Poetry Friday Word, and I get Linky Wid' It
I had the very piss scared out of me this morning as I drove to work. There are railroad tracks near my office, and just as my car was 3 car lengths from them, the BELLS and LIGHTS went off and the gate starting shaking to begin it’s inevitable descent, and even though I was over the tracks before I knew it, I still had that freak-out sensation…”What if the gate is LATE and train is going to HIT ME?” My ability to freak out unnecessarily is only surpassed by my ability to…to…well, nothing beats my freak out response.
So, the Poetry Friday Word for tomorrow is TRAIN. And there’s a myriad lumpkin of meanings to that, so whatever meaning strains yer tea…poem, story, photo, computer program to calculate pi, audio blog of you jumping off a train (Jeremiah’s story is classic).
I’m currently addicted to the VH1 program, “100 Greatest Songs of the 80s”. I squeal like a little girl/pig/porn star when it comes on and some band I used to drool over/sing to/have wild sex to comes on. But then I just shake my head sadly, because all those folks are now OLD and chunky (except Cyndi Lauper, who looks fab), and trying to flag their dead careers by going on some ‘80s Flashback’ Concert Tour. I have all this useless trivia in my head that I dump on the reclining lap of my husband, who dutifully watches with me…”That lead singer from The Fixx now designs hats”, and sure enough, the voice-over then drops that little tidbit. Or “I saw Squeeze in concert 4 times, and once with Katrina and the Waves as the opening band.” (Glenn Tilbrook, I still love ya, man.) Or “Ooooh…OOOHHH…YES….Oh Baby!” when Prince prances around in skin-tight pants and no shirt (“I just want your extra time and your…kissssss.”) I’m shameless in my middle-aged nostalgia.
Ganked from After School Snack is this little video gem. A little late for H’ween, but right on time for Old School Tim Curry. His voice makes me...ooohhoohooohoohooo...SHAKE. (Makes me want to take Charles Atlas by the h-h-h-haaaand.) And here’s the thing…I used to have all three of his solo albums. ALBUMS. Didn’t know that? Tim Curry used to record on vinyl, babies, VINYL, and that still haunts me…in a good way. (See bottom..."Read My Lips", "Fearless", "Simplicity"...all on vinyl, and all tragically lost when the basement flooded.)
This ‘adult abstinence’ thing is a hoot. I had some of my best unmarried sex up to age 29, and now the government wants to punish that shit? Here’s my take on it. Women can’t impregnate themselves. They need a penis, or at the very least, donor sperm, to do the task. Impregnation involves the penis/turkey baster (the ‘out-y’) to be inserted into the vagina (the ‘inny’), and the sperm bullets to be released. Bullets. You heard me. A penis is a dangerous weapon…shootin’ them bullets of DNA into the vagina, who’s doing nothing more than waiting patiently, maybe cooking up some eggs, maybe taking a shower. And BANG! The sperm dudes burst in with guns blazing, shooting bullets of spermy goodness in there, and the eggs can’t run anywhere in their basement apartment, and POW! A fertilized egg. We have gun control, people. Don’t we need sperm control? This ‘abstinence only’ thing (they say) is to avoid unwanted pregnancies…well AVOID THEM IN THE FIRST PLACE..keep them sperms in check boys, in the best way the Middle Ages showed us…chastity belts. You heard me. Strap them penises up with chains and iron bars, and dump some alum in yer water system while yer at it, and outlaw Viagra. ‘Cause all that stuff only leads to unwanted pregnancies. It’s time for guys everywhere to shake off the bonds of slackness and invest in some fetching codpiece-and-chain undergarments. Maybe Todd Oldham can design some. Or Isaac Mizrahi for Target. CHASTITY BELTS! The New Male Fashion Trend! To be unlocked on your wedding night and then locked away again until your wife says it's okay to make babies. Plus, that’ll keep all you guys from spanking the monkey too, which as we’re still told, causes blindness and perversion.
(This message printed instead of a photo of me waving my hands, cursing, pulling out documentation, and pointing out how ridiculous it would be if we couldn’t beat off or have pre-marital sex or nail that cute Hooters waitress because she didn't put the second order of Hot Wings on your bill or seduce Raoul the pool boy because he gave you a fabulous backrub. I mean, really.)
Where was I before the diatribe?
Oh yeah, the last thing on my list….
Is this guy an idiot or what? Identity theft of your own employees? How fucked in the head do you have to be to think you can pull this off? I’m sorry, there’s no punishment strong enough for this kind of idiocy. Maybe something with testicles and a car battery and a squid and a hamster.