Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. LX

Vagina is a terrible word.

Now, don't get me wrong; I'm in no way, shape or form against vaginas...unless I'm holding myself against one. *badda bing!* Nor do I fear them. I love them! I LOVE VAGINAS!!! I just hate the term.

It is, however, a word we've adopted directly into English from Latin.

And, if possible, the Latin pronunciation of the word is even worse: "wah-guy-nah"

It also means that the proper plural form of vagina is "vaginae" (pronounced "wah-guy-neye").

Really, Rome? That's the best you can do?

Well, actually, it is pretty clever. See, in Latin, "vagina" means "a sheath or a scabbard". It was then taken to mean a covering for anything, specifically for anything that you insert into a covering for protection. I think you see where I'm going here.

After finishing with sliding your sword into the guts of those pesky Gauls, one would slide his sword into its sheath upon his belt. Then to properly celebrate, one would slide his penis into vagina. See how that works out?

In Rome, vagina was also the term for the anatomical feature of women's genitalia, so when we adopted vagina directly into English, we brought along the anatomical definition. But, I think you can see where the Romans saw the similarities between a sheath for the sword and a sheath for the penis.

Kind of puts a new spin on that whole "pen is mightier than the sword" thing, doesn't it?

Incidentally, the sheath for the claws (and not the nose) of a cat are also covered under the term "vagina". There's a pussy joke to be made here, but I won't make it.

I've said it many times before, but I'll repeat it here: Latin isn't just a dead language to be tossed around in ye olde Jenks household, it's also a form of foreplay. So, ladies, next time sexy time with your beau rolls around, lay back, hood your eyes, and coyly lay this one on him:

Mitte tuum gladium in meam vaginam, mi domine.
Pronounced: "Meet-aye too-oom glah-dee-oom in may-ahm wah-guy-nahm, mee doh-mee-nay."

Sultry translation in the hovertext

One of my favorite things to come out of this (heh) is that "vagina" is also the vocative form of the word, which means you can directly address a vagina and not have to change the word. So, you can fire off "O vagina, te amo..."

That's almost poetic. In an epic sort of way.

Ladies, don't fret. In case you feel a little out of sorts learning that your lady parts are really just a euphemism for a convenient place for a fellow to store his weapon (heh), the word "penis" in Latin means "tail". It also means penis, but I'm thinking that "tail" is a little more negative than is "sheath."

Besides, many a man spins tales about his "tail", if you know what I'm saying.

Moosical Interlude

Last night, my son was in a little musical theatrical production. He and the rest of his kindergarten ilk gathered together on a series of risers and belted out some barnyard-themed songs. Some children were selected to recite bad--but kitschy--poetry. It tore at the heart.

I'd post some pictures, but I can't. They're all ruined.

I stood at the back of the gymnasium/auditorium, because I'm tall...and also because I got there late-ish. As the wee ones came trooping into the gym for the show, the ten rows of people seated in front of me did what any group of parents and grandparents of kindergarten-aged children do when their spawn are involved in a public presentation:

They made asses of themselves.

See, I tried to snap a few digital pictures of my proud and handsome lad there on the third riser with my 2 megapixel camera. Instead of getting his shining, smiling, beaming face, I got someone's bald spot. I also got a picture of a fabulously bad dye job that looked more like a dead animal perched precariously atop someone's skull and less like hair. Although, I guess some dead animals have hair, too. This looked like and albino raccoon had been rolling in molasses. So chique. I also got what I can only assume is a Bubba-Gump shrimpin' hat...not really, but it was a baseball cap wedged right into the space between the aperture of my camera and where my son stood. Because, you know, it would have been too much to ask for you to fucking duck while you're wandering around the back of the assembly where people are trying to take pictures.

It's a hat. Probably not Bubba-Gump. I just wanted to keep with the theme this week. It is, after all, "Can't Get Enough Gumpweek".

My personal favorite catch with the camera? The flabby arms of a portly mother waving to get her urchin's attention. As I snapped it, she uncannily put the three foot wide swath of flesh and cellulite into the space containing my son's face. The blurred image can only really be described as a cross between a walrus' flipper and a stack of donuts.

God, I love school assemblies.

Fortunately, God loves me back and thus he struck my batteries low on power (again), so I had to put the camera away. As the children were singing about pigs and goats and cows fucking or something, my attention waned. So, I did what any man would do in my situation:

I began counting MILFs.

I got to seven...starting with my wife, of course! *shifty-eyed*

I broke off my count when I started picking up on a disturbing trend. There's a lot of people who have procreated and sent their progeny to my children's school who have a smiling problem. Now, this isn't to say that smiling is a bad thing. It can brighten your day or lure a kitten into your clutches long enough to punt it. This is something completely different.

When the smiling is the person's default idle face, that's when it becomes a problem. Like, they're just motoring along, not really interacting with anyone, just passing through the crowd and this big, lurid, evil grin is drawn across their faces. It wasn't just one particular group, either: men, women, old, middle-aged, young...everyone was afflicted. And it was unsettling. Mostly because if you have a face that's built so that, at rest, it's still smiling, then you don't look natural. With these big, wide, googly eyes and a pained rictus drawing your lips back over your teeth, you look somewhere between "driving a black van allegedly filled with candy" and "why so serious?"

And when you get a dozen of these jokers (heh) wandering around in a confined space...things begin to get a little creepy. Seriously people, stop it. Stop giving me dopey, freaky nightmares about what you do with ponies and cabbage patch dolls. I don't want to think about it.

The performance? Oh, it was nice. A good distraction from the Arkham refugees that were littering the fucking place. My son did a good job and I clapped. Apparently louder than anyone in the room. I got a lot of lights to shut off, I guess.

Hey, that old lady can't do it all by herself.

During one of the songs, a teacher put on a cow costume with a bright pink udder glued to it. As she was a...larger...woman, I have to say, she's got some serious cajones. I applauded her loudly, too, because clearly, this was a woman who was comfortable with herself enough to strap an udder to her belly and shimmy and shake. It was nice to see that she wasn't so serious...

A Goddamn IQ of 160

Last night, as I was tucking myself into bed and molestering my wife's ass, I flipped through the television, just to see what was on. As luck would have it, I fell upon AMC, which was showing Forrest Gump. I was immediately taken back to my freshman year of college. Oh look! Acne and broken hearts! What a fabulous time to relive!

Again, as luck would have it, I came upon the movie roughly midway through, but since this is a movie that I really, really like, I watched it through the end. AMC, in a flash of marketing brilliance, decided to play an encore presentation, in what they called "Can't Get Enough Gump Week".

"What a terrible name," my wife murmured as she was drifting off to sleep. "It sounds like 'gumpweek' is one word. It's like something you'd weed out of the flower bed. 'Gumpweek'. Ugh."

"They must have a lot of gumption to try something like this," I retorted.

The awkward silence cricket showed up.

Now, as I was tucking myself into bed, I was laughing to myself in my head. "Brain," my mind says, "We sure are smart. Look at us! We're not staying up until 1:00 tonight! We won't wake up tomorrow and be all tired and cranky and stuff. Nope, not us!"

And then my brain proceeded to shit upon my mind and got hooked on watching the China/Canada women curling match, as well as the replay of Forrest Gump, which, I might add, I fucking own (albeit on VHS) and can be viewed without commercial breaks.

