The other night I woke up at one-ish because my body had made up its mind to eliminate all of the non-native solids and fluids from the system without much worry as to which way they went out. Now, with the recent emergence of the "Shat Trick" (Three movements before noon.) I had little to ponder over the course of the early morning other than just how many Shat Tricks I would produce on this fine autumn eve. I'll probably be dead by nightfall. Also, I apologize for the scatalogical nature of the beginning of this Blog Entry.
I don't really know what got into me there, only what came out...and that's everything. But onward to more pressing matters:
It has recently become apparent to me that there is a disturbing trend in modern "literature" towards putting graphic sexual information into the text of novels. I am not singling out the writers of the so-called steamy novel. They are writing with that purpose in mind. No, my problem is with authors seeking to write a reputable book but cannot seem to keep themselves from including unnecessary and lewd sexual information. Okay, okay, they may be doing this in an attempt to keep things realistic, and that is fine, but there is some realism in modesty. Or am I just missing the big picture where everyone is telling eachother minute details of their sexual lives over beer and peanuts. If that is indeed the case, I wish someone would fill me in, I love a juicy tid-bit as much as the next guy. But the fact is that I do not see that happening. I don't hear it either. It is just weird. Used to be you could hint at relations in a book without going overboard and the general public would get it...which brings up the next point.
I actually find it less offensive than I do insulting that these authors feel the need to put such detailed accounts of intercourse in their works. It is as though they do not trust me to know what goes on during love-making. If they are going to go so far as to make the lurid intricacies known they might as well include diagrams with arrows and captions like, "I caressed the vaginal wall more-than-a-bit-roughly here:" That's how far the imposition of details takes me out of the plot. It's all kind of gross. So, for the Schifletts and Neffeneggers of the world: knock it off. Tell the story without telling me about anybodies genitalia size and uses. Unless, of course, these items are so bizarre that they are truly of note. For example, if your main character has problems with the ladies because his penis is the exact size and shape of a baseball lodged on a number two pencil, go ahead and let me know about it. That is interesting and different, and important to the story. (Although, it should be pointed out here that the main character of Hemmingway's The Sun Also Rises was genitally handicapped and Pappa never felt it necessary to go into exactly what had happened and what was wrong...) Also, if the labia majora* are so cumbersome and unwieldy that it is necessary for a special harness to be designed and fashioned to control them I would like to know, because that is intimate and funny. But don't lie to me. To tell me that an erection is large enough to ride a rollercoaster unaccompanied by an adult is obviously a falsity. OR, in the event that it is not a fabrication, my interest has been piqued...You are going to have to go into further detail as to how this affects--both negatively and positively--the life of the possessor of such an instrument. Is it a birth defect? Did it just grow like that naturally? Did the person live below high-tension wires in his youth? When traveling, is it necessary to purchase an extra airplane passage for his unit? What kind of floppy mass of flesh is created when an erection of that size ceases to be erect? Do you need special trousers? If you DO need special trousers, would they be made by the same craftsman who made the harness for the lady with the beef curtains we mentioned earlier?
The bottom line is I am worried about this person, so you can't just throw yourself back into the plot after outlining a physical deformity such as this. And again I must apologize for the mental images that I am sure many of you have right now, welcome to my life.
Yesterday I took my lady-friend to a motion picturer. At the concession stand there I bought an ICEE brand frozen drink. I would just like to say right now that ICEEs suck. They are in no way comparable to the beloved Slurpee sold by the 7 Eleven company. I will, however, admit that the Icee is at least got right away. The problem is that they do not melt properly. The fluid all runs down to the bottom, leaving the ice all alone at the top and flavorless. It is really quite depressing. Alls I'm saying is that if someone, anyone, who has the power within the 7Eleven structure system reads this, seriously think about putting a store here in D-town. Word.
Another thing having to do with liquid refreshments...Today I was bored, thirsty, and a little bit tired. So I took a pint glass, a red bull and some OJ and mixed liberally. Let me tell you what I came up with was a delicious taste sensation that was both refreshing and energising. I would recommend that everyone who is so inclined try it. But if you like it, and continue to use it you have two options. You can either refer to the drink as Dr. Leith, or make your old lady call you Andy the next time you have sex. That is all.
"I'm in love with love and lousy poetry." -The Weakerthans
* Special Thanks to Morgan Gilliland for being there with the techinal name of this body part when it escaped me. Thanks, Chief.