Aesop Omissions
While recently scouring the web for pornography, I must have somehow misspelled the name of a certain starlet, because I stumbled upon this delightful tale of a father and his son. The whimsical picture that accompanied the legend was only icing on the cake.
Dating from England circa 1350, the narrative centers around the trials and tribulations of father Bilo (pronounced
BEE-loh) and his son, Derek. I cannot attest to the authenticity of the son's name, but for lack of a replacement, he will continue forth as Derek. What follows is an exact reproduction of the original fable, passed down through generations of Europeans. It's called "Come And Knock On Our Door. "
Derek, distraught after his day's schooling lessons, came home seeking words of comfort from his father, Bilo. For the wicked schoolboys had taunted Derek, and made him the subject of fun due to his abnormal appearance and possession of knife-shooting maracas. "Father! O, Father!" shouted Derek. "What shall I do? My schoolmates are vicious and evil to me!" "Nevermind them, my son," replied Bilo. "For they will eternally burn in the deepest depths of Hell for their transgressions against you, and the Lord. These boys, who do you nothing but harm, are only digging themselves deeper graves in which to rot, forevermore.""But Father, their insults sting me so!" Bilo realized that his son Derek would not soon cease, and decided it was time to tell him of his own father's origins. "My son, you have often asked your father why he frightens children so; why he has to live a life of wretched appearance and sullen demeanor; why he can play only the theme of Three's Company
on his flute. You have many times asked me these things, and I have turned you away. For these are not the kinds of questions whose answers should be concerning young boys. Young boys should be occupied with the disposing of plague-ridden kittens, and making merry playing bamut with the other children. But now, my son; now that you are able to fully understand the corrupt workings of the human mind; now you are ready to hear such vile things from your own father's lips."Ages ago, when my knees were no nearer the ground than yours, I became enamored with my father's prized ewe, Dutchess. She floated across the fields behind our home like a spirit, and smelled of fresh grain and delicious gourds. Every moment of my day was filled with shame and impure thoughts of her, and I begged the Lord to rid me of my burden. But nothing of the sort did occur. Dutchess and I endured a steady courtship, and when the time felt right, I was able to profess my love to her. That same night, 'neath the rolling, moonlit fog of our glen, Dutchess and I consummated our love physically. "Before dawn the next day, a demon appeared to me. The demon bellowed that he was known as Rifalgor, and proceeded to impale my beautiful Dutchess upon his trident. "Bilo!" roared the demon. "You are a human of the very worst kind! For your heinous carnal act of defiling an innocent sheep, you will wear the face of a common goat for all eternity! And to further punish and humiliate you, the flute that you are so adept at making sing will no longer emit such pleasing tones. Oh, no. Now it is only capable of producing one, single tune. The theme from the sitcom that contained the highest amount of sexual tension ever to appear on television, Three's Company
!" "And with that, my son, the demon vanished in a cloud of black smoke, leaving me in a drying pool of blood and woolen clumps to mourn my lost love. So you see, this is why your father looks as he does." Derek sat in silence for three days. On the third night he too was visited by the demon Rifalgor, who spoke of even more impure, carnal exploits before slaying Bilo with his trident, and transforming Derek's head into that of John Ritter.I'm not sure what type of lesson in morality this was supposed to be, but it
was the fourteenth century.
This Day in History!
April 29, 1953 Old Man Winter, unable to deliver the falsetto tones insisted upon by the rest of the Four Seasons, is replaced by a young singer named Frankie Valli. Winter's violent temper was often the subject of heated arguments amongst founding members, and when Bob Gaudio became severely frostbitten following a performance in Sacramento, the rift between Winter and the rest of the Seasons only widened. Just days before his replacement, an unseasonable frost completely destroyed the vegetable gardens of every group member except Winter. To this day, he still denies any involvement.
A Gentleman's Tradition
One custom that seems slightly off is the tradition of a man passing out cigars when his wife gives birth to a child of some kind. I'm not sure whether this display of inter-office generosity takes place in the event of a female child, but for the sake of argument, let's say not. Or yes. No matter. I just can't make the connection.
