally got a word in edgewise. During a brief calm amidst the storm, he succeeded in denying (to everyone’s satisfaction) any acquaintance with or marriage to the “raving lunatic.” 

Personally, I think it’s unfair to blame Sophia and me for the misunderstanding. I also don’t see how it’s our fault that two of the neighborhood women Lucrecia plays “Bunko” with happened to be present when she decided to publically “out” her husband. Nonetheless, blame us she did; and judging by the exceedingly nasty voicemail we received from Hernando last night, he blames us too. That’s why I’m pretty sure one family will have to go, either us or them. 

Good news.  I just looked out the window.  There’s a woman standing on our neighbor’s front lawn pounding a “For Sale” sign into the ground.  Thankfully, it looks like we’ll be staying after all.

 
You never know who’ll you’ll see there.

 

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It’s a rare day indeed when Rational Richard and Little Richard agree on anything.  This was one of those rare days. 

Though I’m a happily married man and wouldn’t dream of cheating on my wife, I do occasionally pause to admire a shapely female figure.  That’s what occurred in the parking lot at the bank this morning. I happened to spy from behind flowing blond locks and a compact posterior (sheathed in skin-tight jeans) bending to peer into a vehicle. 

The voices inside my head immediately chirped up, offering their divergent opinions on the situation.
Rational Richard – my logical side – began the discussion: “Will you stop staring at that woman’s ass?! For God’s sake, you’re married. Married guys shouldn’t be checking out other women. It’s rude to your wife and it objectifies the female you’re ogling.” 

As expected, Little Richard – my penis – held a much different take on the scenario. “Jesus Christ! Why don’t you grow a pair?! We’re not being rude to Sophia or objectifying anyone. We’re only admiring a work of art, exactly as we do at the museum.” 

Rational Richard begged to differ and chose to admonish Little Richard directly, leaving me a passive bystander to the argument. “First of all peckerhead, why do you always have to bring Jesus into the picture? You do realize you’re Jewish don’t you? As I recall, you even had a Bris. Second of all, fondling this lady’s butt with our eyes is not the same as art appreciation at a museum. I don’t remember seeing a Picasso titled ‘Check out the Ass on this Babe’ during our last trip to the Guggenheim.” 

Just then, the object of our collective attention suddenly straightened and turned in my direction. Little Richard’s intended riposte immediately vanished, as he along with the rest of us took in the sight of the well-groomed beard and mustache adorning the “woman’s” face. 

Practically in unison, Rational Richard and Little Richard voiced the obvious: “It’s a dude!” And then the two of them reached one of their rare agreements on an issue.  They both advised me to seek immediate psychotherapy, including shock treatments if necessary!

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I don’t know why I derive such great satisfaction when my friends screw up in a Richard-like fashion. But I do.  Take this afternoon for instance.  One of my closest friends from up north, Ava Fox, called to relate an incident from this morning. 

Ava and her husband Danny have been married for almost twenty years now; yet Danny pursues Ava for sex as if they’re newlyweds.  To an outsider, such continuing amorousness after so long a tenure together would seem cause for celebration.  But Ava remains unimpressed because Danny executes his advances with all the subtlety and romanticism of a bull in a pasture.  As she puts it: “I might as well be a warm slab of beef with a hole in the middle for all the fun I get out of it!” 

Monday morning, Ava and Danny shipped their two kids off for a week-long camping experience. Danny, adopting the old “when the cat’s away the mice will play” mentality, views the absence of children as the perfect opportunity for non-stop sexual abandonment with his wife.  In contrast, his Mrs. looks at a week without kids as a chance to enjoy some rare peace and quiet, as well as an opportunity to catch up on the million things she normally can’t accomplish with children around. 

The couple’s competing outlooks clashed significantly last night when Danny sought to cap off a long day of work and errands in the sack, with his wife and a can of whipped cream. Unfortunately for him, the last thing his exhausted, headache-ridden spouse wanted then was “somebody poking me,” as she put it.  She unsympathetically told him to “take your whipped cream and go whack off in the bathroom, if you’re so desperate for sex.”  Danny replied with a few choice words, the gist of which centered on his view that a married guy shouldn’t have to masturbate.  In the end neither party went to bed happy. 

Ava slept like the dead and woke up refreshed yet still angry at her husband’s attitude.  Even so, she also felt somewhat guilty at failing to fulfill her wifely duties.  She wasn’t exactly in the mood, but she nonetheless decided to find her husband and put an end to his complaining. 

She located Danny in the kitchen.  More precisely, she located his lower body protruding from the cabinet beneath the sink. His head and upper torso were crammed under the pipes, hidden from view, as he attempted to stem a slow leak which had begun the day before. 

