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It was a momentous day in the neighborhood as all the kids were buzzing about the next big thing to arrive on the block. Though nobody could pinpoint exactly how or where this new marvel had first appeared, we all knew it would be something significant; as soon as we could figure out what to do with it. The object of our new found fascination was actually a large wooden spool used for transporting heavy cable. Somehow, my friend had commandeered the empty spool. When stood up on its side, the object was as big as a round picnic table.

My gang of kid engineers went to work immediately on the task of trying to determine the best function for the artifact. Though we could have stopped at turning it into a big table, this application seemed pitifully lame for such a glorious thing. For a time we experimented with the idea of using the spool as a launch pad for the tire swing that was rigged up in my friend’s back yard. We practiced getting four or five of us up on top of the spool, and leaping unbelievable distances, one at a time, to see how many boys could reach the swing and grab on before it got too far away to make the jump.

After about a hundred rounds of imagining ourselves to be mountain climbers, making a life and death leap across the great divide, the spool began to sway and shake from the burden of this activity. At this point, one of the slats in the center of the spool loosened up enough to fall out. There was a few moments of concern as we assessed the damage to our launch pad. We turned it over to get a look at the center area, and saw that it now resembled two huge wheels that were connected by a center axle. With the one slat missing, we peered down inside the center axle, and discovered a hollow chamber formed by the slats that were still in place. Like a bolt of lightning, we all suddenly realized we now had a vehicle.

In no time at all, we were rolling the spool toward the nearest downhill slope, excited about planning our launch of its maiden voyage. Poised with anticipation at the top of the hill, the next step was the selection of a test pilot for the trip. As fate would have it, the only one small enough to squeeze into the middle of the spool was my younger brother. It just so happened that my brother had vertigo problems when it came to anything which spun. A few twirls in a swing, and he was ready to lose his lunch. We considered this limitation for a couple of seconds, but my brother was prepared to make the sacrifice for the sake of science, so into the centrifuge he went, sliding the slats inside the rim to hold him in. Our enthusiasm for the take off was unbridled, as the spool picked up speed in its roll down the hill. In almost no time at all, it accelerated faster than we could run behind it.

The spool whizzed forward, and we could hear the Doppler effect of my brother’s screams as he spun valiantly inside the thing. At the bottom of the hill, the spool kept going. It hit a ditch and went airborne as it crossed the road and crashed into the ditch on the other side. We saw it wobble like a UFO as it flew through the air, and watched with horror as it exploded into pieces upon landing. Everybody in the ground crew raced to the scene of the crash. As we looked down on the rubble, my brother was on his back amongst the ruins, staring up at the sky in a daze.

I was the first to speak, “Are you all right, Joe?”

Joe’s answer was slow and deliberate, “Yeah, I guess so,” he replied. Then almost as an after thought, he concluded, “But, I’m not going to do it again.”

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Female, Horny, Middle Aged and Behaving Badly

As a woman - I am often surprised to find that many of us do not seem to be in touch with our sensuality or sexuality. Or maybe its because we are not willing to admit to having such feelings - no wonder we’re sometimes called all manner of names. But I digress… I’m not saying that you should hit the town every night with a sign slung around your neck saying “I’m available.” One still has to have an element of decorum and dignity about themselves, especially with the high rate of STD’s lurking around the corner, buy one catch one free. But just be proud that you can experience these feelings about yourself. I often feel very good about myself. It’s not a perverted thing, but a pleasurable feeling - an exciting sensation - part of life, so face up to it babes. Then again, when the lusting is directed at a man who is less than half ones age - then that is when it becomes a problem. (Do I hear someone say stone her?).

