Blog envy
Over the last few days, feverish with a searing boredom, I have been bloghopping like a muhfuh. I have also realized how absolutely inadequate my own blog's content is.
Partly it's my own feckless nature. I have received explicit directions for adding counters, pictures, etc. to my blog...and, while I firmly intend to effect those changes, I haven't yet. But deeper still, I seem to be unable to post anything to do with real vexation, marital discord/strife, substance abuse, mental health problems, serious financial worries, serious health concerns, loathsome relatives or relatives-in-law (actual or potential) or sharply rebuking the mores with which I was reared.
In fact, all of these can be summed up by a blog which Poppy related to me (so the following may be apocryphal or at least wildly inaccurate) about a guy whose wife is CLEARLY suffering from post-partum depression and, since women suffering from post-partum depression are likely not to feel randily amorous, he spends a considerable time releasing his pent up stress via the, er, visual aid afforded him by the Internet. To take this tale to whole new depths, he seemingly contains (not, mind you, conceals) the evidence in his baby's burp cloth; and then leaves the aforementioned cloth for his PPDing wife to find. The punchline: He feels victimized.
I cannot compete with that. Hell, I can't even get in a starting block in the same stadium as that. The train-wreck appeal of the unfolding dysfunction of something like that, is, quite frankly, damned impressive. All I can do is ramble about clothes and audiovisual gear and Italian sports cars, and maybe New Wave music, PG Wodehouse and Harry Potter. I choose not to rant about religion (mine or others') or politics. In the street lingo of the 80s--clearly my milieu--I am "takin' it light."
Some, clearly more enlightened and less judgmental souls than I, will ponder how people like the Burp Cloth Bandit can post such things for, as it were, public consumption. Of course, beneath the veneer of fair and openminded tolerance, I am a complete prick and as such I wonder how this guy could be shipped off to live with some aboriginal tribe, where a wife suffering from PPD is more likely to spear him and braise him for the next Amazon Basin Potluck if he were to be caught releasing his frustrations on the baby's burp banana leaf, using some lurid cave paintings as fodder for his self-abuse.
But, in the interest of bettering my blog for you, dear reader, I will relate a relatively sordid story of my very immediate past. Last night I awoke, my naughty bits afire. No, sadly, not THAT way and, quite fortunately, not literally afire. They sure FELT as if they were in mid-combustion or possibly as if a pack of rats were gnawing upon them. I immediately--tears streaming down my cheeks--repaired to our bathroom to investigate the crisis. It seems that for as yet unexplored reasons, SEVERAL big-ass globs of detergent powder had lodged and caked themselves in the most inconvenient spots of my underclothing possible. As the evening wore on, body heat released the magical cleansing goodness upon my delicate parts. Said magical cleansing goodness (clearly new and improved) immediately took it upon itself to do its work upon my, um, person causing great discomfort.
But this all pales with the speechlessness which immediately follows being busted--at 3am by one's wife--in a bathtub with one's afflicted portions covered by a soothing blanket of ice cubes.
Partly it's my own feckless nature. I have received explicit directions for adding counters, pictures, etc. to my blog...and, while I firmly intend to effect those changes, I haven't yet. But deeper still, I seem to be unable to post anything to do with real vexation, marital discord/strife, substance abuse, mental health problems, serious financial worries, serious health concerns, loathsome relatives or relatives-in-law (actual or potential) or sharply rebuking the mores with which I was reared.
In fact, all of these can be summed up by a blog which Poppy related to me (so the following may be apocryphal or at least wildly inaccurate) about a guy whose wife is CLEARLY suffering from post-partum depression and, since women suffering from post-partum depression are likely not to feel randily amorous, he spends a considerable time releasing his pent up stress via the, er, visual aid afforded him by the Internet. To take this tale to whole new depths, he seemingly contains (not, mind you, conceals) the evidence in his baby's burp cloth; and then leaves the aforementioned cloth for his PPDing wife to find. The punchline: He feels victimized.
I cannot compete with that. Hell, I can't even get in a starting block in the same stadium as that. The train-wreck appeal of the unfolding dysfunction of something like that, is, quite frankly, damned impressive. All I can do is ramble about clothes and audiovisual gear and Italian sports cars, and maybe New Wave music, PG Wodehouse and Harry Potter. I choose not to rant about religion (mine or others') or politics. In the street lingo of the 80s--clearly my milieu--I am "takin' it light."
Some, clearly more enlightened and less judgmental souls than I, will ponder how people like the Burp Cloth Bandit can post such things for, as it were, public consumption. Of course, beneath the veneer of fair and openminded tolerance, I am a complete prick and as such I wonder how this guy could be shipped off to live with some aboriginal tribe, where a wife suffering from PPD is more likely to spear him and braise him for the next Amazon Basin Potluck if he were to be caught releasing his frustrations on the baby's burp banana leaf, using some lurid cave paintings as fodder for his self-abuse.
But, in the interest of bettering my blog for you, dear reader, I will relate a relatively sordid story of my very immediate past. Last night I awoke, my naughty bits afire. No, sadly, not THAT way and, quite fortunately, not literally afire. They sure FELT as if they were in mid-combustion or possibly as if a pack of rats were gnawing upon them. I immediately--tears streaming down my cheeks--repaired to our bathroom to investigate the crisis. It seems that for as yet unexplored reasons, SEVERAL big-ass globs of detergent powder had lodged and caked themselves in the most inconvenient spots of my underclothing possible. As the evening wore on, body heat released the magical cleansing goodness upon my delicate parts. Said magical cleansing goodness (clearly new and improved) immediately took it upon itself to do its work upon my, um, person causing great discomfort.
But this all pales with the speechlessness which immediately follows being busted--at 3am by one's wife--in a bathtub with one's afflicted portions covered by a soothing blanket of ice cubes.
Comments
2. Let me dig up the url to the baby-burp-cloth gruming Used Car Salesman's blog so we can gang up on him and bitchslap him right smack in the comments.
--P.
2- It's OK to be insensitive, since I compensate for it with my newfound sensitiveness.
3- And why does the Used Car Salespersonhood of the Burp Cloth Bandit not surprise me?
-J.
http://letaripper.blogspot.com/2005/02/happy-valentines-day.html
--P.
Mah.
Gawd.
But on the other hand, he is a vomituous stoner, so if his wife won't surrender to his desires, clearly there are other women who, by the horde, will.
It may have to go into my novel*.
*_Wearing Hair Socially_