A TOOL of the Lord

I don't care what I look like;
chicks dig me!

I can remember eavesdropping on a series of talks my parents had with my older sister regarding not smoking, not drinking, not hanging out with the wrong crowd and absolutely not being one of ‘‘those types of girls”.  They might seem cool and popular, they cautioned, but it was an illusion.  Boys only wanted them for one thing, then they’d throw them away like yesterday’s newspaper.

I ignored most of it because like all young teens, I knew it all and my parents were dopes.  But they did pique my interest with all that talk about 'those types of girls'.  I wanted desperately to meet some.  Or at least one.  And one would do because I didn't accept their disposability theory.

Their “yesterday’s newspaper” analogy sounded purposefully misleading.  To a hopelessly horny virgin teen sex was like gold.  If I found a goose that laid golden eggs and was willing to give said eggs to me? -I would never never throw that goose away.  Years went by before I got to test my theory.  But it was worth the wait.  And I was proven correct.  And it was worth the wait.  Did I mention how much the wait was worth it?  If not let me reassure you, it was.

When I found a girl like that I didn’t treat her like yesterday’s newspaper.  Not one bit.  I treated her like yesterday’s dinner plate.  Sure she’s all sloppy and covered with crumbs, oily stains and whatever other detritus from yesterdays fantastic meal.  So what if that plate was now a little crusty and beginning to smell?  You don’t throw out a good dinner plate.  You wash it off and use it again.  

And the same goes for easy girls.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  The great thing though was unless she was a real skank you could count on her to do her own washing and rinsing.  The repeating was, heh heh, up to you.

Still on a doomed mission to save my eternal soul, the folks tried to convince me I was hurting girls like this.  I was prolonging their suffering by giving them a cheap substitute for love, when love was what they really needed.  As I pondered this I'd sometimes hear them talk about somebody who'd hit rock bottom by sagely stating "Best thing for them. Now the only way is up.  I think god set that up."  If it was a drunk driver hitting a tree, then that tree was a tool to stop them dead in their tracks.  If it was a punk getting arrested and doing some time, it was god who dropped a dime on them.  Whatever it was, the misfortune was deemed a blessing in disguise.  I tried calling them on it once and all I got was a lofty "The Lord works in mysterious ways.  That *whatever* was his tool."

And that ended any doubts I had about 'using' any of 'that kind of girl'.  Yes, she may have felt cheap afterwards, and lost even more self esteem.  Especially if I only called her when I felt like it, and only for sex.  I'm just helping her hit rock bottom, so she can rebound and find her higher self.  It's kind of a public service if you think about it.  The Lord does work in mysterious ways.  And me?  I was happy to be the tool.

I Rule the Night

Or so I imagine.

As I walk through Times Square to get to my office I also imagine the city as somewhat like this.  All manor of night creatures skulking about on business best left unquestioned.



This was found appropriately enough at DeviantArt after I googled
"I rule the night"


Actually it only feels like this, like I'm some creature unfit for the light of day, but empowered by the glow of the moon.  Anybody can walk the Square at noon.  Try it at midnight.  Try it again at 3 or 5.

But I don't out in the Square.  My office is clean and safe.  It's actually quite nice; temperture controlled, well lit, and regularly patrolled.  They keep the vending machines well stocked too and the bathrooms are always clean. 

I'm starting to adjust to my new slot.  It suits me well.  There's no distractions in the office at all and I get plenty done.  After I get home, sleep and wake again it's early afternoon and I have hours to enjoy the sun, the pool and get things done before my family gets home to find I've made dinner.  Then a few quality hours with them before hopping a quiet bus back.  Back to my realm.

My realm.

Where I

RULE


...my cubicle.  (let's be real)

Celebrating 5 Years -with wood?

Not that kind of wood, perverts!  (Well, maybe a little after dinner and a nightcap)

I am actually referring to the traditional gift for a 5 year anniversary.  A googled listing says it’s wood.  Wood.  Perplexing.