So, about two years ago I realised that I was heading to hell most rapidly. I was showing signs of becoming a frustrated ole bag and had my friend, God Bless her with many afflictions, Miss Goody-Two shoes, not pulled me up - I may now be dating a very young “boy” or as she wickedly put it “somebody’s child.” Oh how I wish God would bless her with many afflictions - can’t a woman have a bit of fun? So on this particular morning and with the sun shinning and it being very warm and all that, my hormones had started to sluggishly kick in. After all I was no longer a spring chicken and the hormones took a lot longer to get themselves into gear. But as far as I was concerned, I wasn’t dead yet and once those hormones got going - nothing would stop them raging. Oh how I roar!!

So on my way to work on this fine day - I went into a Greg’s Bakery in Elephant & Castle, London, UK with a friend (yes even nutters like me have friends) and a fine young….very young man served her. I found myself drooling, my blood pressure rising dangerously high - which I mistook for the gentle flutter of lurv. I had to try and behave, I sadly surmised. I had to remind myself that I was in my mid thirties, a fine, mature, responsible, sensible, horny middle aged woman in the prime of her sexuality. And yes, somewhere in the very far recess of my mind, there was the idea that I did have two children. I still drooled anyway - so there. Therefore, as he was serving my friend I tried not to come across as wanton and other than unbuttoning my cardigan to expose a bit of bosom, well what was left of them had now drooped comfortably to site on my hips - all I could do was drool some more….. was he gorgeous or what. Had the rapture come at that point in time, I would’ve gone to hell a very happy bunny. So I was forced to put my hands behind my back and grasp them tight in case the urge to lounge over the counter took a hold of me and I pinned him urgently to the floor. (Tramp I hear you all say - Yeah you’re right and I ain’t ashamed).

I then decided that I too wanted to purchase something. Yessy, yessy, I too wanted to be his focal point for one second. I gazed at this and that, in serious contemplation as to
About the Author

Esther Austin is in her late thirties and is of Barbadian parentage. She is a published author of comedy, poetry and inspirational books, published under Think Doctor Publications Ltd. She is website Director of www.caribbeanwoman.co.uk. She has two boys, lives in London and loves going to the theatre, loves writing, eating out, playing football, and generally being physically active.

Scott: If you’ve got a time machine, why don’t you just go back and kill Austin Powers when he’s sitting on the crapper or something?

Dr. Evil: Well it’s true! You’re semi-evil. You’re quasi-evil. You’re the margarine of evil. You’re the Diet Coke of evil. Just one calorie, not evil enough.

Felicity Shagwell: Felicity Shagwell, CIA. Shagwell by name, shag very well by reputation.

Fat Bastard: Of course I’m not happy. Look at me, I’m a big fat slob. I’ve got bigger titties than you do. I’ve got more chins than a Chinese phonebook. I’ve not seen my willie in two years, which is long enough to declare it legally dead.

Dr. Evil: I would probably move on, get another clone but there would be a 15 minute period there where I would just be inconsolable.

Dr. Evil: Mini Me, stop humping the laser.

Fat Bastard: I’m bigger than you and higher up the food chain. Get in my belly.

Fat Bastard: First things first: Where’s the shitter? I’ve got a turtle-head poking out.

Austin: I don’t care if he is a fat bastard Felicity. You don’t kick a man in the pills. It’s just not cricket.

http://www.themoviequotesite.com/austin-powers-2-quote.html

About the Author

None

We’ve all been there. You round the corner to your cubical ready
to start the day’s work when you are suddenly accosted by the
familiar stench of a co-worker’s bad breath.

“Here we go again…”, you think. “Another ‘H’-filled tirade
that won’t ever permeate my ears because I’m too busy trying to
keep it from permeating my nose.”

“So anywahhhhy,” continues your co-worker, “Hhhhank
Hhhhenshhhhaaw from Hhhhuman Reshhhhourcess told me ouhhhhhr
401k plahhhhn is an outstahhhhnding invehhhhhstment
optiohhhhhn…”

Somehow, we’d like to think that our forced smile and wilting
eyelashes might tell the offending party that there’s something
less than stellar about the way they are coming across.
Unfortunately, that’s simply wishful thinking. The problem is
that no one knows they have a problem. We seem to be immune to
our own stench, and unlike Willy Nelson’s muse, it’s never on
our minds.