"I'll just watch through to the point where I picked up earlier." Which is what I did. Unfortunately, the goddamned Curling match went into extra innings.

Time I turned off the television? 1:15 am.

*sigh*

Being that I was an idiot and stayed up late last night watching a movie about an idiot, I thought I'd tell you a little bit more about my idiot day yesterday.

My wife sent me to the store to pick up victuals for the week. When I left the house, it was around 1:30, and I had not eaten breakfast or lunch, so I decided I couldn't go another moment without sustenance of some kind. I opted for Taco Bell.

Insert the audio clip of the old knight from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade here: "He chose...poorly."

I got my food and continued on my way, horfing delicately eating a beefy burrito as I moseyed on down the road. Finished, and not yet quite sated, I reached into the bag and pulled out my cheesy bean and rice burrito. Things were going wonderfully, until I got toward the butt end of the burrito, which decided to rip asunder and spill its contents onto my shirt front.

Cue the sad trombone here. (Many thanks to Adam L for turning me on to that beauty!).

"Fuck!" I said. "This is..." I scraped the oily, cheesy mess off my chest (and then ate it...I'm classy like that) "...fuck!" There was a huge gray and orange mess where the droppings had hit.

"Fuck!" I said once more, for good measure, "I refuse to walk around Target with this thing on my chest. I will not have everyone looking at me saying, 'Well, what do you know? There's a fat guy with a Taco Bell stain on his shirt. What are the odds?'"

My conversations with myself in the car are fucking awesome.

It was 65 degrees by the time I got to Target, so I didn't have a jacket, which meant that I had to address the situation straight forward. I did what any man on the cusp of middle-age who is facing public humiliation would do: I went running into the store with right arm pressed up against the stain on my shirt, so as to hide it. And, as I dashed to the men's department, I refused to move it, so I'm running around like some kind of twisted moron, desperately searching through the clearance racks for an XL shirt. I canvassed the entire department with the prerequisites that the shirt be XL, long enough to hide my high-riding ass-crack, cheap, and socially acceptable. No "Pussy Inspector" shirts for me.

I finally settled on a green shirt that had a shamrock and an Irish flag and the words "Made in Ireland." It fit my needs (and my paunch) and so I dash back up to the front of the store...still with my right arm over the stain, refusing to budge. I pay for the shirt and--here's another moment of brilliance from yours truly--instead of going to the restroom which is ten feet away, I go running out into the parking lot to my car where I very awkwardly peel off the grease-laden shirt and pull on my "Made in Ireland" shirt.

No one asked me about it, but I was hopeful someone would call attention to my shirt. I was going to respond--in as poorly-crafted an Irish accent as possible--"As far as I can tell, I was made in Indiana, which would explain the fooked-up accent."

Ah well, I guess there's always a chance that will happen the next time I make a run for the border...

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. LIX

Today is the first Friday of Lent. Which means there's something fishy in the air.

On a side note, Lent always reminds me how much I truly love peanut butter and jelly.

For those of you unclear on the concept, Lent is the forty-day period that precedes Easter in the liturgical calendar. It starts on Ash Wednesday and stretches until Easter Saturday. It's supposed to mark the 40 days that Jesus was in the desert, driving demons out of pigs and speaking with a weird coyote thing and having a vision quest. But he was also tempted by Satan. In order to understand Jesus' ordeal, those pretending to be Catholics like me "give up" something in order that we may be tempted, too, much like Christ.

Of course, we're also not supposed to eat meat on Fridays, because it's not enough to not be tempted to call the guy driving ten miles under the speed limit on the freeway in front of you while gabbing on his cell phone an "asshat". Nope. We have to up the ante and make sure no meat passes our lips on Fridays.

It used to be that you couldn't eat meat at all during Lent, but since Pope Paul VI relaxed things a bit in the mid-60's, it's only Fridays during Lent that meatlessness is observed (it used to be that every Friday during the year would be meatless! The horror!). Pope Paul VI also decided that, in lieu of giving up something and fasting, one can dedicate more time to prayer and volunteer work and donations. Bless you, Paul VI! Someone canonize this visionary already!

This whole fasting from meat thing used to be for a more practical reason. Meat is kind of expensive, and your average peasant isn't going to be able to afford it quite often. And, if the average peasant is spending his money at the butcher's shop, how is he ever going to line the pockets of the local bishopric with gold donate money to the local church?

There were also some who claimed that, since meat, cheese and eggs are just so damned tasty (I'm paraphrasing a bit), you might actually enjoy eating them. Any pleasure is a sin, and we can't have sin during Lent. So, these were outlawed, but the church came to their senses with the dairy and relaxed the ruling a bit. Ecce potestas casei!

Of course, in Shakespeare's day (when England was all bi-polar with it's desire to either be Catholic or Anglican/Protestant), "fish" was a bit of a looser term, shall we say. Poultry was considered "fish", because it was white meat. In some places, beaver was considered "fish", because a beaver lives in water, and the tail looks a little like a fish. Not to mention, some beavers smelling of fish.

With all that in mind, and despite how awesome the Gorton's Fisherman is, good fish dishes take time to prepare. And they also tend to take fresh fish. And fish also tends to be a little bit expensive, so I don't eat it that often. Fish sticks? No thanks. Fillet o' Fish? I'll pass. Braised fillet of red snapper filled with crab meat and corn bread stuffing? I'll sacrifice a testicle for that!

I think you can see my problem here. Without the time, funds or means to make a dish like this, I resort to peanut butter and jelly.

When someone asks, though, I take the easy way out and offer up this little dandy:

Vix piscem amo.
Pronounced: "Weeks pees-kaim ah-moh."

Smells like teen spirit hovertext!

But, you know what? No matter how much time or effort or anything else was poured into making that dish...I'm not going to eat it.

Happy Friday, everybody.

TMI Thursday: A Valentine's Story

This is a story not for the faint-of-heart. Thanks to GregoryJ, the Puking Pumpkin should warn those of you with weak constitutions to stay away. For the rest of us, feel free to enjoy the following story. And, if you want more awesome tales of debauchery, check out Lilu's home and read other awesomely bad TMI Thursdays!

I'm not one to hate Valentine's Day. I mean, yeah, there's no proof that any Saint Valentine was in the Roman dungeons marrying Christians (turns out, there were maybe a dozen different dudes named Valentine who could have fit the bill), and I've told you before how St. Valentine's Day was linked to love based pretty much solely on the fact that Valentine's Day and the time when birds started mating coincided. Horny birds, for the win.

But, I like Valentine's Day, a little. Mostly because I can buy chocolate. And then eat it. Well, I can do that any day, but this is a nice excuse.

Plus, I enjoy the sex.

See, my lady is one of those types who, if you ply her with just the right amount of chocolates, coffee, cards with monkeys on them AND gift cards to her favorite stores, will open her thighs just enough for me to have a romping good time for three minutes before the crying and sobbing begins.

This was how I intended to spend my Valentine's Day.

Everything started off just dutchy. The children let me sleep in, my wife made coffee AND cranberry scones (heart-shaped, even), and after breakfast, my wife and I curled up together in bed.

Oh boy I thought, rubbing my hands together mentally, let the sexy time commence!

