Follow by Email

Inspirational Reads

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. CI

September 23, 2011

Oh, what a week.  I had to do some of that "parenting" thing that's expected of me.  Apparently, if you sire the children, you're expected to raise and discipline them.  What the hell fun is that?  None, says this very grumpy old man.

Anyway, I was putting the kids on the bus on Wednesday morning when the bus driver pointed at me like she needed to speak with me, and then pointed at the boy, indicating that it was about him.  Or that's what I interpreted it as, anyway.  I stepped closer to the door and she then informed me that my seven-year-old son had, on the previous day, been "cussing up a storm."

Oh really?  Do go on!

My son, of course, burst out into tears.  Because he's seven.  But, you know, a seven-year-old with a sailor's mouth.  I wonder where the fuck he learned that (hint:  it's college football season).

I get the boy calmed down and tell him to sit and then I reassure the bus driver that I would take care of it.  She continues to go on, telling me that it was his first warning and the next time he'd be off the bus and then reiterated that he had been "cussing up a storm" and that he was mad at his sister or something (this is key for later) and that she heard "every word in the book."

At this point, I'm kind of annoyed and the first thing that I wanted to say was "Did he say 'cunt'?  Because that's certainly in the book."  And then as she continued on, my next thought was "Look, it's not a big deal.  It's a string of letters that you have assigned an arbitrary meaning to which just happens to be one that offends you and your religious tenets based on the mythology of a wandering tribe of escaped slaves formulated over four thousand years ago."

Somehow, though, I didn't think that the bus driver would have understood what I said, nor would she have appreciated it.

Finally, she closed the door and was off.  I then let this percolate through the day in the back of my mind and I decided it would be totally hypocritical of me to punish him for something I say every thirty-four seconds on football Saturdays.  I got home that evening and sat him down for a good talking to; I refused to yell at him, though, because, you know, hypocrite and all.

Basically I told him that we live in an area where a lot of people get easily offended by words like that and if he's going to say bad words, he should do it where people aren't going to hear him and get upset.  Because I remember being in the second grade.  I remember learning a whole new lexicon.  The kid's going to say it, whether I tell him to or not.

I also said that he shouldn't let his sister bother him like that and cause him to get upset to where he's yelling out swear words.  At this, he got defensive.  "Why would I call her a BEEEEEEEP?  She's my sister!"

At which point the two stories did not seem to line up.  Later that same evening, my wife came home and said, "Yes, he got in trouble for saying 'bitch' on the bus."

Oh really?  He got in trouble for "bitch"?  That's "every word in the book?"  What kind of fuck-knuckle thinks that "bitch" constitutes every word in the book?  Two things happened then:  one, I felt better about the talking-to I gave the lad, telling him to be smart and strategic with his curses and oaths; and two, I became really fucking annoyed with the bus driver.  I realize that "bitch" is not the first word you expect to hear coming from a seven-year-old's mouth, but don't fucking make it out like he was doing a George Carlin routine.

I thought maybe I should teach the boy how to swear in a foreign language, so that he would get in less trouble.  While French or Spanish or German would be more practical--and hard hitting; every word in German sounds like swearing--perhaps we should with Latin first.

That almost wasn't a hamfisted segue...

Edite verpas, fututrices!  Proficiscor!

Pronounced:  "Ay-dee-tay ware-pahs, foo-too-tree-case!  Pro-fee-kee-score!"
Say what you want about the movie, this is one of my favorite Homer Moments.  Ever.  
Hovertext for the translation.

And now for the actual "lesson" part.  In a deliciously ironic twist, the word verpa that you see above is a slang (vulgar) Latin term for "the penis" and would most certainly be equivalent to our "dick" or "cock".  Or Pedro.  The funny thing is that verpa ends in an "a" and is therefore a first declension noun, and almost all first declension nouns are feminine.  As being a dick isn't really a job, verpa ends up being a feminine word.

The word fututrix, fututrices means "one who is fucked" and the -rix ending makes a female noun.  It is the Latin equivalent of "fucker" or (probably a better translation into modern usage) "bitch".  Though it is used as an insult, fututrix does not imply "whore", as you might be inclined to guess based on its literal translation.  But that's a Latin lesson for a different day.

Oh, and if you're curious, fututor is the male equivalent.  And the best application that I can think of is fututor matrum as "mother fucker" (literally "one who fucks mothers").

Anyway, pax fututores matrum.  Proficiscor!  Have a good weekend.

TMI Thursday: In the Out Door

September 15, 2011

It is with a heavy heart that I share this story of misdeeds I've done with my dick. No,'s okay.  I'll make it through.  I just have to be strong.  Like bull.

Yesterday, my friend Nick became dead to me advanced his career, taking a different position with a different company. Since I'm a jealous asshole, I shall miss his presence here within the hallowed halls of my main job, though I am happy for him.  As Nick is a regular reader to this blog--as regular as you can get for something that never updates--I thought I would finally piece together the story that I promised back in the dog days of summer. It's called that because I was as hot as dog balls on thigh humping night.

I'm not sure what that means, either.

