Friday, January 25, 2013

Fake Girlfriends FOR SALE

She might be immobile and non-
communicative, but on the upside
she can't leave you and won't ever
give you any lip.
As if Fakebook wasn't fake enough, now you can purchase a fictitious girlfriend to enhance your online profile.  No kidding.  It even comes with comments, pictures and 'status change' to make it all seem real.  It's supposed to help your self esteem, or make you ex jealous, or make you seem less of a loser to whomever you're trying to impress.  It's sad.  Not just for the people who use, but for all of us as a society.  And it kind of makes me a little nostalgic.

What happened to the good 'ole days when only parts of a girl were fake, such as

skin - makeup, tanning booths, spray-on or 'Snookie' tans, plastic surgery
tits - pushup bras, miracle bras, tape, implants
hair - extensions, wigs, dye
lips - lipstick, botox
eyes - makeup, colored contacts, crows-feet surgery
belly - spankx, liposuction
nails - press-ons, polish
teeth - veneers, whiteners
height - stilettos, high hair

I understand.  They're trying to enhance their natural assets.  And the less of those they had, the more enhancement was needed.  I not only understand, I appreciate it.  Just the effort, regardless of how successful a woman is at it, is deeply appreciated.

Sometimes the illusion is absolutely necessary.  It's often made the difference between 'undoable' and a few drinks later 'oh shit, now that I can barely focus, she don't look half bad'.  Why do you think they have dim lighting at the club?  To protect that fragile illusion.  Why is the music so loud?  Same reason; to keep her nervous chit-chat and/or whiny voice from ruining said illusion.  So speaking for for all (straight) men, thanks for the show.  The illusion is everything.

-but underneath it all is a real girl with a real who-ha you could what-what in all night long -in actuality three to five minutes on average.  But what insertion point are you supposed to use if your girl only exists online?  I checked all sides of  my MacbookPro and there's no port for that anywhere.  (There is a phone jack port that is vaguely the right shape, but you'd have to be a Chinese mini-midget to use it.)

And to be fair -and before I start getting neg comments- along with the real woman underneath all the visual subterfuge is a real person you could relate to, and speak with for hours on a human level.  (Happy ladies?)  You know, if you were into that.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

The Hobble; An Unexpected Gurney

Either the Great Eye of Sauron, or a hobbit butt after he's had his first Taco Bell.
How does one explain three months absent from here
not writing one damn thing since before Halloween
it's not because I've become jaded, bored, or cavalier
it's that I'm only just back from the bizarre and unforeseen

have no doubts that the wild tale you're about to hear
can be verified thru police records, new scars and X-rays
it's teeming with villains and heroes and gallons of beer
across national borders and time zones -and back in 90 days

It all started so quietly with no hint of trouble in sight
I was home by myself settling in to rub one out
when an urgent knock at the door ruined my night
I tried pretending I wasn't home but they started to shout

Twas my old friend Randolf just back from the coast
and with a whole troupe of I guess his new homies
Still, I didn't really want to play the good host
until I saw the cold keg and pizzas with pepperonis

So over many a pint and hot slice
they told me a sad sad story indeed
they were jockeys from Canada with a gambling vice
and in a poker game with a lonely mountie, lost every steed

their poor treasured horses were now kept by him
near a factory spitting pollution thick as fog
they had sworn to try though their chances were thin
to regain their treasure from the lonely mountie and smog

they asked me to join them and make their group complete
so stupidly I went with Randolf and his troupe of littles
singing and wobbling merrily through the street
with only our last pints of beer and a few leftover vittles

I fell in a puddle, cut my knee, and moaned like a wimp
then felt like a wuss for wanting to slink away like a rat
but that woulda made me a wet bloody puss with a limp
and nobody wants to be that

I could but nobly hobble thereafter
and that was too slow for these guys
one slinked into a clinic slick as a grafter
and slipped out with a gurney to my surprise

thus came the name of this tale
and the first of our crimes on this journey
but worry fades after pitchers of ale
and down hills we all rode drunk on my gurney

but we couldn't go on this way like a bunch of retards
clearly a new plan was in order
so I led them down to the train yards
and dearly snuck on a train bound for the border

the freight car was out of an old Hollywood classic
complete with a band of mean hobos ready to jump us
so it was ninety pound jockeys versus men from jurassic
I could see it would take 'em all of ten seconds to thump us

was it Falstaff who said the better part of valor is discretion?
plus I had a bum knee for which I was on medication
so I decided to hang back for the coming aggression
while the jockeys fought like bears -stuffed for decoration

in ten seconds they were out cold and piled in a sad little stack
and the hoboes took a break to slake their thirst
they drank wine from a cooler they'd set up in the back
while they argued over which one to corn-hole first