Without ceremony, Ava positioned herself across from the sink, dropped her pajama bottoms to the floor and announced: “Alright, I’m ready.  You want to do me or not?” 

That’s when she learned her husband had called in a professional to fix their pipes.  Said plumber, not Danny, slid out from under the cabinet, got an eye-opening look at Ava’s “invitation” and told her: “Sure, but I’ll still have to charge you by the hour.”

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My friend Jimmy asked if I wanted to join him and a couple of his buddies for a little fishing this weekend. Regrettably I declined.  I haven’t cast a line since I was ten, and for good reason. 

My lone unfortunate experience with a rod and reel took place at sleep-away camp.  I’d never fished before but had decided to give the pastime a try, mainly because my own counselor, Randy, happened to serve as the fishing instructor.  One crisp morning at the crack of dawn, I accompanied him and six campers to a picturesque, tree-lined area at the lake’s edge.  Randy distributed poles to each of us and demonstrated how to cast.  After I practiced a few times he seemed marginally satisfied with my technique.  He told me to sit tight while he readied the bait for everyone. 

By then I’d already begun to feel like a true fisherman.  I imagined myself casting out and hooking the mother of all catfish. In my mind I vividly pictured the ensuing fight to the death, as one man pitted his strength against raw nature.  

Distracted by the fantasy, I didn’t realize I’d actually grabbed my rod and attempted a mighty cast toward the lake.  I discovered the reality only when the abrupt suspension of my arm’s forward progress broke my reverie.  Logically (albeit incorrectly as it happened), I assumed the fish hook must’ve snagged on a tree branch to my rear. 

Instead of turning round and verifying my conclusion, I simply tugged the line as hard as I could to force it free.  That’s when a muffled, gurgling scream erupted behind me.  Belatedly, I pivoted and commenced surveying the scene.  It didn’t take long to identify the source of the commotion.  Indeed, my eyes couldn’t help but follow the trail of the fishing line all the way to the hook’s surprising terminus … embedded in Randy’s cheek. 

I’d wanted to snag a big one, and I suppose I succeeded.  Not unexpectedly, at the same time I also succeeded in adding another activity to an already extensive list of those strictly forbidden me for the rest of that summer.

 
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After years employing an old-fashioned Blackberry as my cell phone, I finally broke down and bought a spiffy new iPhone yesterday.  I can’t deny it’s an amazing device.  And I’m sure I’ll come to love its marvelous and diverse features once I learn how to use it properly. At present, I’m still getting the hang of the touch screen. The results thus far have admittedly been mixed, as my experimentation with the unit has already subjected me and others to some unexpected outcomes. 

Though I’m not sure who’s received the biggest surprise from my iPhone snafus to date, I can certainly identify the leading candidates.  

First there’s my brother. In my inaugural attempt to draft an e-mail, I successfully input Frank’s address in the “To” field and then typed a joke message.  I was simply trying to get a feel for the virtual keyboard and  didn’t intend to transmit anything yet.  But in attempting to scroll the touch screen, my thumb accidentally hit the “Send” button and off my transmission went, carrying its greeting: “Howdy, you giant douchebag!  Don’t forget to fondle yourself today.” Frank unfortunately wasn’t the first person to read my message either. As with all work e-mails received while he was in court, Frank’s secretary read the missive to him over the phone … while two other secretaries and their attorneys listened in.

Second was my mother-in-law. While perusing apps available for purchase in the “App Store,” I became curious to see whether (and which) adult applications were on offer.  Not that I meant to buy any, but I still wanted to know my options.  As it happened, a number of apps for adults appeared. I selected one, intending only to see how the purchasing process functioned.  I pressed the “Buy” button and input my password, expecting to see a subsequent screen which would allow me to cancel the purchase.  Only, no further screen displayed and my new app proceeded to download.  I couldn’t figure out how to delete the downloaded item so its icon remained on my screen … to be activated last night by my mother-in-law, when my “helpful” wife showed the contraption to her.  I’ll tell you, Maria certainly raised her eyebrows at the sight of the fully illustrated depictions contained in “72 Sex Positions.” 

Third were the court reporter, two lawyers and witness at the deposition I took this morning. Having seen the myriad of songs available for purchase in the iTunes store, I went a bit overboard last night and purchased a dozen separate ringtones to apply for my closest friends and family. In the case of my best friend, Ned Stilzman, I went with an explicit version of a hip-hop song I like.  The problem was, I didn’t know how to put the phone on silent mode.  I mistakenly thought that turning off the button beneath the setting for “Ringer and Alerts” accomplished this task.  Of course it didn’t, as I and everyone else at the deposition learned this morning when Ned called … and my iPhone blared portions of the tune “Writer’s Block,” including the immortal refrains: “Bitches on my dick” and “I don’t give a fuck.”