After sealing our love with 5 years of marriage, one new house, two adopted dogs, one child (my finest work ever), and one new family SUV (to safely transport my finest work ever), one devastating flood, and one endless rebuilding process -I should mark the most important half-decade of our lives with the momentous gift of

So many to choose from! -but which pair of Klompen (good
for stompin') says "Happy 5th Anniversary" the best?

...toothpicks?

...chopsticks?

...Dutch shoes?

Seems a little underwhelming.

IF I were God… I could gift her that which she’s working so hard for lately; a remade body.  I’d wave my, uh, wood (to be traditional) and just give it to her.  Afterwoods of course, I’d give it to her.

But since I’m (regrettably) not god, what should I give her?

Friday the 13th, TEST DAY

It’s here again; the day those of us with mental means -rich of reason, if not actual riches- gets to separate ourselves from the mentally meager, the logically lacking, the steeped in superstition.  Yes, there are still some people even in this, the 23rd century, who hold superstitions (or as some would mock ‘stupidstitions’) like a second religion.  

These are the kind of people who take great care in not stepping on any cracks in the sidewalk, lest they cause traumatic spinal injuries to their female parent.

They will turn away and change direction if they spot a feline with black fur about to cross their path.

They’ll believe they’re screwed -and not in a good way- if they break a mirror.

They won’t walk under a ladder not because it’s inherently unsafe, but because it’s ‘bad luck’.

It gives me an idea for a ethnic-neutral IQ test I could sell the government; a ladder made of black cats and broken mirrors, placed over a path riddled with cracks, -and we’ll see who walks under without a problem, who hesitates, and who refuses.  It can be timed and graded accordingly.

In fact I think they should have this set-up at the front door to all standardized testing facilities; the SAT’s, MCATs, and LSATs.  Kind of a pre-screening if you will.  Only those who pass under should be allowed to take those standardized tests.  Do you realize what we’re all risking by not?

You could be on the table for emergency brain surgery when your superstitious surgeon comes across the blackened blood clot.  It’s shaped like a cat.  He runs screams from the operating theater.  You on the other hand, never scream.  Or run.  Or go to the theater.  Ever again.

You could be facing a double homicide charge, on trial for your life, and your superstitious lawyer decides on a ‘bad luck’ defense; “Your honor, although we concede my client chased the two deceased for blocks and fired a total of 27 shots -after reloading twice- we feel it is of paramount importance to note that the victims not only ran under a workman’s ladder, but collapsed between the Black Cat dress shop and a Friday’s eatery, ON 13th street!  And though several of the shots passed through their bodies, exactly 13 slugs were found still lodged inside them.  THIRTEEN, your honor.  Thirteen.  It’s obvious these two were inherently and profoundly unlucky.  Something bad was bound to happen to them.  And since we all know luck is part of the natural order of these things, it really just makes my client a tool of fate, of nature even.  I move that all charges be dismissed as the victims clearly died of natural causes!  Defense rests.”

So beware the menace of the superstitious.  They should not just be mocked, but carefully avoided.  The risks are too great.

It wouldn’t even be a bad idea to have the mirrorcat ladder at the emergency room entrance.  If somebody is badly injured, but still doesn’t want to enter under it then we don’t force them.  Do we really need them surviving and diluting the gene pool?  Isn’t the shallow end dangerously low enough at this point?

A Night Stalker Again

 



This is not my job, though I do like the hat.

 It's been four years since I was a creature of the night, and in two weeks I'll return to that life.  No, I'm not going vampire.  My working hours are changing, going back to 9 to 5.  PM to AM -as in through midnight and into the next morning.

With my wife at her normal-houred job and child at daycare my 'home alone' time will triple.  This does not mean I'll be playing video games and net surfing.  I'll be able to put more time into setting my house right, like a good boy. :o)

So how did this come about?

My firm's an international outfit with offices in nearly every time zone.  Any one of them can need my research specialty at any time, so there I'll be.  All alone.  Working diligently.  Unsupervised.  Not writing or drawing any cartoons or graphic novel ideas I've been mulling forever.

So don't look for any of that here.  But if one (or 50) happen to pop up now and then, rest assured they were done on my free time.  Possibly in my sleep.

Frankly, I can't wait.