I then saw my chance to redeem my poor showing
and while their backs were turned I started to creep
into the cooler went all my meds without their knowing
and one round of drinks later they all went to sleep

slipping off the train in some Canadian town
we were finally there but felt as if we'd hit the skids
me dirty and limping, and them crying over their beat-down
people gave money to the homeless man and his wretched kids

we took that cash to a bar for a round and a snack
serendipity followed in the form of a beer delivery truck
the driver left it running and wheeled his load far to the back
we all looked at each other and said 'What the fuck?'

luckily jockeys are small
for the front seat was cramped
cases of red bull was part of the haul
and soon we were amped

as it turns out it's not hard to prove
that stolen trucks are an unwise choice of transportation
the local police were less than pleased with our move
and chased us down forcing a quick debarkation

fleeing on foot while drunk and injured is no fun
but I hobble/ran quicker that my short-legged hell-raisers
thankfully Canadian police won't use a gun
but their not shy about using their tasers

getting hit wasn't the worst of it by half
nor were the bruises from awkward falls
I got away but it was hard not to laugh
seeing old Randolf take two hits to the balls

another jockey and I made it to the docks and hid quick
we rested in the shadows behind an old barge
he said he knew where to hide because he's psychic
I said that made him a small medium at large

we had to work but lay low while our pals were in jail
-he as a garden gnome whom they paid in beets
-I as a gigolo making a rich lady wail
for which I got paid all the pie I could eat

the rest sat weeks in the pokey before their trial began
on account they had no bail money to tender
lucky for them I had hatched me a plan
and went in posing as their public defender

I said 'Your honor, though their crimes are bountiful
surely deserving conviction and a hard life in chains
the freakishly small can't be held accountable
on account of their equally small brains'

their size being undeniable
the judge relented with soft heart
the 'stupidity' defense is reliable
if the defendants look the part

finally we made our way up to the county
and after some 'hair of the dog'
it was time to confront the lonely mountie
and get the treasured steeds away from the smog

It was all of us against one so I felt in fine fettle
a few cases later and we were all half in the can
I lead my jockey troupe ready to test our mettle
beer muscles will do that for a man

through the woods I led them like a modern day Moses
lurching in circles up the hill taking nearly a day
the factory smog made rotten eggs smell like roses
and the jockeys and I puked most of the way

at his door I said "Let's kick it in, and on him descend!"
They said "Whoa man, we'd better go slower.
He's not just a mountie, my friend.
He's a marine with a flame-thrower!"

"Now you say it?!"  I hissed
they said "I guess we should've told you."
I said "Screw you!  I'm pissed!
I should've let those hoboes corn-hole you!"

being as drunk as we were
we were not as quiet as we thought
what happened next is a bit of a blur
but I will try to relate what havoc was wrought

the front door flew open and there towered the brute
not just mountie or marine with flame thrower in hand
he was a wacked-out wild-eyed meth-head to boot
and I thought to myself "this was poorly planned."

it was clear he meant to bake them
I myself bolted with speed unsurpassed
the jockeys ran as quick as their legs could take them
which is to say my friends; not very fast

he shot fire like a dragon of lore
or better yet, an ancient dragon king
but I thought "Maybe we're not done-for,
he's so high, he probably can't hit a thing!"

apparently there's a flame-thrower marksman school
at which his kill record must have been heinous
for he managed to nail each little fool
right in his little fool anus

with flames and smoke trailing after
they ran about shrieking like bitches
he began rolling in laughter
as they shat their little britches

they jumped in his pool to put out the flames
and pleaded "Stop!  You win!  It's not right!"
but he just laughed, called them names
and bounced rocks off their heads with delight

I couldn't tell for a man of his brawn
if it was too much for his heart or his head
but after all this and the binge he'd been on
his eyes crossed with an "Erg!" and he fell over dead

so in the end the jockeys got back every horse
they swore off gambling; their lesson's learnt
but they couldn't ride 'em just yet of course
not with asses so horribly burnt

though they couldn't pay me in cash I'm still in the pink
I deserve something for all that wouldn't you say?
a slightly used flame-thrower's worth more than you'd think
if you put it up for bidding on ebay

now that this saga is finally complete
I'm sure you'll excuse my being away
feel free to de-rivet yourself from your seat
as I've only one last thing to say

Now that it's over I have a small confession to make
about this epic tale and three months of my year
these forty-three stanzas of story are fake
I've been gone because I was jaded, bored, and yes -cavalier