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JWR 2.6 - Title of Rambling

 

I donít think I really like the way these Ramblings are turning out.  Itís not me, though.  Itís all of you.  Especially you newcomers.  The core list was solid: close friends, friends from far away who I donít really see so technically their opinions donít matter but in reality we all know they matter more than your own brother who you cheese off every week but donít care because heís your brother.  (Man, he gets so pissed when I call his daughter Maggie.)  Now we have all sorts of people on the list, a very eclectic group.  Whatís not good would be that I have my guy friends and then their girlfriends who are also my friends but not like my friends are.  So, I canít really bitch and moan like I used to and then when I do, the ones who the bitchings are not about assume that they are about them and then I hear it from either my friends or the ladies themselves, and believe me, Iíd rather hear it from the boys than the ladies because at such a time they are not ladies.

For example, I canít make fun of Jeff anymore because his newest and best lady friend gets these now.  So, if I were to say anything about him Iíd hear it from his for sure, nothing new there, then Iíd hear it from her, too, like it would be her place to get in the middle of this banter Jeff and I have where I point out his shortcomings and then he calls me names for fifteen minutes using every curse under the sun and the moon and then I tell him he swears too much and then he curses while telling me he doesnít swear too much.  Either that or sheís tell him that I am a bad guy and then the seeds of hate would be planted in Jeffís mind about me and soon enough, heís pull some Eric shit and never call no more.  You know, some of the shit Steph is pulling right now.  (Reading this, Steph?  Did your mama tell you I called?)  [Please note in no way do I actually mean to refer to the actual Jeff or his actual new girlfriend--I mean other people, none of whom are on this mailing list so relax, itís not you.]


Iíve expanded my Jesus-friendly list of Rambling recipients so I donít really feel comfortable talking about Jesus no more.  Like I ever did.  Lose a few more friends.  I should probably learn when to shut up.  But how are you supposed to know anything without asking?  Remember the ďDo you like me, check boxĒ ďYESĒ ďNOĒ letters from school?  How else were you supposed to know if the bitch liked you?  You canít trust her friend Becky.
Well, this week, instead of pointing out the idiosyncratic failings and/or quirkinesses of others, I thought, for a change, that Iíd pick on myself.  A truly humbling experience.


A month or more ago I was at the Olive Garden with a couple I know from my church group and we were waiting for a table when I decided to go to the bathroom: #1.  So, Iím standing there evacuating and hoping no old guy comes in and blows a large volume of gas as he evacuates or sighs really loudly as he begins.  I finish and shake and zip up, and as I zip up, I feel something catch.  Now, it was not my willy.  I would have asked to go home had it been me willy.  I checked my shirt and that was fine, so I assumed that it was all my imagination.  So I go back out to the waiting area--after washing my hands, of course--and soon enough I grabbed for the pull string on the lower part of my windbreaker and one was stuck on something.  See?  Somehow I got a pull string caught up in my pantís fly.  I was standing in a room full of other people waiting for a table so, I couldnít just fix the situation and I didnít want to go back in the bathroom because what if someone saw me going back in who had seen me come out just a few minutes earlier?  I canít have that.  Maybe theyíd think that I had a urine leaking problem or didnít wipe well or something else.  So, I decided to try to dislodge it quickly and with minimal fuss.  I grabbed the loop of the string and pulled sharply.  The son of a bitch didnít budge.  Yeah, it was up in the fly snugly.


We sat down at the table and one of my companions suggested I take care of the problem in my seat.  It wasnít happening.  When youíre sitting down, itís even harder to get at your fly and impossible to fix such a problem without some rubberneck noticing and pointing and laughing like my panty line was showing.


So, I unzipped the old windbreaker while sitting and just slipped it off my shoulders and ate like that.  But I couldnít get up.  So, before we left, all I needed to do was slip my jacket back on.  Once in the parking lot I could freely grab at my crotch and rectify the situation.  It didnít matter who saw then, we were on our way.


What else?  You know, life consists of one embarrassing moment after another.  We define our lives by the bad things that happen.  You donít think about the orgasms youíve had.  You think about the times her dad busted in on the two of you.  Yeah, thatís bad.  But whatís worse, getting run off or getting a calm, perverted lecture?  You make the call.


I was at a fair one time with this old girlfriend of mine and we got separated for a short time.  I saw her from behind and snuck up on her and grabbed her ass once I got close enough.  No, it was not the right girl.  I saw her three more times throughout the day and she was pissed.
Ever spill a soda at a fast food restaurant?  I did once.  But I know people that did it on a weekly basis.  We took great pleasure in telling every employee that there was a mess loudly and then pointing at the still dripping mess and the goof who spilled.  Itís like youíre a small child with hands not quite big enough to grasp a paper cup of watered-down over-iced under-carbonated soda-pop drink.  Like Marie.


Only joking.
 

Not really.


And this one time, at bank camp, I stuck a flute up my nose.


My nose.  Have you ever blown a booger on your shirt?  Itís actually quite difficult.  But sometimes you laugh through your nose and a snot will kinda come part way out.  Thatís not cool.


So, back to all of you.  I told Noah that he was my demographic.  He is my target audience.  Hereís how I know to write with him in mind.  First, heís a crazy nut bag.  Second, that talk we had at the Boiler Room last time he was here.  Third, he recommended Bicentennial Man with Robin Williams for good reasons.  The whole what-makes-a-man portion of the flick.  The same thing they explored with Data in Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes and some of The Outer Limits episodes.  Noah got that.  So, I can tell the poopy stories and heíll like them because heís a guy.  Then I can tell the stuff that pisses me off and heíll get that because heís got angst too, in there somewhere.  Then I can tell the deep stuff and he can understand that and appreciate it because.  Or maybe Iím just trying to justify something.


But there are a lot of you on here that can dig it.  Dan, Jon, Scott, Jeff, Zach, Ray, Tony, Nate, Lee...  The chicks are on here just to make it look like Iím all sensitive and shit.  No, actually, I canít say that I write for the women, but I do think about the reactions you may have with each word I type.


So there we are.  Nobody gets it; yet everyone understands.  Like one of those paradoxes.  Maybe Nate's right and I do need a vacation: see my lady friend in CO.  But I don't have a lady friend in Co, ass.  Help me, Jebuz.

John
 

Copyright © 2001 John Lemut