However, instead of sexy time, we fell into a blissful, exciting "nappy time". And not the kind of nappy that got Don Imus fired, but the kind that, as a parent, you relish whenever you can manage to steal a few minutes here or there.

I felt the mattress shaking, rousting me from my blissful dreams. It was my wife, going to the bathroom.

Huzzah! I told myself, dastardly twirling the ends of a mental handlebar mustache with a finger, she'll come back with no panties on and the sexy time shall commence!

My wife indeed did return to the bed. As she slipped beneath the covers, fully taking advantage of my body heat, she whispered in my ear. As her breath fell upon my flesh, my thighs quivered.

"You'll be happy to know," she said, softly, "that my period started during my nap."

I could almost hear that flushing sound effect played on the Price is Right when someone overbids on a product as the meaning of her words sank through my thick and healthy skull.

I sighed.

But then I brightened.

Hmmmm... I thought, pulling a mental cloak up over my features, hunching to the side and exiting stage right, perhaps this can be salvaged. Yes, perhaps there will be hand jobs, and blow jobs. Oh, and perhaps there will even be some naughty videos watched. Oh, yes, there is still potential. Sexy time has not yet been scuppered. Oh no, it has not!

We continued through the day, going to the library, grocery shopping, even delivering some Girl Scout cookies. All was well. We came home. Dinner was being prepared. And, oh, it was delicious. A nice little pasta dish with some diced chicken breast, some chopped up tomatoes, and some pesto sauce. Oh, it was a culinary delight!

And then, as dinner wound down, my bowels started winding up.

A look of terror struck my face as I felt something drop into my lower intestine, which was followed quickly by the gurgling sounds of a drain pulling a vortex of water into its gaping maw. Excusing myself, I went and sat upon my throne, ruling over the world I saw. I felt the pressure, but nothing was produced. I stood, and suddenly, with the weight of my viscera pressing down upon my bowels, things began to move. I sat back down and delivered a plug as solid and dense as concrete into the bottom of the bowl. I cleaned up, thought nothing more of it, and went about my business.

I went to the other bathroom, used primarily by the children, and began running a bath for my son. As I was shutting off the water, I felt a build-up, as if gas were trying to release itself from my nether regions. As my son was getting into the tub, I eased my backside a bit, thinking to release the tiniest of farts.

Immediately, I knew product was behind the pressure.

I threw myself upon the stool in the bathroom and proceeded to fountain liquid shit from my backside. The sound was one that I can only describe as a ripe watermelon being tossed into a wood chipper. As I finished up the first salvo, I leaned over to rinse my son's hair, breaking the seal my ass had on the bowl, and releasing some of the foulest, nastiest stink I've ever had the misfortune to experience into the atmosphere. Tears came to my eye, and I quickly replaced my ass on the seat to try and keep the stench held within.

I remained thus, occasionally depositing more liquid shit into the bowl, until my son was finished with his bath. I handed him the towel and helped him dry off. I sent him to his room to find some pajamas.

I quickly cleaned myself up and flushed away my shame.

I knew now that my plans had been dashed not only upon the rocky shores of Monthly Menstruation, but also upon the plains of Persistent Diarrhea Stench. Putting my kids to bed, I kissed their foreheads, wished them sweet dreams, and returned to my own room. I immediately stripped and showered, the hot water cleansing both my body and spirit. Finished, smelling remarkably better, I dressed for the night and crawled into bed, a beaten, sexually frustrated man.

The next day, when people asked me how my Valentine's Day went, I told them, with utmost honesty:

"Shitty".

Um...

Ever have a good story, ready to go, and then suddenly you find that the person you about to scathingingly lambast in your post has a birthday on the exact same day you wanted to write about that person? And then, for some strange fucking reason, you decide shortly after writing the post about that person that you're going to "get a conscience" and "feel guilty" and "turn into a pussy" all because you decided to make fun of the size of that person's love muscle? And then, after you've penned this perfectly awesome piece about how this person wronged you in so many, many ways, you suddenly find yourself without a topic and all your opining and bad-mouthing and verbal crucification is suddenly...gone?

Well, that's what today is like for me, friends.

I was going to tell you the story of my friend, Billy*, and how he wronged me on several occasions and, because I am just like a pair of arms that offer hugs and warm feelings and all that shit, I let him walk all over me. But, it's his birthday, and since birthdays are special and made of things like rainbows and fairy dust and Baby Jesus farts, I'm not going to tell you any of those things about Billy*.

Oh, sure, I could tell you about how Hilary Lightfoot** was snatched from the pedestal I set her upon by Billy's* tainted hands, but I won't. Not today.

No, today, I'm supposed to set aside evil, vile memories of the past, to release some of the bitterness, to just let it go... I need to not think about how Billy* went to Purdue and would always speak to me in Spanish or how I nearly died once in his driveway or any of a thousand other interactions that I had with Billy*. I will, however, interject at this point:

"My fucking name isn't Matteo! Stop fucking calling me that!"

Damn, that was cathartic.

I will tell you a good story about Billy*. Mostly because I end up getting hurt. But helps me in the end.

Billy* and I went to the same church camp. We went to different churches, but we went to the same church camp.

As an aside...despite what Amber might tell you...church camp is awesome. Mostly because the ladies, they swoon for you if you tell them that you love Jesus. And since I do love Jesus, they swooned, and they let me do stuff like refer to them as "Yummy Britches" and "You, the Hot One in the Pink Shorts!" and hold their feet while they do sit-ups all the while I was staring down the legs of their baggy shorts and looking at their underwear. Church camp wood rules. I LOVE JESUS!!!

Anyway, I was with my girlfriend (my church camp girlfriend...discuss amongst yourselves as to whether she was a real girlfriend or not) Rebecca*** one night on the pier at church camp. Now, Billy* and I had the stupid idea to hit tennis balls into the lake and swim out and get them. Kind of like Kramer and the golf balls, but on a much more sophomoric and Midwestern scale.

Billy* and I decided that we would rather NOT swim into the deeper water to retrieve the tennis balls, so we turned around and started smacking them toward the shore instead. This way we could swim up, get them, and if we were tired, we could wade to shore and rest, or stand there and rest or whatever.

Well, I forgot that Billy* was left-handed. So, when it was his turn to smack the balls (heh), I was totally blindsided by the follow-through of his swing.

Literally.

I took a shot in the upper left temple. Cow-ping. It split my scalp open widely. Because I'm made of testosterone, masculinity and Chuck Norris' beard hair, I didn't pass out. I didn't cry. I didn't even swear. I just held my hand up to my profusely-bleeding scalp, nodded my head to Rebecca***, and said "Excuse me for a second."

Since it was church camp and Jesus was in the air, I didn't beat Billy* to death (like he deserved). Instead, I went back to the cabin wherein I was treated by medical staff and taken off to Warsaw Community Hospital. I received 14 stitches, had an awesome lightning-shaped scar on my temple, and could communicate with snakes. Alohomora, bitches.

Not only did Billy* apologize profusely AND feel guilty for nearly killing me, but since this was church camp, everyone felt sorry for me.

Especially the ladies.

Hell yeah.