So how do you tell someone that their breathe is causing you to
have a problem differentiating their head from their derriere?
Sure, if it’s someone you know and are comfortable with, you can
try honesty. Still, even honesty has it’s own set of problems.
Do you play it off like it’s a one-time occurrence you just
noticed and hope that mentioning it takes care of the situation
for good? Do you sit them down and have a serious discussion
which could ultimately embarrass them or make you look like the
bad person? How will they react to either scenario? You’d want
to be told if you had bad breath, wouldn’t you? Would you feel
comfortable being told by this person that you have bad breath?
Do you really know them well enough to be discussing this
situation with them?

These are all important questions whose answers will vary with
each unique situation. Still, there are some things you can
avoid saying that are universal across all situations. I have
taken the liberty of listing a few of them below. Remember,
honesty is the best policy, but brutal honesty is often
unnecessary.

# 1 Gee, is that your breath or did I blow my nose right after
wiping my ass?

# 2 And now here’s me with the weather: Thanks, me! Well it
looks like there’s a stank front moving due east from wherever
your mouth happens to be. We’re looking at a 100% chance of
Halitosis throughout the rest of your life. Sports is next
followed by today’s lottery numbers. Stay Tuned!

# 3 I don’t mean to be rude but your horrible breath is melting
my face. To have to stand here and listen to you is agonizingly
painful. Hey, you ever see that “Alien” movie where the alien is
breathing in Sigourney Weaver’s face and she just cringes
because the thing is so scary and because it’s saliva is an acid
that can eat through metal? This is a lot like that because even
though your saliva won’t eat through metal, I’m fairly certain
your mouth-stench will and that is scaring the crap outta me, my
friend. Again, I don’t mean to be rude…

So you see, dear reader, one must choose carefully when
approaching a subject this sensitive. Perhaps honesty is not
always the best policy. Better yet, why not just leave an
anonymous note…and a breath mint.

A BadBreathOGram is an e-mail you send to someone who you want
to know has bad breath but you do not want to confront directly.
Give it a try. http://www.badbreathogram.com/

This is a true story. It was told to me by a guy I met on a Riverboat. That’s how I know it’s true; who could doubt the veracity of a River Rat? He didn’t use any backup singers when he told it to me, but I thought since this is going out on the Internet and all, I should shine it up a bit.

I spared no expense to fly these women in from Nashville. They are, I am proud to tell You, the same backup singers who did all that “Wah-ooo” stuff on C.W. McCall’s records.

I am laboring under a serious deadline, so the singers and I haven’t had much time to practice. We will do the best we can. I’ll play the part of the Trucker (imagine a Red Sovine-ish, Tex-Ritter- On-Acid kind of thing). It goes a little somethin like this:

Singers:

It was a Truck Stop Christmas,
With a light snow fallin down,
In Penciltucky, but it could have been
In any other town.
The miracle that happened
We may never understan,
But, here to tell the story
Is a Truck Drivin Man…

Trucker:
Well, I’z—

Singers:

A Truck Drivin Maa-aan. Wah-ooo.

Trucker:

Skewz me. I’z drivin down a stretch of Interstate, an’ I’z really gettin hungry. Every time I’d hit them airbrakes, I’d hear ‘em sayin, “Peeech Pie!” And my air horn was tellin me how I like my coffee: BLAAAAAK! BLAAAAK! Oh, I know I shouldn of been barrelin down the Interstate, hittin my airbrakes and blarin the horn like Judgment Day—that’s what too much marijuana’ll do to a man. Prob’ly why I was so hungry, too. Yeah, I’d of given a month’s pay for a big ol’ piece of “Peeech Pie!” I was tryin to remember if there was a Truck Stop on this p’tickler stretch of Interstate; that big diesel motor kept tellin me that there “Wudden! Wudden! Wudden-Wudden-Wudden!”

