The Truth Winked at Me

The Truth is something.
I will never tell.

How can I?
When so many other possibilities exist,
All on the tip of my tongue.

This is a poem about sex and dating;
A sand trap,
To fall in.

Believe me,
Don't believe me.
See if I care.

Generic Beer Can

This is the Generic Beer Can of blog posts--Black and White and Tasteless.

Talking to Mister WiFi the other day, he was wistful of the day that generic beer cans could be found on grocery store shelves. And then somehow so was I.

???

When was that day? And weren't we both ten years old at the time?

I had a friend who used to throw angry tantrums about neo-retro movements that in any way emitted psuedo-nostalgia for a time never experienced by the perpetrator.

But somehow the 80s will never die. They were so stupid that we all must re-live them again and again and again and bloody well like-slash-love it.

And then a meteorite hit this blog post and wiped it out.

Follow This Blog!

Follow it straight up a tree!

Are you there God? It's Me Voltron

This posting is all about learning to be a robot the hard way. No. No it isn't. I'm not so much motivated to write as forcing the moment. Ho-hum. Ho, fucking hum.

I do get to select the perfect pink dress to be a bridesmaid in a wedding between cats. Cats who I don't doubt are siblings. So thanks for that Garbett. I have several pink dresses that, upon consideration, don't quite fit the 'bill'.

Oh, but wait! I have a SEWING MACHINE!

So there goes my Saturday afternoon.

I hope you don't mind if I wear a blood red taffeta underskirt for the occasion and either a wig or a crazy hat...I have just the hat actually, with built in cat ears. Ho ho ho. The hat and the wig and the shoes have been selected.

Beware cats...your love is being celebrated in a bad fashion moment that might be too awful for words. And now I must end this post because The Beard keeps asking me weird questions and I can't think straight. I can only think gay. Gay Cat Wedding with Bells On.

And Feathers.

People Who Poke and Throw Snowballs

I'm serious. You know who these people are. Do something about it!

Duck Tits

Duck Tits is a fat black kid with a dirty little face that is always eating the same giant chicken leg and every time he tries to talk with his mouthful of chicken no one understands a word he says so he sobs uncontrollably and eats more chicken.

He's not really a super-hero but he has the magical power of transforming the world around him into a musical when ever he begins singing. He starts sobbing and singing and where ever he is, people drop everything and do incredible dance numbers and back-up vocals. No one understands his lyrics, but seem to know all the words anyhow.

And this is what I know about that.

To Get to the Other Side

I wrote the craziest late night wine-inspired email to a friend that only said this:

Fuck a duck. A chicken shaped duck.
The End

???
To his credit he replied that he would get right on that.
Ha.

So Not Impressed

Why do I play dumb games with uninteresting people? Am I really that bored?

Yes, yes I am.

Off to twiddle my thumbs until a new day arrives,
DG

I'll Never Sleep Well Again

I was recently informed that someone I used to date was often likened to Quagmire on Family Guy.

Hot Ham Water

Thanks again, Arrested Development, for planting another disgusting thought in my head.

Bollywood Knows Best

Another Date with Disaster

My older sister convinced me to go to a high school dance with her boyfriend's "single" friend when I was in ninth grade by paying me $20. It seemed like a lot of cash at the time and probably was when you consider what I would spend it on...Probably something like this:

2 Cassette tapes
1 can Aqua Net hair spray
2 new colors of nail polish (was into blue, black and green at the time, with a mission to find a certain color of deep emerald green with a certain smallish texture of glitter inside...???)
1 Pair of Tights (probably plaid)
Eyeliner

So that really was a lot of money at the time.

Anyhow, I went to the dance and ignored the poor guy, whose name I forget, and sat in the bleachers with my friends. We were too cool to dance and pretended not to notice where we even were. The indignity.

I asked to be taken home early and had someone else coming to pick me up after I got dropped off. I was saying an awkward goodbye from the passenger seat of his car when my sister and her date pulled up alongside us in front of my parent's house. She happily yelled through the open windows, "We'll go around the block a few more times so you two can kiss!"

They drove off and in a panic I froze.

He was very tall, this tenth grader, and as he leaned in to kiss me, I ducked out from under his arm, opening the car door on my side and toppled backwards onto the sidewalk. I quickly regained whatever composure I could pretend to have and scuttled inside.

What rot.

High School Dating Memory

I met someone who looked just like the adult version of someone I dated very briefly in 10th or 11th grade--forget which--and the long-forgotten memory of that came flooding back to me and has been cracking me up all day.

He was a year younger than I, so I couldn't take him at all seriously to begin with. And then there was his high-pitched, fire-truck-siren-inspired squeal whenever he thought something was funny. He considered me to be "the funniest person he ever met," a regular laugh-riot.

The relationship was all of my shocking dead-panisms and his hysterical laughter. There was nothing more to it than that.

He was incredibly attractive and mindlessly stupid. But he had that crazy laugh-track, and I am still not above pushing the single button any given toy might have, over and over and over again....

He came from an extremely conservative back-ground with all sorts of conduct codes brow-beaten into him by his parents. He was poised and polished, naive and starched.

But he followed me around like a dumb dog and I'll admit I loved it. I had a sassy mouth and an attitude that really sucked. With ratty hair dyed whatever color, too much eyeliner and dressed to break my mother's heart, I never got to meet the parents. This was fine with me because fuck them anyhow.

I can't imagine a lipsticked teenage tart with Sid Vicious swagger spouting Fran Liebowitz-isms wouldn't be amusing and I know I worked that angle.

I became increasingly interested in seeing this giggling, one-trick-pony crack and launched an intensive campaign of talking the most dreadful smack, doing my damndest to shock and appall. He only laughed more wickedly and wildly at anything and everything I would say and rather indiscriminately. I was not impressed. I remember thinking of hyenas and feeling sad.

I convinced him to drink tequila shots and make out with me, but it wasn't until I went for his zipper that he stopped laughing and looked sick. He said that nothing was wrong but he just remembered he had to have dinner with his grandparents and he was late. We never really talked again and that's all I know about that.

Happy New Year!