Kristine from Kokomo...if you're reading this...you still have awesome legs. And Becky from Eastbrook high school...how's that red hair treating you these days? *mimes picking up a phone receiver with my fingers and holding them to my ear while mouthing the words "Call me"*

Since this happened on a Friday night and everyone was leaving on Saturday, I got out of cleaning the cabin. In fact, most of what I did on Saturday was soak up the affections and happy feelings and everything else associated with the end of church camp.

And Billy* had to do the dishes.


*Not his real name
**Her real name, which is ready-made for epic fantasy books. Or porn.
***Also her real name

Oh, Woeful Allergies!

Prepare yourselves.

We're coming upon that time of year again, when pollen fogs the airs, sinuses swell and fill with mucus and the sneezing--oh, the sneezing. Snuck. Yep, even though there's two feet of snow on the ground in some places, allergy season--like fat people--is lurking. It's right there, in the non-distant future, waiting to punch each and every one of us in the junk and then fuck with our immune systems.

Seems as though poor Robert Pattinson has already begun the suffering.

Woe is poor Cedric Diggory--I mean, aside from that whole Avada kedavra thing and whatnot--because he's suffering from some seriously debilitating afflictions. And not just a severe case of douchebag or bearing a striking resemblance to a Neanderthal.

No, it seems poor Edward Cullen is allergic to vagina.

...

Really?

Well, Bobby--I can call you that, right?--I'm here for support. As it turns out, I'm allergic to vaginas, too! Yep, whenever I'm around one, I break out in a severe case of erections, and I begin oozing a clear, sticky, salty fluid. If I'm exposed to them too much, I emit a thick, white, creamy liquid as well. It's really, really tragic.

But, you know, I'm dealing. It's hard, but I've got a handle (or two) on it.

Apparently, poor woebegone Rob had to sit all day long with his head in a naked woman's crotch while someone took his picture. Yep. Sure is rough for M. Pattinson.

He apparently didn't enjoy himself much during the photo shoot. Fortunately, he was hung over, which made it that much easier to suffer through the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. That's why he thinks he's allergic to vagina. Because he had to do a photo shoot with some of them.

Well, I guess that explains the 108-year-old virgin thing, eh?

Now, the problem is, with that comment about his allergy and, one can assume, his aversion to vagina, he's just crushed the hopes of dreams of 40-year-old women around the entire world. I can hear the gnashing of teeth and beating of breasts now and soiling of panties now. Tis a doleful sound, one unfit for human ears.

Anyway, I'm here for you, Rob. If you need me, I'm good for all that support and counseling and shit. Just, uh, let me know if you need someone to sit in between the thighs of a model or anything. I'm your man! Just call me, and I'll be right over. You can just hide yourself away from all those vaginas and the adverse reactions they give you. *thumbs up*

Dibs on Cho Chang.

We Have a Problem Here...

People, you know me. I don't like to bitch about stuff.

But, I'm going to complain about something. I'm probably way out of line, but I can't take it anymore, and I have to say something. I'm throwing myself upon you, the internet, to rectify this problem. Mostly because, you, the internet has allowed this problem to manifest and propagate itself.

Now, there's a certain social networking website out there and, with the lead up to Valentine's Day, it's been, in a word, sickening. I've had to endure a gaggle of stupid, inane, insipid pandering from one partner to another via the electronic media. I'm hoping that, with the passing of St. Valentine's Day, the massacre bloodletting lovey dovey bullshit will end. I'm not holding my breath, though. I know how this shit goes.

The problem is, why do you need a fucking social networking site to make your feelings known to your spouse or partner or lover or the whore you paid fifty bucks to go to Outback with you? And it's not just the "I love you, Pooter" followed up with "I love you, too, Muffincakes". That shit I can handle. It's the "tell the world WHY you love your partner." Oh! I just piddled in my panties a little bit with exhilaration.

It's shit like "I love my husband because he LOVES the Lord!" Or "I love my husband because he makes me smile." "I love my wife because she fluffs the covers before we get into bed." "I love my husband because he has warm hands."

Shut the fuck up, Ned and Maude Flanders!

Okay, look. I'm glad you're in love. I'm glad that you've found someone who makes you happy AND fluffs your blankets for you. But, knock that shit the fuck out already. Thanks to my piss-poor lifestyle choices, I'm probably borderline diabetic, and this shit is enough to put me over the edge. Frankly, I hate needles, so this cute and cuddly happy lovey shit isn't doing me any favors.

The only thing worse here is that I somehow managed to not respond with a bunch of sarcastic, mean-spirited asservations of my own. Shit like:

• I love my wife because she's got some big titties. And small nips.
  
• I love my wife because she knows how to take a cumshot.
• I love my wife because she greets me at the door with a martini and a blowjob. Every. Day.
• I love my wife because she doesn't mind if I refer to her as "Kate Beckinsale" during sexy time.
• I love my wife because she lets me pop it in her pooper every other Thursday night.

No, I kept these declarations of love bottled up, mostly because I don't need an angry phone call from my mother. "You can't write that kind of stuff on the internet!" she'd screech through the receiver. Oh, mama, you should come 'round this joint on Thursdays...

However, I did finally do something that was at least a little bit in the same vein as my twisted sense of humor would allow. When the meme came down that, in honor of Valentine's Day, we should post a picture of ourselves with our significant other, I opted for Brock Samson straddling Molotov Cocktease.

I figured it had it all: I'm blond, built like a Norse god, look great shirtless, need a haircut. My wife is a sultry sexpot with red hair and big tits, and occasionally--especially if she drinks too much of the wine--she gets an exotic accent (Atlantan, I believe).

The nice thing was, I could easily figure out which of my "friends" have good senses of humor and which are...well...the kinds to declare their love for their husbands because "he doesn't make me cook!"

Although...I am thinking maybe I should have gone with my first choice for a picture of me and my significant other. I dunno, you guys make the call.

What the Hell was That All About?

Yesterday, I did a little sumpin sumpin different with the Friday Morning Latin Lesson, in that I threw out a little piece of original literature and then tossed in a Latin phrase at the end.

What the Hell? Why the sudden departure from the normal boring routine of the FMLL?

Because, I'm trying to win me a big old hooter!

Heh.

The contest, in case you don't know--and shame on you for not knowing--is to win a wonderful piece of crochet by the lovely and talented Erin at Blogging is for Dorks. The prize in the contest is this smart and charming little owl named Humphrey, and though Erin said that the winner can rename him if desired, I think Humphrey is a perfect name.

In order to win this dandy little critter, I decided to write a little story about the aforementioned Erin, and I tried to imitate--in a fashion--some literature that she and I both have read (and presumably enjoyed). Hence the sort of epic fantasy twist on the tale.

And though Humphrey is a crochet creation, I decided to use the Latin word for "to knit" in Erin's catchphrase (there is no word in Latin for "crochet"; the closest thing would also be the word for "to knit", since it can also mean "to plait" or "to intertwine"). Plus, crochet hooks aren't nearly as deadly to creatures of darkness as are knitting needles.

The Latin word for "to knit", though, almost became my new favorite Latin word. Texo means "I knit", and I was hoping that the infinitive form of the verb would be texare, because that would mean you could translate "Texas" as "you knit" (there is no word texare in Latin...harumph). And we all know how much I love Texas and people from there--every person I have ever met from Texas (except for one exception) have always been the nicest, most polite, and most fun to be around personalities.

