The Chase

Girls in movies say it all the time, I’m sure you’ve heard this one before: You just like the chase. The chase is like chemotherapy. Nobody likes chemotherapy; they like being cancer-free. Nobody likes the chase; they like fucking. Okay, maybe that’s a bad analogy.

Review of Tínima, Cuba’s layperson beer

You can purchase Tínima at your local watering hole or bodega, if your locality is Havana. If you quiero the fermented sugars of malted barley, then maybe you’ll like some bottled with an aftertaste of flagpole. After cinco bottles you should begin to experience belligerency, but at about twenty-five cents (U.S.) a pop, it’s worth the dinero.

Birth Week

Tell me you haven’t heard this line before (usually in a high-pitched whine): But you have to come out tonight, it’s my birthday on Saturday. Ladies, you are not eight years old, at least I hope you’re not, because that thing I said about your dress being revealing could be totally misconstrued if you are, but assuming you’re not, you can no longer have what we call a “birth week.” Yes, you are so clever for having the same idea as every other woman in her twenties (and too often thirties), to dedicate a week’s worth of debauchery to the celebration of your birth. Unfortunately your birth was not so significant, so world-altering, that it should merit the same level of celebration as Chanukah or MTV’s Spring Break. There’s good news, ladies. All those other girls who stole your brilliant idea of getting drunk every night for a week to celebrate their births – they are not worth a week-long extravaganza either. Grow up.

The Great Equalizer

For Angela, the time she and Dale spent making love was time for her to catch up on Dale’s life, busy as he was. For the most part Dale found this annoying and unsexy. While she babbled about what she did all day and questioned him about work he was forced to pretend Angela was Jessica Alba. Jessica Alba naked, sweaty, talking about how hot she is.

            “What’s your schedule look like tomorrow, hon? I was thinking we might take Michael to see that new movie with the robot.”

            “Let’s talk about that later. Right now I’m fucking you.” He thrust into Jessica hard, she responded with a staccato squeal.

            “Oh! Don’t be so crude, Dale.” Dale stopped.

            “I’m just trying to set the mood.”

            “And cursing is how you do it? Am I not sexy enough?”

            Dale knew this was a loaded question. The end of the evening. He withdrew from Angela and lay next to her.

            “I’m not asking you to moan or scream when we fuck, honey, but I’d prefer silence to mindless chatter about our lives. Fucking is when we can forget about all that.”

            “I think making love is the most intimate thing two people can do. It’s the most sacred way I can express my love for you.”

            “You’re being naïve, Angela. Fucking is fucking. People who love each other can do it; people who hate each other can do it. Perfect strangers can do it. It’s the great equalizer. Everybody loves fucking.

            “And, and it’s what sets us apart from other animals. We have sex for pleasure. Pleasure, Angela, not the kind of strange pleasure you get from talking during sex, but the kind that makes a guy slap his woman on the ass and the kind that’ll make her shriek with joy when he does. And because we can have sex for pleasure, without the consequences of the kind of unprotected, procreative sex that salamanders and pigeons and goldfish enjoy, we must have sex for pleasure. We must do so conspicuously so as to rub it in the faces of our feathered and furry friends. And the scaly and slimy ones too.”

            Dale’s attention turned to his wife, whose eyes made Dale think impure thoughts and whose body language told him to pounce. He kissed her neck, pawing at the sheet with which Angela had hastily covered herself. She giggled without protest.

Review of Butter-Side-Down Toast

The Zooks have it all wrong on this one. Eating your toast with the buttered side down has all the class of Bill O’Reilly, but none of the charm. It’s unnatural and I, for one, suggest we take immediate action against the Zooks for this affront to human decency.

Shot from behind

What’s the last thing everybody does right after they’ve been literally stabbed in the back or shot from behind? They always turn around, like the last image they want in their brain is the face of their killer, and sometimes, if there’s doubt, the soon-departed will ask the killer, in a low decible, “Why?” Usually the answer is obvious, like, “Because you fucked my husband, cunt!” or “Because you tried to undercut my gang’s drug trafficking business, mother fucker,” and sometimes it is accidental, but none of it matters if you’re going to be dead in five seconds due to massive blood loss. If you have the time to say anything, a light bulb should really be going off in your head, telling you to come up with something memorable. I want my last words to be, “In the end the love you take is equal to the love you make,” or maybe, “Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on,” if I’m feeling ironic.

Hello world!

Hello world, indeed. I hear wordpress is the new blogspot is the new livejournal is the new xanga. Speaking of Japanese-sounding words, I wear a Tamagotchi on each belt loop to keep me company. Shut your barkholes you stupid digital puppies!