Saturday, June 2, 2007
EDITORIAL PAGE - Opinion and commentary reflecting on contemporary times and issues...for a discerning audience
JUST A BIT OFF THE TOP, PLEASE
I sat down in the chair and Brucie (Trixie/Bubbles/Miss Thing) put a wrap ovah mah body from neck to mah tastefully sock-less (but deeply tanned) ankles.
"How yah lahk it honey," he/she/it/whatever whispered
while leaning down into my ear SO CLOSE I could smell the warm breath washing over that entire side of my face...almost scalding me and leaving a wintergreen imprint that may never fade away.
I felt like telling Tooloosey La Tacky X ACTLY how Ah likes it
but then realized it was mah HAIR being referred to.
AHHH. For a moment there...
"Just a bit off the top, please...and kinda spruce up the sides. Even up the back...and make my new 300 into a Porsche while you're at it," I said in reply...trying to lighten the moment, which for some strange reason seemed to have VERY RAPIDLY gotten a bit, shall we say, INTENSE.
Brucie (Jeff Gorden with scissors, a full tank, and bad tires) slowly moved back into an upright position (upright being a relative term) and proceeded to assemble an arsenal of weapons, tools, and assorted and sundry THINGYS...
all the while (I noted in the mirror in front of me) giving several of 'THOSE' looks to his peers. Candy (Don't get me started), Esmeralda (Over the hill and blissfully unaware), and Bubba Fred. (How in the HELL did HE get a jobbie here...and why would he want to. Drat. I jest knew I would find out).
'THOSE' kinda looks I kept seeing...
you know the kind.
(What...is there spinach hanging from a toofer somewhere?
Did I do wrong to park mah car in the lobby?
Did someone just move this SAL LAWN down the street to the BAR,
and now I am the object d'jour for d'hour? OH GOODIE!).
Just as I was getting a bit more UNcomfy, even though I had been admonished
'to make mahselfie jest most comfy, pwecious'...
Mah stylist/executioner/auctioneer decided to BIZZY/DIZZY hisself with the mattah at hand (me...and mah hair. You know? I probably cudda waited another week or so. Didn't look THAT bad. Why don't I just tell...drat. Too late. He just took a swipe at...GASP!).
Tunaweed didn't ever SAY much, actually. The usual. 'Live 'round heah? Was Ah FROM 'round heah? What do I do...another one of those 'leading' questions I've heard so much about and heard OHHHH SOO often.
PLUS...'I couldn't HELP but notice when you pulled in. (Puff pant). NIIIIIIIIICE CAR!).
Well, I mean. What you gonna do when someone compliments you on your wheelies. SET THE DATE, oh HELL yes. Pfui.
After that veddy perceptive comment on his pahrtee, I of course answered in mah BEST
'answer precisely, concisely, and always leave a bit of mystery,"
as mama ustah to tell me. Besides I wasn't interested...really. Sorry, but I just came in to have a bit taken 'off the top'.
But, I kept finding myself more and more uncomfortable. His 'sprouting interest' was a bit too obvious to ignore, and of course he just HAD TO...DRAPE himself across me to get that ONE TEENY WEENY LITTLE WAYWARD PIECE OF HAIR...
that was actually on the other side of my head...and was ABOUT TO BE on the other side of the ROOM.
Any doubts I EVER maht have had about his intentions went FLYING out the window when that little scenario occurred. I'm STILL trying to get the imprint of his 'interest' OUT OF MAH CHEST!
THIS CRAP IS EVERYWHERE. C'MON, folks.
Like earlier, at Wal-Mart for God's sake. The guy at the register when I was checking out. He actually LEERED at me. (Between the AA batteries and the package of shredded lettuce). I had begun to feel like I was about as much a MEAT product as that package of ground sirloin he had just pushed through the scanner without so much as a HINT of taking his eyes off the prize. GRADE AAA Prime Choice BEAR meat. EEEK.
Then, I had stopped at the Post Office to check my mailbox for CHECKIES (mah new bookie yah know). Nope, no checks today...but as I was standing in the lobby in front of mah 'box' and checking out all the wonderful SNAIL MAIL version of SPAM that had just been found lurking inside my post office box, threatening to force an enlargement by explosion from the pressure? (Who of us hasn't had THAT problem).
I began to have that feeling one gets when one suddenly realizes one is being...WATCHED!
I turned, surreptitiously of course, and came nose to sumfin...with a kid/young man/leering dirty-old-man-in-training, with eyes the size of Rhode Island and aimed STR8 (There's that nasty term again) STR8 at ME.
"What did...I...DO?" I wanted to pout while edging nervously for the door.
"HI!" The kid said, obviously nervously, (which was manifesting itself I noted by the crimson shade highlighting his several prominent acne bumps and the slight quivering of his full moist...
I hardly noticed. (Yeh right). The kid was sky-rubby tall, and weighed about as much as my car keys, AND was from the look of things somewhere between 15 and total debauchery...
(mid-40's in the Hetero community, 21 in the Gay community).
I answered 'HI!' and proceeded to take mah STASH OF SPAM and toss it in the general direction of the DUMPSTER/trash can
(While not caring if I made a basket...trash or otherwise)
I was almost out of breath as I got to the driver's door of my car.