Singers:

Just a homesick gear jammer
Runnin low on love and luck,
Thinkin ’bout his woman,
And talkin to his truck…

Trucker:

I was ’bout to—

Singers:

Talkin to his truu-uuck. Wah-ooo.

Trucker:

I’m sorry…just kind of wave at me or somethin when it’s my turn, okay? I was ’bout to wet my pants when I came whizzin into town; the lights of an unfamiliar Truck Stop caught my eye. When I walked in, there was this old waitress draggin a dirty rag across the novelty mud flap display. She smiled at me and said, “Merry Christmas, Son.” I said, “Lordee, ma’am, is it Christmas already?” She said that yes, yes it was, and I bet my jaw must of hit the floor. Seemed like only yesterday it was October—that’s what too much crystal methadrine’ll do to a man.

She looked at me for a long time, then said, “You know, I had a son who’d be about your age. He took off drivin trucks and I never did hear from him again. I kept hopin he’d stop in here one day—preferably at Christmas, so I’d get a double dose of the willies.”

Well, I put my coffee back in the cup and said, “Ma’am, you can call it coincidence if you want to, but I had a mother who’d be about your age. I talked to Daddy the day before he died, and he told me Mama had missed me so bad, she went out and got a job at a Truck Stop, hopin someday I’d stop in.”

Singers:

A Truck Stop Christmas—
Don’t it make you weep?
The snow continued fallin;
It was really gettin deep…

Trucker:

She said she—

Singers:

Really gettin dee-eeep. Wah-ooo.

Trucker:

Damnit! She said she knew her boy was never gonna walk in at Christmas or any other time, for it was on this p’tickler stretch of Interstate, ten years ago, that her son was toppin a hill and had to swerve to miss a bus load of kids. After he’d plowed through a ditch and nearly turned over, he stuck his head out the window to cuss at the bus driver and his hat blew off. So he jumped out to get it. He should have stopped the truck first, because he was goin 90 miles an hour when he jumped out. Yeah, he was in movin violation of the law of gravity.

She said she hoped I wasn’t too disappointed about her not bein my mother, and I said, “Naw, I figured as much since I was only four years old when my mama started workin at a Truck Stop.” I told her about a driverless truck that had passed me a few miles back: it was goin 90 miles an hour. I didn’t think much about it at the time—that’s what too much Night Train’ll do to a man—but, after hearin her story, I got a case of the hee-bee-gee-beez like you wouldn believe. I leaned across the counter and held onto her tired old hand. I said, “Ma’am, you may not be my mother, but I’ll bet you five dollars against the price of the pie and coffee that you can’t name all 8 reindeer.”

She started to cry and said this was the first time in ten years that Christmas had any meanin for her—she hadn even bothered to put up any decorations. Now that it felt like Christmas, and she knew it would be her last one, all she wished for in the whole wide world was somethin to make it look like Christmas. Well, it just so happened that I was haulin a hot load of cheap, plastic Nativity scenes to Chicago for an eleventh-hour trainload sale. I made up my mind right then an’ there that this old woman was gonna have one of ‘em if it drove every dime store in Chi Town out of business. I said, “You wait right here, Ma’am; this is gonna be the best Christmas you ever had!”

Well…that’s when I woke up.
[military-drums-in-the-distance]

I woke up in a foxhole…about 15 miles from White Sands Missile Range. The First Sergeant was shakin me. When I looked up at him, there was a look of curiosity and concern in the narrow eyes that so resembled elongated lug nuts, chiseled into the weather-beaten leather that was his face—two eyes, one on either side of his nose. He told me that I’d been yellin in my sleep, somethin ’bout drivin a truck.

I said, “But, Sarge! I am a Truck Driver!”

The curiosity and concern melted into a combination of compassion and sarcasm—with just a touch of amused weariness. He said, “Son, you are not a Truck Driver, for you see, that would be impossible.”

“Why do you say that, Sarge?”