BUT, take heart, my Texan friends! The Latin verb (as my wife, the buxom and comely Boudicca has assured me) texas means "you would knit" or "you could knit" (both forms singular). Awesome.

So, that's what was going on yesterday. Frankly, I enjoyed writing that little story and, if I ever make it big, I'm going to add Erin Oliverosetree to my character database. I hope that you enjoyed reading it and, when I am judged victorious for my efforts *wink wink*, I'll totally keep his name as Humphrey.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. LVIII

Fear gripped me.

I knew it was behind me somewhere, but I dared not turn to look, lest it catch me. I could sense more than hear or feel its presence, a shadowy, malignant darkness loping through the shadows behind me. It was getting closer.

What had begun as an evening walk down near the mill turned suddenly terrifying. I know not when it happened, only that, suddenly, looming ahead of me, a giant, hulking creature that was more monster than man appeared. In the wan light of the moon, I saw it unfold itself from the shadows on the bridge before me, like a flag being unfurled in the wind. Piercing red eyes caught me in their diabolic gaze, held me transfixed as my own eyes widened, my heart raced, and my stomach dropped. An overwhelming fear held me as it stood, taller than a man erect, unsheathing talon-like claws from its pumpkin-sized fists. I wanted to scream my terror, but no sound would come from a throat that had been forced closed by pure, unadulterated dread. My mouth pulled back in a silent rictus of fear and terror. Tears came unbidden to my eyes.

I was going to die. This beast would be my end. I knew this.

But I did not accept it readily.

It lunged forward, slavering jaws snapping at me as it came. Somehow, through the fear-induced stupor, I was able to throw myself aside. As I rolled in the dirt at the side of the path, I felt a rock under my ribcage. I grabbed it, and, as the beast came at me again, I heaved it. It uttered some sort of cry that was half yelp, half whimper, confirming that the missile had found its target. For a second, the beast stood at the edge of the road dazed; I took my chance to escape.

Running, I did not care in which direction, I fled the scene. I willed my legs to cover longer distances with each stride. I somehow found myself in the trees to the south of the road, the mountains in the distance disappearing as I sought some shelter in the darkness beneath the boughs. Enough moonlight filtered through the canopy that I could pick my way quickly through the glades and up and over hills.

I heard the beast howl once, a lonely, plaintive cry filled with animal desire. A second cry erased the loneliness of the beast, and told me that it meant to hunt me. It meant to kill me. The rock was only a delay of the inevitable. All this was conveyed on the single note as it rolled over the hills and through the trees.

If another heard it, I knew not. I was running for my life, too terrified to look for another, too filled with dread to call for help lest it attract my pursuant's attention.

Fear gripped me. I knew it was behind me somewhere, but I dared not turn to look, lest it catch me. I could sense more than hear or feel its presence, a shadowy, malignant darkness loping through the shadows behind me. It was getting closer.

Suddenly, a root caught my boot, and I pitched forward. Laying in the loam, I panted, trying to catch my breath. The adrenaline had drained from my body when I tumbled to the earth, and, though I tried, I could not push myself to my feet. I vainly attempted crawling away, hoping that my emotions would organize and arrange themselves, allowing me to flee once again, but it was hopeless. My legs would barely move, and my arms held no strength. I lay there, vulnerable, awaiting my fate.

The beast suddenly burst up the side of the hill. Seeing me, it instantly appeared at my feet. I rolled over onto the my back so that I could at least see my fate falling upon me. The monster stood over me, it's malicious, burning eyes boring holes into my soul. I felt my heart quail. It seemed as if all the emotion drained out of my body. Even if I could have run, I would not have had the heart.

The beast rocked its head back to howl once more when it was suddenly silenced. Another form had entered the clearing. This one was smaller, lither. A hood was pulled up over the figure's face and the rest of its body was concealed within the long, billowing folds of a cloak as black as the shadows around us. From beneath the bottom hem of the garment, I could see black leather boots, but I could not deduce the person's identity.

Forgetting me entirely, the monster lunged toward the new arrival with a fierce growl, but the person was too quick. It flowed out of the way of the beast's attack rather than dodged. When the monster came again, the figure held its ground, blocking the monster's swipes with with its forearms. The creature's deadly talons were rendered useless as the figure anticipated the monster's every move. The mysterious arrival placed a well-timed boot in the middle of the monster's chest, sending the creature sprawling. The figure grabbed a fallen branch and brought the bough down across the beast's shoulders. Again, the creature cried out.

Reaching out, it grabbed its attacker by the ankle and upended the fighter. The figure quickly regained control, but the monster was back on its feet and coming at the new arrival. For a second, the shadowy black form seemed dazed, and I tried to yell, but the monster quickly grabbed the figure by the throat and slammed it against a tree. The hood fell away and the cloak flew open, such was the force of the attack, and I could see for the first time that my defender was a woman. She was pinned against the tree, the monster's enormous, hairy paw wrapped around her throat and pressing her against the scaly wood of the trunk.

The monster roared in her face, spittle and blood flecking its lips and her cheeks. It was a cry of victory, as if this was not the first battle the two had shared, and now the beast was fully enjoying his triumph over an old adversary. The monster held its head as if it awaited a response from the woman pinned against the tree's trunk.

Her lips turned into a wry smile. "So predictable," she cooed at the beast. It might have slackened its hold just a bit at her words. "Your kind always forget to pin my arms."

In the pale light of the moon, I saw two long, thin spikes glimmer silvery as she produced them from the folds of her cloak. With a lightning quick, violent motion, she slammed the points of the blades into the monster's throat. Black blood welled from the wound, spurting in great gouts over her face and the bark of the tree. The monster dropped her, its own form falling to the ground, its great hands clawing at the silvery weapons sticking from the side of its neck. As it struggled, its lifeblood continued to run freely from the wound. The creature's wheezing, choking cries confirmed that it was, in fact dying, and a few seconds later, it slowed its movements. Finally, it shuddered its last, and then lay still and silent.

The woman stood over the monster's corpse, watching with an impassive eye as the beast bled to death. She wiped absently at the trail of blood the wound had thrown on her face. I knew then that I had been saved by the legendary Erin Oliverosetree--Lady Erin of Humphrey, Erin the Slayer, Erin of the Silver Needles, Erin Demonsbane--and I was awed by her mere presence. I struggled to push myself into a sitting position. The movement attracted her attention.

"Are you unhurt?" she asked me, her cool eyes falling on my frame for perhaps the first time. My heart rattled within my chest. I nodded dumbly. I could no more summon words to speak to her than I could have forced myself to flee from the beast after I had fallen.

"Good," she said, her words carrying a mysterious, exotic accent. "You should return to your home. There will be more of them this night." She bent and retrieved her famous--notorious!--silver needles from the beast's throat. She wiped the black blood from them on the monster's chest. "They always like to run with the full moon's light." As if to punctuate her words, another threatening howl echoed over the hills. Erin Oliverosetree's face snapped up, her attention riveted on that distant howl. "I must be off," she said, without looking to me.

"Wait," I said, finally finding my voice again. "How...how did you manage to best that thing?" I asked. I was ashamed immediately. Her prowess with slaying demons and monsters was renowned. My words were foolish.

She paused, turning to look at me with a bemused smile upon her lips. She spun her silvery needles around her palm and then slammed them into a scabbard on her hip. With a wink, she said:

Texo, ergo sum.