Why does a simple little task like going to the post office OR the hair salon OR Wal-Mart for God's sake...
alus have to wind up feeling like last call on a Saturday Night at
LE BISTRO/SYLVIA'S/DAH QUEER SPOT.
The simple fact is...it shouldn't. But the other simple little fact is...
EVERYTHING...these days, is about SEX. The SIMPLEST things seem to have to have a sexual connotation...even if there is not even the remotest possibility of there being one legitimately.
ALL of us. Gay, straight, Bi, Transwhatever, Illegal Alien
(Okay Okay...undocumented immigrant. GOD, I am SO sick of 'politically correct' I could just SCREAM. What aging trollop came up wif DAT idea.) Anyway, Dem other folksies...as in PluTOEnian/Uranus...ian).
IT'S EVERYWHERE. We are BOMBARDED with it. Even Charmin and Huggies ads aim, so to speak, to be sexy. How droll...and not only am I EXPOSED to all of it, but so is everyone else...including our KIDS. They are nothing more than TARGETS...for advertisers, retailers, and the leches amongst us...
and so are the rest of us.
Today? We are all just OBJECTS. No one seems to give a hissy fit what lies behind that winsome smile/huge package.
Brain? (Nice, but hardly necessary).
Personality? (Don't need one where we are going).
Character? (Again, nice but not necessary. The same with morals, scruples, proper eating habits, corns, bunions, dry rot...you name it).
Sorry, I do NOT find that very amusing.
And this visual/leering society we have become...rendering all of us mere IMAGES, rather than human beings? We are virtually forcing (or being forced...but I don't hear a whole lot of objections out there from people who SHOULD be OUTRAGED by it all)...
not only ourselves but our kids into this pseudo-humanity.
Shouldn't they BE MORE? Shouldn't I be? You?
That is a rhetorical question which should NOT require an answer. Sadly, it does.
Kids. Good God. Shouldn't they be KIDS...a bit longer?
We are growing up SO fast these days.
Well...you know what, Priscilla? Bear hath figured out that I am going to be an adult LONG ENOUGH. Let's stay kids as LONG as we can. HELL yes. I mean, just think about it. No bills, no car payments, no mortgages, all the ice cream we can stuff in our acne ridden little orifices. Allowances. No mandatory requirement to be bright, industrious, or even aware of the finer nuances of proper etiquette in ANY of its nastier adult forms.
Works for me.
NONE of that 'KIDS FOR AN HOUR...ADULTS FOREVER' bullpucky. NOPE!
NO PRESSURE. Pressure to perform. Pressure to BE...
ALL GROWN UP. Pfui.
Now that I am all grown up, I gotta wonder.
Why was I in such a hurry?
PRESSURE and that is exactly what it feels like.
Pressure from that feeling of discomfort when you become aware that the guy who just handed you a BIG MAC and a BIG GULP, and a BIG SUGGESTIVE LEER, and a BIG BREATHY...
and all that emitted with the scaldingly lust-filled hot breath more than fiery enough to be peeling the wallpaper off the wall across the room.
THIS from a KID probably no more than 16 or 17.
What in the WORLD would HE know about...
How much experience can he have, or knowledge about, two equals finding love...forging a bond that transcends all the superficial stuff that is propagating out there, and
DESPERATELY trying to pass itself off as the real deal.
YOU KNOW WHAT?
I AM SORRY, BUT IT AIN'T.
IT AIN'T EVEN CLOSE!
Lust, folks, is NOT love. Never has been.
Never will be...
and aren't all of us who TRY at least to PRIDE ourselves
on having at least a modicum of INTELLIGENCE?
Who think we are at all times just the little models of
Oh, and about that RIGHT GOOD SENSE thingus...
Aren't we, all of us, just a TEENSY bit better...
than to live our lives as PRISONERS to the fine art
of indulging our basest instincts?
I AM. OH TRUST ME...I am.
I am NOT a prude, not by half.
Not a virgin either...
although if you insist that I am I won't argue. HEHEHE.
Hardly one of those bible-toting hate-mongering BIGOTS who parade their sorry asses around trying to tell the REST of us HOW TO LIVE...
while simultaneously they are...
1) Stealing their companies blind
2) Diddling their neighbors wife
3) Diddling their neighbor
4) Beating their children AND their spouses...
LOVELY group, eh what?
(Talk about multi-tasking).
WHAT NERVE those #*%& have.
Got news, Margaret.
Kleeny your OWN house first...and Blanche?
if you have ANY time left over...
I doubt that.
Course, now that I have been exposed, badgered,
and mentally infiltrated by this frenzy to turn all of us into mindless sex robots who will only buy all the products
that SELL SEX more than the product...
Well, there WILL be some residual
'You're cute. Wanna?' I'm sorry to have to admit.
But I can't help it.
Bottom line is:
I'M SORRY. Life oughta be about a WHOLE lot more than an endless series of 'DOIN' IT'.
I want to be treated with respect...as a PERSON.
NOT an OBJECT...thank you very much.
So, to ALL the Bruciepoo's out there...
Hi, but I just came to check out my mail...
not check out the post office lobby for strays.
I just came to get some items for dinner.
I don't need someone to drool all over them while the conveyor belt pushes them (and your saliva) around.
I just want 'A LITTLE OFF THE TOP'
and a little less of being visually scanned from top to bottom.
I get enough of that at home.
Hey, that's my opinion.