“For two reasons,” Sarge said: “One, you are a chimpanzee. Two, you don’t even have a driver’s license.”

Well, I thought about that for a moment. My disappointment turned to resignation. I quietly asked Sarge, “If…if I’m not a Truck Driver, then what am I?”

Sarge said, “Speak up, son, I can’t hear you.”

So I says out loud, I says, “If…if I’m not a Truck Driver, then what am I?”

He said, “You are an Astronaut. You just got back from a 5-year trip around the Planet, Pluto. I don’t know what happened to you up there, but I do know this: you are not a Truck Driver.”

I sat there, chewin on that one for a good long while.

Sarge poured us both some coffee. The long silence was broken when I said, “Sarge, what month is this?”

He told me it was August.

“Well,” I said, liftin my cup, “Feliz Nuevo Año, Sarge.”

Sarge grinned, and raised his cup. “Happy Halloween, Kid.”

I poured coffee all down the front of my flight suit—that’s what too much weightlessness’ll do to a man.

Singers:

It was a Truck Stop Christmas
With magic in the air;
It was the nightmare of a monkey,
And a Mother’s answered prayer.
A mystery, a miracle,
We’ll never understan;
But it’s notarized and witnessed
By a Truck Drivin Man…
A Truck Drivin Maa-aan. Wah-ooo.

About the Author

In God’s Trombones, James Weldon Johnson tells of an old-time preacher who announces, “Brothers and sisters, this morning—I intend to explain the unexplainable—find out the undefinable—ponder over the imponderable—and unscrew the inscrutable.” This author seeks to do all that, plus take it a step further and eff the ineffable.

Tom Hale is a featured author at wizardboys.com.

Out of Africa An Improbable Tail
A few weeks ago there was a small stir of excitement in our area, which briefly lit up the gloom of our northern Scottish winter like the Northern Lights, which are quite visible to us at this latitude. Apparently a man - a Marine, no less - had walked, wearing nothing but a grin and a beard straight out of Lord of the Rings, from the south of England into Scotland, up past Loch Ness and the Highlands where I live, and on to the very northernmost point, John O’Groats - in winter. A Scottish winter, at that.

I’m not sure where his starting point was but he must have walked about six hundred miles. Forest Gump would have been impressed. It was either a very brave, or foolhardy course of action, depending on your point of view but it certainly bought him his fifteen minutes of fame. There he was on TV, being carefully filmed from the waist up, the way they used to film Elvis Presley in the early days.

“Everyone”, he said, “should be free to follow my example if they’ve a mind to”. ‘Not even as a joke’, thought the whole of Scotland, ‘and even less in winter’ The police didn’t see the funny side of it either. He was arrested five or six times and spent several nights in prison cells, covered by a blanket (the police’s idea, not his). I remember scanning the local papers for the headline ‘Man arrested for palely loitering’, but it wasn’t to be. I still think they missed one there.

” He was certainly persistant. He finally arrived at his destination and no, he didn’t throw himself off a high point into the North Sea, which some people thought (I won’t say hoped) might be the logical end to his journey. As far as I know he got dressed, took a train to his hometown and quietly faded back into obscurity, leaving us with a memory, like the Cheshire cat’s grin. All this was, I suppose, to make the point that he had the inalienable right to freeze anytime he had a mind to. Well, point taken, but this little saga set me thinking. Why have we never had our own coat, like other animals? ‘But we do’, I hear you cry, ‘and anyway I’m not an animal’. Oh yes you most certainly are, Madam, and besides, I mean the kind of coat you’re born with.

“Almost every animal, from a mouse to a moose has a coat. Ok, elephants don’t, and maybe hippos, but I suppose they have extra thick skin to compensate. No, beyond dispute, we are the only animal that has to keep warm by getting dressed every morning by the fire.
The reason we are coatless seems fairly obvious. Didn’t we start out under the hot sun of Africa, and so had no need of a natural coat? Hmm… then how about gorillas, who share 98% of our genes? They’re pretty hairy, no question, so why didn’t they shed their coat? You don’t see them prancing about in their bare skin?