Find out what Erin Oliverosetree said to me that night in the hovertext!

With that, she was gone, disappearing into the shadows as quickly and quietly as she had arrived.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Sitting back, I pulled a long drag through the carved stem of my pipe. The fire of the inn's hearth warming my old bones. Letting the smoke slowly pass over my lips, I smiled.

"And that, lads, is the story of the night Erin the Slayer saved my life."

They hay and haw and call and accuse me of being a liar. I laugh and I wink at them as the party breaks apart and the men and boys go back to their individual tables, some to discuss the tale I told, some to accuse me of being soft in the head, some to discuss events happening outside the walls of the old inn.

But I know, every time I tell the tale, I am only able to due to the bravery of Erin Oliverosetree and her magnificent, silver knitting needles.

pronounced "Takes-oh, air-goh soom."

Meeting Inspiration

A quick chemistry lesson:

This little guy is a benzene.



This one is called a tetrahydropyran.


If you take a benzene and a tetrahydropyran and fuse them together, you get a chromane (pronounced "crow-man").


If you oxidize the chromane, you get a chromanone ("crow-man-own").



If you draw primitive art on the wall of a cave around it, it's a Cro Magnon.



Chemistry and archaeology jokes: two great tastes that taste great together!

Totally Blowing Stuff Up Tuesdays: The Bad Decision

I'm not really here today. I'll be in a conference room all day, doing the quarterly meeting thang. Damn, I am so street. In my stead, I am offering you a video that will hopefully excite and titillate. Or at least satisfy your need for wanton pain and destruction that I normally offer up on a Tuesday.

So...most Tuesdays, I try to bring the glorious celebration of entropy that only an explosion can provide. Today, I'm going outside of the explosive box for a moment...but only because this shit is really funny.

I guess I should call it "Totally Setting Stuff on Fire Tuesday" or maybe "Totally Doing Something Stupid to Your Crotch Tuesday", but it just doesn't have the same feel.

Okay, well, here's the video:

Okay, so, what this dunderhead was trying to do was a neat little trick that you can pull to impress your friends. If you take some low-burning solvent--ethanol, acetone, ether--and douse your clothing in it, you can actually light the solvent on fire without catching the fabric--or yourself--on fire.

Seriously, don't do this at home.

The trick is that, since the alcohol burns at a much lower temperature than does cotton or flesh, you'll get this neat little dancing flame over your jeans or socks or what have you (your hand, if you're really brave and/or a charlatan attempting to hoax a bunch of uneducated medieval peasants). The fire will burn itself out and, since the fire isn't burning hot enough to catch the pants on fire, you should be in the clear.

Seriously, don't even attempt this on your own. Especially not when you're drunk.

What Captain Braintrust up above tried to do was show off for his friends. Unfortunately, he didn't realize that gasoline burns at something like 470-560 degrees C. Cotton's ignition temperature is 450 degrees C (and, of course, paper's is Fahrenheit 451...) The ignition temperature of ethanol is 426 degrees C...so you can see, it still burns pretty hot, but not hot enough to catch the fabric on fire. However, it will still make you nice and toasty and/or singe off your naughty bits.

That's why I'm telling you not to try this at home.

However, if you want to charm the pants off your ladyfriend, you can try showing her that you have "money to burn"...



Wow. That flaming hand trick was pretty cool. But, like the film's producer, I wouldn't recommend it.

Otherwise, someone might have to stomp out your nuts.

Memoir Monday: Tequila

I know some of you have seen this picture several times before. I've used it on forums boards for my avatar, I've used it on social sites, I've even thrown it around just for shits and giggles.

This picture was taken in grad school, during my first semester, before I had entered a lab to do my research, and before I had even met my wife. In those halcyon days before my life was dominated by "research" and "reaction mechanisms" and "14 hour days" and "chemistry 24 hours a day" and "fevered dreams of cyclopropanes and benzene rings", and even before an angry God or panoply of angered deities saddled me with a powerful allergy to hops, I was able to drink.

And, boy, did I.

However, in all that time, I hadn't really "experimented" with alcohol. I knew what was out there, and I knew what I liked (and that vodka did not like me). I knew the slow burn of scotch as it crawled down my gullet, I knew the fiery burn of Jameson, and the slow warming of bourbon.

And before you go all smartass on me, I know that they're all types of whisk(e)y.

I like whisk(e)y. Which is why it was my sipping liquor of choice.

Rum, however, was my "get drunk and hit on my undergrad students" liquor of choice.

I had, however, managed to avoid the creature known as "tequila". I knew of tequila, but had never imbibed. Mostly because my friend, the guy who woke me up shaking the bed when we roomed together in college, got drunk off tequila once. I remember it distinctly.

*ring*ring* went my telephone.

Whoever could this be? I thought, idly picking up the phone.

"Lock up yer daughters and sisters and wives, lubbers, 'cause Captain Rummy is coming ashore!" drunkenly drawled screamed a crude imitation of a pirate's brogue into my ear.

"[name redacted], is that you?" I asked, innocent as a schoolboy.

"There is no [name redacted]; there is only Captain Rummy, and he's comin' ashore, lubber!"

And then the phone disconnected.

"[name redacted]? [name redacted], are you still there?" I asked into the phone.

The response I got was the front door to the dorm (I lived one room away from it) flying open and smashing against the brick facade of the building.

"Captain Rummy, has boarded yer vessel!" I heard, bellowed in the hall. "Avast ye, and say yer prayers!" And, still holding the phone to my ear, I looked out in the hallway as my former room mate went tearing down the hall, screaming about how Captain Rummy was here, and he was there was rapin' and pillagin' to be done. Curious, I stepped out into the hallway for a better look, and all I saw was the north end of a south-bound former room mate. I saw him go around the corner, at full tilt, and I heard the back door of the dorm fly open, bang, and then slowly shut.


And silence.

This, my friends, was the result of tequila. Or so it was revealed to me later. And, if tequila could lambaste a hardened drunk like my former room mate in such a manner, then it was not something I wanted to mess around with.

"Try it," insisted my Bulgarian friend, while I was hanging out in his apartment on campus at Notre Dame. "It's a very good drink, baby. I'm sure you'll like it." He offered me the shot glass filled with the clear, slightly green beverage.

"Just make sure Captain Rummy doesn't go looking for some rapin' and pillagin'," I said. And then I took the shot.

Holy wow. It burnt, it cleared my sinuses, but damn, I didn't feel even slightly drunk--you know, that feeling like you just threw down a bunch of alcohol? Yeah, I didn't have that sensation at all.

"Would you like a margarita, baby?" my Bulgarian friend asked.

"Set me up, baby," I said. So he did.

And he did again.

And then again.

Let me take a moment here to pause and encourage you that, if you ever get the chance to drink a margarita made by a Bulgarian, go for it. They like to put a lot of alcohol into their drinks.

So it was with these margaritas. Aside from the shot, I think I had three, maybe four margaritas, with at least one more shot thrown in, to boot. Tequila and I were getting along famously. I was snuggling down in her bosom and getting comfortable. It was so warm and muzzy in there, and her breasts were so pillowy soft and full of alcohol.

Unfortunately, while I was getting sleepy, I was also getting hungry.