Anyway, this one is for Nick, who not only is far smarter than I, but is also far better looking. Not to mention he's been banned from nude beaches because the other bathers are terrified of the beached sea serpent that unfurls itself when Nick lays out on his towel. I'm not saying he's massive or anything, but he's better hung than the jury for Phil Spector's trial.

Enough about Nick's anaconda (as a note, it don't want none unless you got buns, hon!); we're here to read embarrassing stories about what I've done with my pecker. And it certainly is interested, even if you don't got buns. Hon.

When it comes to sexual encounters, I've certainly had a few. Unless, for some reason you're my mother reading this. In which case, please, continue lying to yourself and believe that I've only had two. Ever. And none of them were upstairs in my old bedroom. *shifty-eyed*

While my encounters are many, it seems that the greater number of sexual foibles and/or follies took place with She-Who-Cannot-Be-Named, otherwise known as Sheila the Buxom The Ex.

If you haven't met The Ex before, feel free to peruse old TMI Thursday posts, as she and her lovely breasts and perfect ass show up there quite often. I feel that, if I compliment her, even these many years after the fact, it will soften the blow should she someday discover several of her sexual misdeeds have been recorded in electronic media. Because it's not like that shit's forever or anything. Oh, internet, what would we do without you? THANK YOU, AL GORE!

Anyway, let's cut to the chase. One night after working at the old bookstore, I went over to the Ex-Fiancee's house. Instead of watching a movie or going out to eat, we decided to probe each other's bodies with parts of our own. This happened on a fairly regular basis. You'd think that, with all the food I wasn't eating, I would have been thinner. Hmm. Go fig.

We were back in her bedroom and I had just worked her out of her clothing and, admittedly, I was had removed my own garments. We were making out pretty hard, hands and lips were moving over every part of each other's bodies. I cupped her breasts, ran my hands down her sides and slipped my fingers between her thighs and into her. Once I felt she was ready, I kissed my way down to her nipples and trailed my lips and tongue down her body as I slipped off the bed. I nestled between her thighs and went to town. After thoroughly enjoying a bout of oral, I decided that I'd try to last as long as possible and just enter her while she was moist and ready.

As a taller man, one of my favorite ways to do the deed is to be standing at the edge of the bed, clasping her thighs, and thrusting into her while her ass is essentially hanging off the edge of the mattress. As I had just finished cunning her lingus, not only was she basking in a post-orgasmic bliss, but she was wet and lubricated and ready. I stood, pulled her willing thighs apart and entered her. Her green eyes flared open as she gasped, she started moaning, and I was off.

Being a gentleman, I started slow, letting her natural juices envelope and lubricate me (this is an important point, so pay attention; re-read that shit if you have to), but as time passed and I things became slicker with her body's essence, I began to lose myself.

It's also important to note that the Barenaked Ladies song, "One Week", had been pretty popular around this time. If you're unfamiliar with the song shame on you!, it features the lyric "Like Sting I'm tantric!" It's a reference to a rumor that Sting is all about the tantric sex and can go on for something like four or five hours worth of sex. It's not so much that he's tantric; it's just that he's motherfucking Sting!

Anyway, this got me to investigate what tantric sex was. With all that "last as long as I can and unearthly glow of awesome sex" reading in my mind, I decided that this night, the night I was with my fiancee, I was going to try the tantric moves. So there I was trying the shallow, shallow, deep shit. And things were going well. This might be skewed slightly because I was having sex, which means that, in my mind, things were probably going pretty well to begin with.

All that aside, I was trying the alternating shallow and deep thrusts. As I mentioned earlier, my fiancee was pretty wet from our foreplay, and by this point all of me--shallow or deep, doesn't matter--was pretty well-lubricated. So I tried the shallow, shallow, shallow, shallow...thing when my mind was like "Put it in her! Hard! Motherfucker!"

Which is what I did. I was doing the shallow thing, not much of my penis was actually in her, so when I pulled back for a deep, hard thrust, I kind of slipped out of her. This did not deter me when I went for the deep thrust.


I was in her.

Guaranteed to satisfy
Except...I wasn't in her. When I went for the deep thrust after all the shallow bullshit, I kind of forgot to aim. The next thing I knew...I was in her ass, buried up to the hilt. I knew this because those green eyes that had gotten wider when I entered her now goggled out of her head in a fashion that can only be described as "cartoonish". Her body also started contorting and shuddering in a not good, not so sexy way.

Oh, and she screamed.  Loudly.

Unsure of what was going on, I looked down as she was rolling onto her side and feeling around her ass with her fingers to see if she was bleeding. Me, being the suave and debonair lover, did manage to ask if she was okay before I started giggling.

"Well, I'm okay. It's not that I'm opposed to's just...that was the first time...and I kind of wasn't ready for it."

And my loving and caring response?

"I understand. It sure did feel tight. But I understand."

I'm such a prize.

After I washed myself up, we resumed with normal, vaginal sex. However, the butt-cherry had been popped and it was only a few weeks until curiosity got the better of both of us and we returned to the tacitly taboo sport of anal rompage.

How very apropos
But (heh) that's a story for another day.