Alright, let’s try it from a different angle. Why did we move out of Africa? I have a theory. Suppose the other animals started snickering behind their paws as they watched us tottering around on our spindly legs? Or maybe we just thought we detected a sardonic look or two. No, really, I’m serious. Anybody who’s ever played tag with a dog in the garden knows how clumsy they think we are. Just watch as Bracken feints to the left and then effortlessly switches direction in mid-stride as Master sprawls into the rosepatch. And they’re our friends.

We all know the human race is notoriously sensitive to criticism, and I don’t suppose the animal kingdom took us very seriously before we equipped ourselves with guns, boots, Landrovers etc. Perhaps a few of the more vulnerable and touchy families got together one day and decided to head out for colder climes, where it would be possible to dress up and hide their bony knees without feeling they were being stared at.

I read somewhere that the whole population of northern Europeans could be traced back to about five gene types (genotypes?). If I understand this right it means that around five families were responsible for the diversity of virtually the whole of Western culture from Boadicea (Boudicca to Guardian readers) to George Bush. Nepotism on a grand scale. So, bearing this true and staggering fact in mind, my theory about our neurotic ancestors could account for a lot of things, couldn’t it?

What do you mean, ‘In a pigs eye’? Don’t you know people laughed at Darwin when he brought out his theory, and they would certainly have done the same to Einstein if they’d understood what he was talking about? Anyway, if I’m right, my idea throws some light on seemingly irrational activities like war, mud wrestling and round-the-world yacht racing.

A large claim, you may say, but consider; those pioneer Europeans who came trudging all the way from the plains of Africa (I seem to recall reading in a book by H.G.Wells that they came from India, but I’ll think about that tomorrow); these hardy pioneers, like so many Pilgrim Fathers searching for a new horizon, went to an awful lot of trouble just to soothe their wounded dignity and avoid ridicule. (Remember? They were laughed out of Africa? - try to keep up, it all fits).

Now, does any of this seem familiar? You betcha. It’s the M.O. of just about every politician you ever heard of. One imagined slight and you have shoes banged on conference tables, and sanctions applied at the very least, and at the worst - well, you know what I’m saying. And there you have it. These are the same guys who led us out of swampy old Africa in the year dot - give or take a couple of millennia.

Neat theory,eh? Better than the string theory. I wonder why nobody ever thought of it before? It’s a pity though, that it doesn’t seem to have any practical application. I mean, you couldn’t gather up all our leaders and put them back in the African veldt. Could you?

As for our friend the intrepid Marine, who trekked all the way up north in his birthday suit - he’s done Scotland; maybe he should try Africa next.

James Collins
http://www.pet-portraits-scotland.com
email: collinsdallasart@tiscali.co.uk

About the Author

James Collins is an artist, writer and musician who works in the Highlands of Scotland. These days he specialises in portraits of pets and other animals, but he still finds time to paint and draw the beautiful and rugged Scottish landscape. He lives with his wife, daughter and three dogs in a house overlooking the Moray Firth.

SPOUSE AS MINDREADER

Well, I’m here to tell you that’s not gonna happen. Though it’s
amazing how many people expect mindreading in a relationship.
Particularly women. See, we women think we can read our
partner’s minds, and can’t understand why its not reciprocated.
The good news is, obviously, that no one can read anyone’s mind.
That’s not communicating, that’s very very very wishful, and
often destructive, thinking. Actually, you might want to really
reconsider this wish. Imagine if he or she could read everything
in your mind?