Fortunately, Dr. Assy had a bucket of cheeseballs sitting in the living room (he shared an apartment with my Bulgarian friend), so I grabbed the bucket, tore the lid off, slid my hand in to feast myself. After the initial couple of handfuls, I slipped my hand back in there, and then I succumbed to the warm, pillowy bosom of tequila.

My friends, who love me oh so much, decided it was picture time. And, honestly, I can't blame them. Plus, I'll always have this lasting memento of the night I first encountered tequila.

Well, to go along with the cirrhosis, that is.


Memoir Monday is a wholly-owned subsidiary of I Like to Fish... and as such is the brainchild of Travis. I would have used the bookish button that he normally furnishes to go along with Memoir Monday, but as he claims that today he will be showcasing a new button to the blogging world, I'm just writing up this somewhat parodical disclaimer with inclusive links so that he won't sue me. The stories therein cannot be rebroadcast, retransmitted, or announced without the express, written consent of Major League Baseball."

Writer's Amnesia Sucks

I've been kind of stuck on the writing thing lately. I put it aside because I had a case of writer's...ennui? Everything I would write I didn't like; it sounded childish and bland, and if I'm going to write a book, goddammit, every word is going to fit together. I realize that I should just toughen up and push through it (I've had these fits in the past), and that just pushing through helps.

But then I did the blog move and relaunch thing, and that just sort of slowed me down more. I had a convenient excuse, right? Right. We'll leave it at that.

But, I'm on the very cusp of getting into the meat of a good Greek legend: fighting monsters, chatting things up with Gods, rescuing and the subsequent bedding of maidens. This should be exciting times for our young hero and the guy who is guiding him around the Ancient World, right? Right!

And yet, I'm still trying my best to just churn along.

That's when I was hit with some brilliance the other night. The muse (or muses) opened my eyes on a very brilliant turn of phrase that would help propel my hero forward, all but blindly accepting the impossible task, and really putting the hook in the story that I've been seeking for some time.

Unfortunately, my muse apparently only comes around after midnight. I kind of feel like that Offspring song. I may be dumb and all, but I'm tired of my muse playing me for a sucker with low self-esteem.

Damn, she knows me too well.

Anyway, inspiration struck after I had tucked myself into bed. Usually, I spend a good thirty minutes either staring off into the dark or staring at the one glowing green star on the ceiling above me, pondering the ways and wonders of the world--this one and any world included in the book I'm reading and/or writing. As it was, I was staring in the direction of the wall that my bedroom shares with the bathroom, when this brilliant turn of phrase hit me.

"Fuck me, that's brilliant!" echoed inside my skull--there's lots of room in there for ample rebounding of sounds. "Oh, how will I remember that? I should write it down!"

Then I decided that it was too much work to find the pen and paper. Plus, I didn't want to bother with turning on the light. I, uh, didn't want to disturb my wife. Built in excuse, right? Right!

"I'll commit it to memory!" I said rather than do the smart thing. "I'll remember it in the morning!"

Surprisingly, I managed to remember it in the morning. And throughout the day. All that time, surrounded by many sheets of paper and writing utensils, and I did not write down my idea. Hell, why would I? I've remembered it this far.

Then, last night, when I was coming upon the scene where I could use that which the muse had gifted me with...I completely forgot it. I remember it had something to do with the hero's mother...and that's about it. It was enough to piss him off sufficiently that he'd let his emotions get the better of him (he's pretty even-keeled, despite his inner emotional turmoil...you know, like he's Greek or something...), but I cannot remember exactly what I wanted to say. Curses!

Despite my best effots and good intentions to remember what it was I had dreamed up, I've been struck with a powerful case of Writer's Amnesia: I had a good idea, but I forgot it. I'm still plodding forward, though I don't remember what it is I wanted to write, no matter how hard I wrack my brains.


*sigh* The muse giveth and the muse taketh away, I suppose.

31615 / 100000 words. 32% done!

Friday Morning Latin Lesson: Vol. LVII

Let's think of this one as a public service announcement, m-kay?

A couple of weeks ago, my very good friend Scope reported on how he had made a splash in his alumni newsletter. The "splash", of course, is referring to his asking the lovely (and crimson-tressed) Cora to be his bride.

While this was stellar news for those of us who have borne witness to their courtship, the actual reporting was...less than stellar. Here is the news as it was delivered (bold-faced mine):

"I found out that sometime yesterday an alum proposed to the love of his life in Annie Merner Chapel."

*blink*

Somewhere, a professor emeritus just felt a disturbance in the forti.

What this person meant to say was that they just learned that an alumnus proposed to the love of his life.

What that person said was that an aluminum sulphate salt proposed to the love of its life--presumably a potassium. That's a little chemistry humor for you. Don't worry, I won't quit my day job.

Alumnus is a Latin term used for a foster son. In English, we've applied it, rather broadly, to encompass any graduate of a college, university or high school. This makes sense, in that we refer to the school from which we graduated as our alma mater, which means our "kind, nourishing mother". In a sense, we are fostered out to this kind, nourishing mother, and the Latin familial extended metaphor comes full circle.

Of course, if Scope was a woman, he would be an alumna of his college. If there were two Scopes (gasp and swoon!), he would be alumni, and if he was two women, he would be alumnae. Sober Careful readers will see that I simply changed the ending of the word and was able to convey four different meanings (two genders, single and plural for both). This is called a declension. A declension shows how the noun is used in a sentence. For instance, is it the subject of the sentence, the direct object, indirect object, object of a preposition...and so on.

In English, we don't decline our nouns very much. We change the endings in order to show number (such as boob, boobs) or possession (boob, boob's). Some nouns are irregular in their plural forms (goose, geese; moose, meese), but a good rule of thumb--in English--is that slapping an "s" on the end will form the plural.

About the only place where you can really see a change in our noun forms is in personal pronouns. For instance, in the sentences "I am dashingly handsome", "She gave me a handjob", "It cost my last twenty dollar bill", all of the pronouns are referring to the first person, but we change the words depending on their role in the sentence.

I won't go into the declension endings of all the nouns...because there are five different declensions and six major cases (along with a couple of other minor ones). Instead, let's just see a couple of examples in action, shall we? As always, all translations are in the hovertext of the pictures.

Tuus fundus perfectus est!
Pronounced: "Too-oose foon-doos pair-feck-toos est!"

With ass acting as the subject of a sentence...

Fundum formosum amo.
Pronounced: "Foon-doom fore-mose-oom ah-moe."

...and as the direct object of the sentence!

Nunc ipsum, ab meo fundo tuum manum amovere.
Pronounced: "Noonk ip-soom, ab may-oh foon-doh too-oom mah-noom ah-moe-vair-aye."

...and with ass as the subject of a preposition!

In these examples, fundus (ass) changes form from fundus (nominative case, acting as the subject), to fundum (accusative case, acting as the direct object of the verb amo), and finally to fundo (ablative case, serving as the object of the preposition ab). With the noun endings telling you what role the word plays in the sentence, you don't have to be as precise with your word order as you do in English. This is why, most of the time, the verb ends a Latin phrase. Carpe diem! would be a very notable exception.

Have a great weekend, everybody. Go out and look at some nice fundis.