A new father walks into the office one morning, and sees his best buddy Paul.
"Paul, old friend, as you have no doubt heard by now, my wife has just born me an heir. My seed will indeed carry on for years to come. For it is strong, my seed. Like oxen! So here's some tobacco. Let us taste the sweet aromas, and laugh from deep within our stomachs to commemorate this proud achievement! Smoke, Paul! And pour me another glass of that Blue Hawaiian Punch! But not too much, for it will surely irritate my healing ulcers!"
Eye for an Eye
Driving a car is not usually a challenge. After the novelty of learning the basics eventually wears off, adjustments must be made to keep the activity from becoming tiresome. After all, a tired driver is an unsafe driver. So, the rule that I usually go by, is that the car should always be traveling at such a rate of speed that routine driving is transformed into a challenge. This rule is not for the faint of heart, nor the faint of stomach for that matter. As the saying goes, if you want to make an omelet, you're gonna have to paralyze a few people. However, on a recent Thursday morning, no additional velocity or hallucinogens were needed to create a most difficult highway situation.
I awoke at 5:34 to prepare for work, and initially all appeared to be normal, except for one tiny thing. A sharp pain in my now completely reddened right eye. I remembered catching a spark or something in it at the spark factory the day before, but it didn't seem serious. No blood spurted from the area, and I didn't sprawl on the ground screaming and clutching it. But later in the evening it did feel irritated, so logically, I rubbed and poked at it. (It would be revealed to me at a later time that this probably did more harm than good.) I thought that the problem might just take care of itself over the course of the workday, but I wasn't quite able to bear the discomfort the entire time, and I left six hours early. At this stage, the only place I was able to look without a stinging sensation was the bottom right corner of my eye. I had determined through much trial and error that I could pan left, but had to pan back to the right in order to blink. Looking straight ahead was okay in small doses, but I could not look directly up or down. Needless to say, I had to give away my sixty-dollar tickets to the planetarium and IMAX theater for that night. The drive home consisted of a hand over my right eye, and my head turned forty-five degrees to the left and slightly upward.
Halfway home, I was forced to stop at a gas station to fill up. I put on my sunglasses and was bent on not seeming weird to the cashier. I couldn't very well tilt my head back and to the side to look at her, but I couldn't look straight ahead either. So I didn't look in her direction at all. And with help from the sunglasses, all went according to plan. I simply lowered my head when I was supposed to be looking at my wallet, and raised it when I would have been looking at the woman and handing her some currency. I handed her a twenty, kept my head forward, and when she said something like "Can you believe this gas?" I just nodded and laughed, as if to say "Yes. I know what you mean. I too cannot believe this gas." I held out my hand for the change, and with the exception of a few fallen pennies, the transaction was painless. I got home, and thought that now it might be a good idea to get a second opinion on this eye problem. I didn't want to turn into Dennis Hopper from Waterworld, even if I did have a massive, chainsmoking, jet-ski army at my disposal, so I made my way down to the clinic.
I was escorted from the waiting area into a little room with a table wrapped in deli paper, and inspirational posters on the wall. The ones that have pictures of whales or hang-gliders with inspirational words like DETERMINATION beneath them, and then some dynamic slogan like, If you have the drive to succeed, you can soar to unknown heights. No doubt the purpose of these posters is to comfort the patient, because if the doc comes back with your test results, and it looks like you might have lethal, Asian Monkeypox, the determination of the hang-glider or the young bear who has just caught his first salmon will surely soften the blow. Anyhow, here I was in this room, listening to the nurse run down her series of questions about the history of the injury. These very same questions would be repeated by the doctor after he came in and looked at what the nurse had just written down. ("So, you hurt your eye, huh?") Once this procedure was over, the doc left the room and came back with a Rubbermaid bin labeled on the side in permanent marker: EYE KIT. This made me wonder whether a surgeon would enter the OR with a tub labeled TORSO KIT if I needed open-heart surgery. The doc examined my eye and sent me on my way with an eye patch (not a sweet, pirate-looking one, just gauze and tape), and the knowledge that my mild scratch would heal within forty-eight hours.
