Sunday, February 17, 2008
Blogging the Unbloggable--Like Really! Country Joe and the Fish
The first thing I do in the morning is open my eyes to see if my cigrette is drawing properly, run to the mirror to see if I've lost any more hair (Hey, I've still got some!) and then come out of the washroom with the sense that I'd forgotten something.
Guess what I forgot. Heh. You do that too?
Says the Newfie: "You not feeling yourself? It was a nasty habit anyway."
Another "nasty habit" is blogging.
I can not fully wake up, nor even justify my existence if I don't blog every day.
This practice is extremely addictive, probably harmful to your health, and certainly a tax on the old brain. It does seem to take something away from the libido, however.
But you wouldn't want to have it any other way, would you.
So here am I tap-tap-tapping away while the world is already outfitted in bib and lunchbucket trying to pry a dollar out of somewhere.
"Writing is an elitist passtime," says the old girlfriend, watching me type.
"The use of good english is elitist."
Poor woman. String of losers for boyfriends...What am I doing here?--Ah, but they were beautiful losers.
Drugged out guitar players, PhD's already fried on drugs by 34, a taxi driver worried about being gay.
"Here all this time, I'd been reading all your columns. Pasting them up on my bedroom wall. I wanted to get you. Now that I've got you, I'm not sure I want you."
There had to be a reason.
I had met one of her old boyfriends, as strange luck would have it, in the washroom of the Grey Goat, my favourite watering hole.
"Rosie, no wonder you liked him. The guy is hung like a pony. Seems to target the stall first, then he slowly walks toward it. I almost stepped on it"!
"How is Frank?" I heard her say.
Blind Melon Chitlin!
I was much troubled.
Maybe I should have answered that bit of spam I just got. "Increase its size. Try MegaDick."
Well, I had offered, in my best Winnipeg Rounder brogue, "I ain't deep, but I'm fancy...Just like downtown!"
"Uptown manners in downtown Newmarket" is all she would say. "You write good. You write fancy.
"But in the bedroom...Have you thought of turning gay?"
I am miffed. All this time trying to be king and she thinks I might be turning into a Queen.
"Give my regards to Frank next time you see him.
I come back with a remark the pre-Sixties crowd would consider "effeminate".
"All homosexuals have abnormally large penises."
"I'm not sure Frank was gay," she winked.
Ah, what can you do when you live in a shoe?...Like size Seven. Oh, be truthful. Six. Maybe.
As is the case with all problems, one needs to take a trip to clear the jogjam.
I went to Kensington Market in Toronto, where the Portuguese sell all that wonderful fish.
Bought a red snapper, had it carfully wrapped, though there was a fishy smell in the car. I took the fish "home to Liza."
We fried the snapper right at suppertime.
Seems that evening, I had an erection the size the size of the CN Tower.
Was it really all that simple?
"Oh yes," she said, with a slight giggle. "
You smell like Snapper, but were you ever good.
No need for MegaDick.
Nature has a way!