God Is Classy

Here we are already in the middle of October and I realize I never even bought myself a pair of Summer flip flops. So since I’ve gotten a little behind on my stories, today I’ve decided to share some of my recent stream of consciousness thoughts until my next full story is done. Wait, forget I used the term, “Stream of consciousness”. I just gave myself an eye roll re-reading that. It’s Monday morning and no one needs that aggravation. Let’s just call these, thought hiccups. Read them when you’re tired of scrolling through pictures of other people’s better weekends.

Things That Make Me Grouchy, Invigorated, Inspired or Thirsty

Airplane Sound Systems = Farts

Not that I’m not profoundly grateful for making it from one destination to another via air travel in a metal tube, but how is it that these billion-dollar architectural marvels in the sky are able to transport human beings at the speed of sound (or however fast it is) but not build a functioning sound system for us to hear the captain speak? Maybe it’s by design so we don’t worry, but most of the time when a pilot is talking to the passengers it sounds something like….”This is your captain speaking…mumble mumble mumble…emergency….mumble mumble…soon…mumble, mumble…people on the right.”

 

Religion Wears A Pocket Square

After recently watching some vintage footage of a popular television evangelist I heard the phrase, “God is classy.” I couldn’t agree more. You know darn well the ‘ol HP (Higher Power) is not wearing a tank top to dinner and never swears around guests. I also think that Yahweh probably has outstanding posture and knows the difference between a salad fork and a fish fork. And when the good Lord uses the phrase, “Dammit to hell” it’s not being used as profanity, but rather as actual directions.

Why was I watching a re-run of a 1980’s evangelical TV show? To learn how to be classy, of course.

 

The Best Toilet Humor Is A Warm Hug

Recently, while visiting Las Vegas, I got the opportunity to use an incredibly fancy bidet toilet. Let me begin by saying it was by far, hands down, those most enjoyable part of my visit to this fine city. So now that you know where the bar has been set, let me elaborate a little more on why.

When I entered the bathroom, the toilet greeted me with an extremely friendly “hello”. First, a pleasant melody rang out from somewhere in its underpinnings. Then the lid gently opened and lit up like an iridescent Christmas tree. I felt like I had just walked by the Red-Light-District of toilets and this gem was ready to put out.

Feeling more welcome on this device than any casino I had set foot in, I happily dropped trou and sat down onto a warm and slightly smooshy seat. By “smooshy”, I mean that feeling you get from touching a high-tech, synthetic object. Like the kind of pliable but hard plastic covering your mobile phone. You know what I mean?  It’s got a little give and when you touch it but you kind of want to see if you can squash it with your finger, or bite it with your teeth. Ok wait, I just looked it up, they call that silicone. Ok, I guess you could say it was like a firm boob. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Once firmly planted on the seat, the music began playing again. Stylistically I’d say it fell somewhere between a lullaby and a circus on quaaludes. As I felt my bum getting gradually warmer, I turned to notice a television remote control’s worth of buttons. And I mean like, Dish Network, four-hundred-channels-sized, remote control. Some of my options included:

• Temperature
• Speed
• Pulse
• Aim
• Scented
• Nurturing
• Punishing
• Dopey
• Date with Russian Mobster
• Just Lost My Life Savings
• Want To Lose My Virginity
• Oops I Just Lost My Virginity
• Let’s Pretend This Never Happened
• Spicy Enchilada
• All-You-Can-Eat-Buffet
• Shouldn’t Have Eaten Shrimp Off That Hooker’s Ass

So when I finally decided on the button that read, “Wash the dust off my nether regions from the festival in the desert”, I pressed the button, got what I needed and smiled.

Then there were the blow dryer options:

• Summer Breeze
• Brazillian Blowout
• Warm Steam Bath
• Airplane Jet Propulsion
• Hot Breath

There were more ways to dry my ass than there were ways to kiss it.

Then accompanied by more happy/serene/don’t-pass-out-on-the-toilet music, I leisurely got up feeling like my butt had been through a car wash. (And not the seven dollar ones you do out of desperation, but the kind that includes vacuuming and the detailing of your center console, where they suck up the potato chips and pennies out from under your seat.)