The whole experience left me with a new-found sense of respect for those who must function with limited vision in society, particularly the Cyclops that inhabits the Alaskan island of Agattu. You are truly a hero, Bolthorn.
This Day in History!
September 5, 1838Samuel Morse creates quite a stir with his nationally transmitted, profanity-laced political tirade aimed at the administration of President Martin Van Buren. Directing the electric telegram from Charlestown, Massachusetts to a colleague in Toledo, Ohio, Morse candidly communicates the message • ― ― • ― • ― ― ― • •. Or in English, "Dash that President Van Buren! The old fool is as mad as a March hare! He will surely be honey-fuggled by the Whigs in the upcoming ballot-cast if he does not plank some silver off his reel!"
An Evening of High Society
Once again topping Redbook's annual list of "Most Recognizable Scents in Society" is that of the strip club. (Coming in close behind were apricots, and burning hair/skin.) Now, this should come as no surprise to those who have occasionally visited the theaters of carnal delight, but for those who haven't, just imagine the olfactory overload of the perfume section of any JC Penney's, and now throw a few venereal diseases in for good measure. There. Authentic strip joint flavor. You can almost taste it. Make you want to wash your hair and clothing a few dozen times? You're not alone.
Seeking to alleviate the boredom of one particular Saturday evening, a few fellows and myself decided to make our way to the only strip club within forty miles. We had downed a few beverages beforehand, which certainly loosened everyone up, and also served to give me the drunken nerve that I needed to enter such a place.
We drove through the night, the anticipation building within the vehicle as we drew nearer. It was almost palpable. Questions abounded: "Would any of the chicks be good-looking?" "Should we pick up Tony?" "I don't know his number." "Fuck."
But finally, there appeared over the horizon the glowing neon symbol of awkward semi-sexual experiences that were kinda better than the internet, but you had to pay for them.
Hot Rods. A name that could just as easily have been given to a different kind of dance club, where all the staff are dressed as various village people with names like, well, Rod, but nonetheless, we took that chance.
I didn't know what to expect upon first walking through the doorway. Billowing smoke? An unexpected high school teacher? Truck-stop looking quasi-females? But when we walked into the main room, all we saw were a couple of Golden Tee machines and one hell of a juice bar. Since its liquor license had recently been revoked,
Hot Rods had replaced its hard liquor collection with Hi-C and Snapple. But nobody gave the juice bar a second thought. The four of us had not driven to this sex oasis to enhance our diets with antioxidant-rich fruit juices, although preventing the early effects of scurvy would have been a good idea. We had driven there for real live tits. The man guarding the entrance to what seemed to be a subwoofer and laser convention sat atop a high stool and did not ask for any IDs. His only words were "Ten dollars." I paid stool-man with a twenty, and he asked if I wanted my change in ones. I didn't really know why anyone would want their change in one-dollar bills, but I figured that stool-man must've been out of fives and tens. (It didn't register at the time that in order to get in, many other patrons would have paid with Hamiltons. I was just focused on completing a smooth transaction and gaining entrance.) After shoving ten of what had to be the filthiest dollar bills still in circulation into my wallet, I scrambled inside to catch up with the fellas.
We sat down at a table near the back, to scope things out and get the lay of the land. Four college-aged kids, a few couples, and the grizzled veterans were all in front of us. A middle-aged guy who sat on one end of the stage was clearly the experienced, nightly customer who knew all the gals by their immunization histories. Let's call him Randy. Randy wore dark-rimmed glasses, and was certainly not dressed for a job interview in his Star Wars, Hawaiian-type shirt and light khaki shorts. He was slightly chubby, and possessed an odd gleam in his eye when he gazed up at the girls. Maybe a proud paternalistic gleam if you're into Freud, but more likely, a three-weeks-since-failed-suicide-attempt gleam.