 
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My wife loves massages. In theory I don’t, mainly because I’ve never particularly enjoyed being touched.  Nonetheless, when Sophia purchased a session at a local Asian massage parlor for my last birthday, I could hardly refuse. She told me she’d sprung for the best package – the “Everything” deal – and insisted I’d love it. A couple of months ago, I finally went. 

The rather large woman who “greeted” me at the establishment’s door seemed oddly suspicious and inhospitable, at first.  But her attitude changed entirely for the better once I showed her my gift certificate. She remembered my wife and acknowledged that “everything” had been taken care of. 

The manager then introduced me to my masseuse: a slim, attractive young Asian lady whom the manager introduced as “Susie.”  After escorting me down a winding corridor pocked with doors on either side, Susie deposited me in small cubicle of a room sparsely furnished with a massage table and chair.  She instructed me to disrobe and lie on the table while she waited outside.  Having never experienced a professional massage before, I knew no better than to comply. 

When Susie returned, she asked me: “You want everything, right?” 

What did I know?  I replied: “I guess so.  That’s what my wife’s arranged.” 

Much to my surprise, without another word Susie proceeded to strip, all the way.  I didn’t know what to make of this turn of events, but lacking any other spa experience to compare, I just assumed nudity for both participants represented standard operating procedure.  At least, I did until Susie slapped a tablespoon’s worth of oil on my tallywacker and began rubbing away. 

I may be naïve but even I wasn’t gullible enough to think that particular service fell within a masseuse’s ordinary repertoire.  I also found it hard to believe my wife would’ve sprung for a “happy ending.” Sure, Little Richard begged me to put the blinders on, enjoy my “massage” and blame any unintended results (from Sophia’s perspective) on a simple misunderstanding.  But I’m no cheater and I couldn’t bring myself to go through with the service. 

Though I stopped the masseuse and departed without partaking in any further ministrations, I didn’t want to disappoint Sophia with an account of what actually happened. I decided we’d both be better off if I vaguely informed her that the massage had been “excellent.”  Anyway, that’s what I’d figured until last night, when she mentioned how – based on my recommendation – she’d rewarded one of the married guys who works for her with an all expense paid visit to the same massage parlor, under the same “Everything” package she’d arranged for me … and he was cashing in his gift certificate as we spoke.

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Yesterday, a distasteful habit of yore came back to bite me in the ass.  One of my favorite “party tricks” used to involve eating worms.  As a young adult I thought nothing bespoke “cool” so much as a live earthworm
dangling from my lips, and then vanishing down the gullet before an astonished bystander.  But like so many good things, the pastime eventually fell by the wayside, mainly due to practical considerations (i.e., a desire to get laid before I turned seventy).  As a result, prior to last morning it’d been a good twenty years since I last sucked down a tasty annelid. 

It’s not as if I intended to renew the habit again yesterday either.  As it happened, I was simply minding my own business, recharging the ole’ batteries with a brief nap in our backyard.  If it hadn’t been for my wife’s agreement to watch her niece and nephew for a couple of hours, and her bright idea to let them “help” with her gardening, I no doubt would’ve continued my siesta without incident. But somewhere along the line, Sophia’s five-year-old nephew Franco found a handsome specimen of a worm and dropped it on my slumbering nose as an amusing pratfall.  All I can say is, apparently ancient reflex activated and – without conscious thought – I popped the invertebrate into my mouth, chewed and swallowed. 

As regrettable as my spontaneous dietary exercise seemed, the unusual morning snack alone didn’t land me in the Gambino family doghouse again.  Sophia failed to witness my “performance”; and though obviously enthralled, Franco didn’t rat me out … then.  Instead, what ultimately did me in was the unfortunate sequence of events later that day. 

Franco apparently thought my worm disappearing act so entertaining that he decided to emulate me. Just before getting called into the house for bath-time, the tyke found another earthworm in his own backyard and carefully tucked it away for later.  He unveiled the specimen while sitting in the tub; his tongue rolled out with its wiggling “passenger” perched atop like a limp surfer on a boogie board.  As his astonished and disgusted mother looked on, the lad closed his mouth and gulped noisily (before opening again, to confirm the successful performance of the “trick”). 

I won’t share the grisly details of Gina’s reaction.  Let’s just say Franco’s mom didn’t join him in the tub shortly after merely because she felt like blowing bubbles.  I will point out, however, that during the thorough scrubbing of both occupants, my ratfink nephew decided to volunteer the inspiration for his revolting conduct, thereby leaving me once again persona non grata with the Gambinos.

 

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