The only thing that felt appropriate to do after such a transformative experience was to bring my hands to my chest and bow in respect to this creature that had soothed me in ways I have only dreamt about on my private vision board.

So if you do decide to go to Las Vegas for any reason, I highly suggest after you have sullied your mind and body, find one of these gems to wash your spirit and your bottom clean. Or just skip the debauchery all together and go straight to the can. What happens in the bidet, stays in the bidet.

 

Small Acts Of Defiance = I’m A Hero And A Curmudeggon

• When flying I refuse the free pretzels. I have just scant enough willpower to refuse this dry, undersalted snack that I would only otherwise eat under dire circumstances. This also goes for peanuts and raisins. And, this last one might be controversial but I’m saying it anyway, almonds. (I only ingest these when starvation is on the line.) These items neither make me happy to eat nor make me feel like I’ve satiated my body. They make me sad and thirsty. Two things which alone are bad enough, but when paired together, equal complete despair.

• Sometimes I move traffic pylons.  Sometimes I fantasize about moving them around and imagine people driving a roundabout for no apparent reason. But more often, I just use them to get parking spots.

For Example:

“Oh we can’t part there Ted, there’s a traffic pylon.” -Says everyone, always.

 “Oh just move the traffic pylon and park there.” -Says me, always.

• I flip the bird to security cameras in my apartment complex. There is a person who works for the apartments I live in and this person is a foul, mouth-breathing, mud-nugget of a human who often spies on the tenants. So sometimes when I’m resenting the fact that they behave like the anti-christ, I will flip the bird to those little cameras before heading off to get a good night’s sleep.

• I am extra nice to rude people. Sometimes when people are acting like mouth-breathing, mud-nuggets, and my first instinct is to air-punch them in my mind, I instead find something to compliment them on. Maybe it’s their thick gold chain or their pushy attitude, but I’ll find some way to compliment them and change that snarky, immeasurably annoying behavior into a win for me. At least this is what I tell myself. They may have towed my car, but I got to tell them how much I appreciate them looking out for the city’s clean streets! Do your job, sir! And thank you for that $400 life lesson I’ll remember for years to come!

 

The BBC Jingle Excites Me

Is it just me who gets excited when I hear the BBC News jingle come on the radio? It reminds me of driving around late at night with a snack in my car, (which I’ll have to clean out of my center console later) avoiding going home and dealing with the imminent responsibilities that await me. Instead, I’ll sit rapt listening to the BBC News, munching on a vegan donut while throwing back a cold bottle of fizzy water. There’s just something about driving in the dark while listening to the UK’s take on our corrupt government that makes me feel a sense of comfort unlike any other.

Strangely enough, the same thing happens when I hear the HBO jingle. That wash of white noise as though someone is turning the channel on an analog television, gets me all revved up. This is because I am so conditioned to only watch it when a new season of Game Of Thrones is on. So this rare pavlovian response signals to my body, “Oooh! It’s time for violence, boobs, ale, and animal pelts!” And while I’m not a fan of three out of the four of those things, I get full-body chills every time I hear that jingle play.

 

I Think I Am A Pumpkin-ist

Meaning, I am biased against pumpkins. Who thinks it’s ok to exploit these ugly little creatures to the point of total and utter disdain? I tried eating a pumpkin protein bar the other day and you know what? It’s just wrong. I don’t need “pumpkin spice” in my face hole every goddamned minute. This time of year it’s more about looking for places where there isn’t pumpkin stalking your every move.  Pumpkin drinks, pumpkin candles, pumpkin cakes, cookies, beer, foot lotion, sex lubricant, and motor oil are all adorned with this inescapable seasonal disorder. And you know what? I don’t want it. I know I might lose five of my seven readers over this, but I want pumpkin where the good Lord intended us to get it: in our pies and on our porches, scaring little children into submission.

And with that, I will conclude my list of arbitrary experiences. May your bottom get all the love it deserves, may your pumpkin sightings be sparse, and may the sound of my voice always excite you.