When we all had gotten settled, the girl who was first on stage looked like she had more testosterone coursing through her veins than I did, and probably could have kicked any one of our asses. Her gig was threatening money out of all the saps in the front row who had forgotten the order of dancers and not backed away when she emerged from behind the curtain. I felt much more comfortable when she was done and had no chance to glare in my general direction.
The freak show continued into the wee hours of the night, and the cycle of teenage mothers started over again. But this time, to different songs whose choruses were never meant to be sexual, but now somehow were.
Arriving home, I reeked of Tropicana and hookers. My clothes flopped into a pile near the foot of the bed to be aired out later, and I proceeded to wipe out all that was left of the Pert Plus over the course of a forty-minute shower. Having now checked off one of the top three most recognizable scents, we all met the following weekend with our apricots and soldering irons. Thank you, Redbook!
Young Americans
In an effort to avoid simply blending in with the rest of the oily k thru 12-ers, many daring, rebellious teens have taken highly controversial steps to set themselves apart. The rebellious teen of today is typically characterized by the wearing of dark brown to black attire, most of which will display a radically original political phrase. One of the more creative slogans that I have witnessed was something along the lines of "Impeach Bush," but as I can't remember the exact wordage, any attempt to describe the sheer brilliance of this backpack bumpersticker could not possibly do it justice. The most knowledgeable of these students might even dare to raid the political button bargain bin at TJ Maxx, searching for hours on end for a political view that they can claim for ninety-nine cents, as well as one that will match their knapsacks. Once the perfect slogan is discovered and purchased, it is able to be proudly displayed for all other political undecideds to ponder upon.
Many a time I have found myself searching the darkest corners of my soul; aching, longing to feel like I was part of something bigger. An idea to solidify who I was as a human being. A cause. A purpose for life. I used to hope that someday I would find the viewpoint I was looking for, but I was looking in all the wrong places. Or rather, on all the wrong backpacks.
On a crisp winter day, while on a trek to the corner store to satiate my newly acquired taste for Percocet, I happened to glance in front of me at what seemed to be a particularly rebellious-looking, opinionated individual. The backpack strapped to this enlightened human was adorned with a variety of opinions and facts that must have ran a tab upwards of three dollars. Many of the buttons I had seen on similarly individualistic backpacks, but one button in particular spoke to me. I read it over and over again, keeping up with this truly learned person just to make sure the slogan would never escape me. This revealing experience must've lasted for ten city blocks, until the person who I was following became frightened by something and mistakenly sprayed me with mace.
I didn't know why I hadn't adopted this phrase as my life's mantra years ago. It seemed so perfect. The button was absolutely correct in its convictions. The button didn't back down from anybody, and with its newly formed political idea swimming in my head, I wouldn't either. This button changed my life, and for the next few weeks, I made it my duty to spread its message to all who would lend an ear. I can't remember what it said, but I think it had something to do with protection or emulsion or eruption...not important.
But since this episode, I have observed a new trend that is sweeping through the ranks of nonconformist teens at the rate of a steam locomotive. A black t-shirt bearing an encircled Nazi swastika with a diagonal red line through it. These teens are fighting the powers that be with an idea that was adopted by most of the world sixty years ago. These defiant youngsters are proudly proclaiming "I am against Nazism! And along with that, genocide! And I don't care what you have to say, Mom and Dad, cause I don't support sadistic death camps perpetrated my tyrannical despots! I hate you! I'm going to my room!"...(slam)
What a statement. It really takes a courageous free-thinker to publicly display the fact that he/she does not support the regime of Adolf Hitler. I wholeheartedly commend these young adults who are not afraid of the judgment they might receive at the hands of a society that may not be ready to accept such revolutionary, anti-fascist views. And as such, I have compiled a list of other causes that are sure to be silently protested against on the shirts and buttons of the youths of tomorrow:
- Infant Torture
- Recreational Kitten Skinning
- Sweatshop Labor (except for Xboxes)
- Armed Robbery
- Human drug mules (except for heroin)
- Anything that's not Hardcore Motherfucking Metal!!
- G. Gordon Liddy