Example of woman thinking she’s mindreading: Husband is
watching tv, gorgeous, sexy female appears in an ad. Wife
mistakenly mindreads: “You’re thinking about how much prettier
she is than me, aren’t you? You’re thinking you’d really like to
have sex with her, admit it! If you COULD have one time out on
our commitment, you’d be with her, wouldn’t you?” Now, the poor
guy is really wondering if tonight is a green light with his
wife(he obviously has no shot with the actress on tv) but now he
doesn’t go for it because he might get in more trouble. She gets
pissed at him for “lying” to her, and now he doesn’t dare come
on to her because he’s pissed her off (no clue why) when really
she wants him to mindread that she wants him to come on to
her….. but has chosen a less than effective way of
communicating this to him…

Better would be: Honey, I feel so insecure when I see those
gorgeous models on tv. Do you still want me like you used to? I
guarantee you’ll both get what you want with this straitforward
approach!

Example of male mindreading: The man gets into bed and, figuring
the bed is a mating mat even though he’s been advised hundreds
of time to the contrary, mindreads that she really wants him
tonight and is just too shy to come right out and say it (see
above). He jumps her bones and either gets shoved off or she
plays dead through the whole thing (admit it, women: for spite).

Better: subtle communication works best here. Offer a back
rub, or a foot rub, and very slowly work your way to the desired
destination. Give her some time to enjoy the relaxation and get
in the mood. Minimal communication would be: does that feel
good? Telling her why you love her or her specific physical
attributes communicates that you still think she’s hot. Don’t
expect her to mindread how sexy you think she is. We never get
tired of hearing it.

Paris Hilton and Jennifer Garner are the most popular people
these days on the Web search engines.

Honest. They’re right up there with poetry, Google, and Amoxil.

My question is why?

I mean, Amoxil I understand. People are searching to find out
what it is.

And, of course, everybody needs stuff that rhymes.

And Google. You can’t find poetry or Paris Hilton or Jennifer
Garner or anything else without Google.

What I really don’t understand is why Paris is number one and
Jennifer is number four.

I can see why Jennifer is popular. I’ve seen her on “Alias” and
she can really kick.

Can Paris Hilton kick? I think not.

You want a bad guy’s face kicked in, even if you’ve got her cell
number you’re not gonna call Paris Hilton.

Her bio on ABC says, in addition to kicking, Jennifer also can
cook, garden, and hike.

Can Paris cook and garden? Well, maybe, since she did go to
Wal-Mart once.

Paris’s bio on KidzWorld.com says she was in “The Cat in the
Hat” and the “House of Wax,” the kind of movies you get when you
can’t kick.

But maybe Paris Hilton is number one because she doesn’t have
super dimples.

Jennifer Garner has the cutest dimples this side of Shirley
Temple’s Cabbage Patch doll. You’d think great kicking would
offset dimples, but the dimples are probably what’s keeping
Jennifer from being number one.

What else could it be?

Or maybe Jennifer’s pregnancy has had a negative effect on her
kicking.

And Paris is keeping the ring!

Jennifer would never keep the ring.

Oh well.

Madonna is number 300.

Can’t argue with that.

When I was born, I nearly died!

The vet said that I was too thick for the average pelvis, whatever that is.

My schoolteacher (bless her), always said that if I had two brains, I’d be twice as thick.
Not half as smart!

Anyway, I think of it as a compliment.

Granted, my head is a bit on the big side and the thickness of my skull is about an inch, but it never had an adverse effect on my ability to study the social habits of puppies and indigenous hedgehogs.

My hands are also a little on the large side. This did affect my dreams to become a pianist, a neurosurgeon, and a transvestite, but little else. I may well achieve all three dreams, as dreams are make believe and can be pharmacologically induced, what ever that is as well.

My feet are kinda clumsy as well but that is likely to be due to the fact that my small toes are larger than my “big” ones. I must wear my left shoe on my right foot, but that comes easy to me. And always did!

I do admit some confusion though, when it comes to the second shoe and foot.
What harm. No big deal.

Ok, I do have a funny shaped arse, but so do many people and I even have a pup with a puzzling posterior.

Dates can be difficult, and prunes can be pleasant.

My knob has a twist on it, but a twist is better than a turn.