TMI Thursday: My Flower, Devoured

Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchly raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

Today is my friend Rick's birthday. He's an occasional viewer (not since I've moved, I believe). He's 42 today. So, essentially, Rick is the answer to the Ultimate Question in Life, the Universe and Everything.

Christ, I hope someone gets that...

By fortunate, cosmic coincidence, today is also my high school ex-girlfriend's birthday. She is, I believe, 34 (only because I'm pretty sure that she's a couple of months younger than I am and I'm 34). So, she's not really the answer to Everything.

I really hope someone gets that...

She is, however, the answer to a bit of trivia in the world o' MJ: To whom did the Indefatigable One lose his virginity?

And this is the story that accompanies that question:

I had been sort of friends with this girl for a while during my junior year of high school. She thought my humor was rapacious and witty; I thought her tits were huge. While I won't give away her secret identity, I will say that she shares a name with a city in Ancient Greece and a moon in our solar system...which was named for a nymph that lived near that Ancient Greek city. Anyway, she was friends with my good friend, Kelly, and so Kelly kind of pushed us together.

Unfortunately, though we knew each other, we didn't know each other very well. No problem, right? That's what first dates are for. Things on the first night went well enough, and as we were waiting for my dad to pick us up--wait, wait...let's hold up.

Yes, I was seventeen. And my dad was driving my ass around. Because my mom didn't think I could handle the intensely awesome traffic of Huntington, IN. So, she forced my dad to chaperone our asses around--Miss Daisy Style. We were in the back seat, my brother was in the front with my dad. Oh, what fun.

Anyway, we ate, and then we ended up going to this place called Penguin Point because my dad wanted to talk to one of his friends from high school. While we were waiting for my dad to pick us up (he had dropped us off and then went to putz around Target(!) or K-Mart or something for an hour), she revealed to me, in a sort of rushed way, that she wasn't a virgin.

It was kind of like: "Oh, by the way...I'mnotavirgin!"

Oh.
Hot.
Damn.

Not only is she attractive, and I enjoy spending time with her, but she puts out! Upon further review, the ruling on the field stands! Touchdown!

Everything advanced swimmingly. We talked on the phone almost every day. We walked to and from classes together, spent time together in the mornings, and immediately after school. We held hands. We smooched after dates. She introduced me to Dr. Who; I introduced her to the motion offense, via Indiana University.

We were in love. High school style.

The sexuality was ramping up weekly. She would tell me about what underwear she was wearing and we would talk about sex and possibilities and such. Sometimes, while we were talking about sex and her underwear and such, I would beat off while on the phone, and try not to let her know what was happening. She let me fumble around awkwardly in her sweaters, and she would rub me through my jeans. It was pure, unadulterated high school sexuality.

One Saturday afternoon, we were out driving around, and we drove out into the state reservoir that stretched south of my little town. We had had some lunch together that afternoon because she had to be at work that evening (at Target!), but before I took her home, we decided it was go time.

So, there we sat, a little nervous, but our bodies pumping with youthful, sexual energy, awkwardly fumbling with each other's bodies in the front seat of my father's Ford Escort Wagon. I referred to it as the "Doody-mobile", because it wasn't polite to call it "A Rolling Pile of Shit on Wheels". If it went more than 54 miles per hour, it would vibrate violently, and the car was so out of line that Twelve-and-Seven were the new Ten-and-Two. The thing redefined the term as "Grocery Getter".

Because there was a console between her and my throbbing genitalia, things were even more awkward. Finally, I motioned for us to get into the back; as smoothly as possible given the tight constraints of the interior, we slid back to the trunk. Ro-fucking-mantic! That's when clothes began coming off.

Naturally, being that I was a horny teenaged male, I practically tore her sweater off. She worked the button and the zipper on my pants expertly, but was having troubles with my underwear--I was a tighty-whitey man at the time (mostly because my parents still bought my unders for me), so her inability to operate the flap on the front is understandable. Especially with myself throbbing against it.

Finally, I was free. I ended up just pulling my pants and briefs down, and she grabbed me in her hand and then her mouth. Oh, it was bliss. And then I decided that she needed to be naked, as well, and so I first pulled down her pants and then slowly removed her panties.

What I saw shocked and awed me. Stifling a terrified shriek, I was met with a wild, tangled, twisted, thick mat of dark, dark hair. It was exactly at that point in my life that I decided that I did not like pubes--not on my soap, not on my women. And, well, not on myself, either, but that's a different story. Undaunted, I went forward. I mean, it wasn't like I was going to pull them back up and instruct her to trim up a little before we could progress.

We messed around with our fingers and mouths for a while, and then finally I dug through my pockets of my casually discarded jeans to find the condom I had bought a few days earlier (at Target!), and I slipped it on, pinched the tip, and I thrust forward with my dick as if I was trying to unhorse my opponent. Unfortunately, (or maybe fortunately) I just bounced off her. Jesus Christ, can I look any more like I have no clue what I'm doing? Again, I tried to joust away into her when she took me in her hand and guided me inside of her. At which point I started jackhammering away like I was trying to bring down a concrete edifice.

For a few minutes, we were locked together in some grotesque, twisted version of teenage lust and sexuality. It was cramped, it was sweaty, it was hot and it was awkward, but, dammit, I was having sex! A few minutes later, I was finished. I rolled off and quickly shed the condom (that's what we were instructed to do in all those educational videos in health class--ejaculate, pull it out, strip that fucker off, pray the rosary). I ducked out of the car and hid the used rubber in a discarded Pepsi cup that I found in the little parking area where we made sweet, sweet love.

Er...something like that.

Tossing the cup containing my seed-doused prophylactic into the bushes, I pulled my pants up, crawled back into the car, and we kissed for a little while longer. Then I had to get her home so she could get ready for work, and I had to get home before my mother and her kitchen timer decided that I had been away from the house for too long and she would punish me.

We did some more things while we were together--she gave me a blow job, I fingered her a few times, some more secret, silent phone sex--but about two weeks after the sex my mother decided that we were too close and spending too much time with each other. She started pressuring me to break up with the girlfriend, and after about a month, I finally caved. I just kind of started avoiding her and didn't take her phone calls. Eventually, the relationship just sort of collapsed.

I'll admit it: It was a horribly immature way of going about it, but my mom was really fucking persistent (read: shrilly nagging) about me ending it with my girlfriend. I felt kind of bad, but my life at home was a lot easier because I didn't have to deal with my mom reminding me not to have sex and that my girlfriend probably would try to pressure me into having sex just so she could get pregnant and shit like that. *eyeroll*

We didn't speak for the rest of our junior year, and, fortunately, her last name and mine were far enough apart in the alphabet that we didn't have lockers near one another as seniors. Also, we didn't take the same classes, except for calculus, when we were seniors, so we didn't see each other then, either. I emailed her once while I was in college, just to sort of catch up, and I saw her once at a grocery store back home, but I didn't say hi. I don't know if she even saw me. I didn't REALLY see her until about seven years ago, at Kelly's wedding. I didn't get to talk to her, but we smiled and acknowledged one another. I was trying to get over to her table, I was even going to ask her for a dance (all vertical, no horizontal tango--don't worry), but she and her new husband (or maybe they were just dating at the time) left before I got a chance to.

So, I guess this story satisfies Rule 34, at least as it concerns my ex-girlfriend.

And that is the gift that keeps on giving.