Anal Acoustics

“Hey gurl.  I heard you blow that fart in there.”

“Haha!  Yeah.”

“I can dig it — ‘cause you ain’t know nobody was up in here.”

“I wouldna gave a shit if they was.”

“Mmm hm — ‘sho you right.”

“Once, a guy – after a night out together – he came over.  We were drunk and high as fuck.  Something about drinking heavy and the next morning — I always woke up and had to fart, loud and hard – the loudest fart you ever heard.  Great acoustics —  I looked forward to it really.  So we wake up —  I don’t even remember the night before, only his saying, ‘Uh! Sandee’, then it was over —  In the morning, I make one of my farts – they never smelled, which is strange, because I can whip up a stench with the best of them usually.  So my guy’s like, startled – ha!  But dig this — he says, ‘You know, that turned me on.’  I’m like, to myself, I knew it.  I knew I couldn’t be the only one who thought that was hot.”

“You are blowin’ my mind right now…”

“So oh, hey, look – you want me.  Right?  I know you do.  You like hearing my farts too.”

“The kinda luck I get, you fart on me, right?  It smells like, Noooooooooooooooo!!  Nothing like that trombone you played for your boy.  And after a fart like that, I have to wait a while before, you know.  I mean, I understand and all.  It’s natural.  But I can’t just, Mm! – yeah – after that.  It has to like dissipate.  Know what I’m sayin’.”

“Don’t be – negative.  Have faith.  I’m quite sure that I could, “compose” something just as nice, for you.”

Why Thanksgiving Exhausts Me

I love my relatives and friends, and I am grateful to have them, but I prefer not visiting them on Thanksgiving.  I don’t need to get into that old ass argument about what the holiday really means, because really who gives a fuck.  Everybody wants food, and everybody wants a holiday.  Period.  So it’s not going away, despite periodic bleatings of ‘protest’ – something about the Native Americans giving the gift of corn to the white man, who pays him back disproportionately in mass murder.

Thanksgiving exhausts me.  You wind up traveling fifty-hundred hours to grandma’s house, over the river and through the woods.  You get there and it’s hot as hell from all the burners going, and this makes me sluggish, as the winter boots, socks and sweater that I wore to keep me warm on the way are totally superfluous at this point.

The worst part of it is the food.  You can’t tell by looking at me, but I don’t really like food.  I’m still waiting for those food pills of the future from the Jetsons to be invented.  Food has too many demands.  I hate having to stop what I’m doing to eat it, and I don’t like making a big deal out of shopping, planning meals, cooking, washing dishes — I am a good baker though, and that’s because I like cake.  It’s probably politically incorrect for me to say this but I don’t give a shit – generally, I’m afraid of food.

A hot house filled with the olfactory overload of food — jammed to the gills with all this stuff we don’t need to be eating, gives me complex feelings.  Really on Thanksgiving, under the guise of celebrating gratitude, we’re really celebrating gluttony.  Thanksgiving is a ‘heavy’ holiday — the demands of travel, the heat of the burners and oven filling the house, the exhaustion from watching the host bust their ass sweating and carrying all those trays, the claustrophobia you get from the excess of food filling every crack and crevice, having to help the host clear the table and wash dishes — having to rush back home again because the next day I usually have to go to work; and finally, going to bed with a bloated gut.

In conclusion, I hope that this post doesn’t cause my loved ones to disinvite me to Thanksgiving dinner.

Unorthodox Sex

When I jog through the Orthodox Jewish community, I wonder what the men are like without all those black clothes.  Some of them are tall and handsome — swarthy.  The black clothes make them look mysterious.  Nothing inspires more curiosity than a man belonging to a tight knit community established in ritual — centuries old.

I make eye contact with a few as I jog, sweaty — breathing hard.  A couple have stared at me and smiled, some nod.  Don’t believe it?  I’m delusional?  Maybe they’re just “community oriented”?  I think they want me.  Yeah.  I fancy having a go at one or two of them.  I like beards too.

It was that article in the New York Times, the one about the community of Orthodox Jews you don’t know, the ones who smoke – the ones who do things you don’t associate with such a community — subterranean things.  Oy!  The dichotomy!  What lies in that contradiction between the supposed existence and the actual existence?

What?  You’re forbidden by scripture?  Are you racist?  Why does that matter — we’re all racists.  That shouldn’t get in the way of exercising ones right to explore the boundaries of primal gratification, outside the confines of expectation.  Right?

. רק כל עוד אנחנו לא עושים את זה עם חור בסדין

Spawn of Sandee

My Facebook ‘friends’ have the fucking cutest babies and kids.  LIKE LIKE LIKE.  Makes me wonder what my spawn would have looked like.  There’s a guy from way back, one of only two that I thought very briefly of breeding with – literally — I thought of it only seconds. If I weren’t so antithetical to the idea, maybe I would have thought about it longer.  Yeah I think my kid might have been cute, kind of smart too, but then there’s what would have happened to it later with the poor skills I had given it to survive.  There’s also the issue of my gene pool.  But anyway, people don’t think about that part.  I could barely figure shit out for myself, so I didn’t think that I should contribute to the population of lost souls.  So here is just me, sans spawn, which is more than enough.

I use my “maternal” energy to nurture fools, mostly.  But I have enough of the energy left over after.  Thank goodness.  I was real maternal to those girl scouts I lead on a tour at the cemetery the other day.  They got scared and it was all cold. Some of them were shivering.  That’s when I got motherly.  I even hugged a couple of them.

I’m not like I used to be — one of those get-those-creatures-away-from-me types.  My sister had kids and I love them so much that it helped me to have compassion for other children.  All those years I closed myself off from that energy.

I enjoy the sound of them now, the way they talk, when they run around like maniacs and jump on your back.  I’m not bothered when they cry, though they’re uncomfortable.  It’s a lovely energy to be surrounded by.  By embracing it, I embrace certain aspects of myself and of being human that reflect something possibly less tainted.  I suppose.