My nose does give me problems all right, but if I had smaller fingers, it wouldn’t. It is much the same as my backside in that respect!

Education was never a problem, in dreams or in fact. I always thought of it as a pass-time for people who were stupid to begin with.

Romance in my life is a bit limited, simply because I don’t know what it is, or where to get it.

Money! I always had money because I inherited a pig farm. I don’t run it however, and don’t see the point in getting covered in excrement and porcine snot when I can manage both, without any pigs.

I live in a trailer, and enjoy a minimalist environment, and don’t have the space anyway.

I love Indian food, Russian Vodka, cotton burkas, the absence of Art and the occasional hirsutophile, with or without “jelly babies”.

Musically, I just love whistling and underarm acoustics in concert, and when possible.

My ideal partner was typically female with a classical education, no sense of smell, a tolerance for her own insomnia (which they seem to develop), and some mastery with a loofah.

I fear though, that such partners are a dying breed, and I may not meet any more of them.

However, I will settle for anyone bereft of the above qualities, except the sense of smell caveat.

If I had to live my life again, I’d do so without the curried fries of the 1980’s and with better ear maintenance during the 1960’s. The rest, was perfect!

Thick Mick is an “expert” columnist with http://www.TheTrivialTimes.com

Please forgive his dementia as someone who had to be the first to suffer a nut allergy.

My wife and I need to exercise more. Every time we leave the house we notice vultures circling overhead in anticipation and now our washing machine is doing that nasty thing where it shrinks our clothes. So, in a moment of pure inspiration and absolutely no intelligent thought whatsoever, we decide to take up mountain biking. We could remember biking as kids and there was nothing to it. We set out to purchase our bikes with the fond memory of a cool breeze gently blowing in our faces.

One of the very first things we discover is that the seats are too small. Apparently they are now making the seats smaller than in our youth. The clerk smiles knowingly and smugly suggests that for the more mature biking enthusiasts they can attach foam padding. There is, of course, an extra charge. My wife chooses the padding and is currently riding around on what looks like a bucket seat from a 1967 Buick. I, on the other hand, have decided to save the additional expense and go without the padding. My proctologist has assured me that the tingling in my left buttock should fade away with time.

Early saturday morning we prepare for our first cycling adventure. We decide to leave early to insure we’ll be back before dark. My wife is to travel in front and carry a fanny pack with suntan lotion, a first aid kit and our medical insurance cards. Her job is to set the pace. My job is to follow behind and criticize. I’ll be carrying a backpack filled with: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (for subsistence), energy bars (for endurance), 2 jugs of Gatorade (to replenish our bodily fluids), rain gear (in case of inclement weather), a map and compass (in case we get lost), a flashlight (in case we’re lost at night), and signal flares (to assist the search party).

We go over the route one final time. I spread the map out on the kitchen table, pointer in hand and carefully review the emergency procedures. “If separated, we will rendezvous either here, at check-point Charlie, or here, at check-point Romeo.”

“We’ve been over this four times already,” my wife complains, obviously taking the whole adventure much too lightly and showing no respect for my superior training and experience. After all, I was the one who spent nearly two full years in the Cub Scouts, not her. Fortunately, I understand the seriousness of the task ahead and have taken the necessary precautions.

We’re finally ready to put our weeks of training and preparations to use. It’s time to venture forth and boldly go where no sane middle-aged couple has gone before — it’s time to leave our driveway.

We brief the kids. “Now remember, while we are gone we want one of you to remain by the phone at all times in case we need to call for assistance.”

“But you’re only going around the block,” the kids complain. “The house will be in sight the entire time.”

Ah, the innocence of youth. They oversimplify everything.

Gary Mosher has had stories published in ‘Funny Stuff’ and ‘Comic Relief’ magazines and is co-author of the award winning book ‘Buddha in the Boardroom’ available from Bodhi Tree Publishing at http://www.Bodhitreepublishing.com

Visit his blog at http://www.Buddhaintheboardroom.blogspot.com