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Effortlessly Average

Sort of half-heartedly leading the charge into mediocrity since, oh, let's say around 1987 or so.

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Location: Roaming (additional charges may apply), Argentina

Proof that with internet access and a powerful laxative, even insipid people will blog; the place where your excellence and my mediocrity collide; where my Karma whips ass on your dogma.

Sunday, March 30, 2008

Sometimes "Vigorous" Can Be Misleading

So where I grew up, there's a lot of open range, dotted with ranches and farms. One of my favorite past-times was to jump in my truck (or on my dirtbike, depending on the mood) and head out into the open desert to explore. The beauty of living in such an area is that it's never more than 1/2 an hour from total solitude. From my house in the north valley I could head in virtually any direction and with only five bucks in gas ($432,854 in today's dollars and at today's gas prices) I could be totally alone.

On one such excursion I crested a slow line of hills about 15 miles north of my house and discovered a long, narrow valley stretching a few miles out from me, toward another ridge on the horizon. The line of hills I'd just overcome turned out to actually be the southern end of a ring of stubby mountains encircling the entire narrow valley. Running almost through the middle of the valley was a small stream, to either side of which grew about thirty feet or so of deep, lush, green grass before again surrendering to the sage and bitterbrush of the desert landscape. The scant dirt road I was on continued down the inside of the hills and traversed the valley where its eastern edge met the west side of the hills. To the left of where I stood was the only proof any man had ever been there (aside from the dirt road on which I was travelling): a long, two-wire range fence stretching the length of the valley on five foot tall wooden posts, each spaced about fifteen feet apart.

The scene was beautiful. On more than one return trip I would sit on the hillside with Pete, my golden lab, and watch wild mustangs lazily walk through the valley, pausing to nibble the grass or drink from the cool water of the stream. I figured the valley must have had a name and knowing what I did about land in Nevada, it was probably owned by someone, somewhere, but as is true to Nevada culture, if there ain't some specific reason to have it closed off (like for a bombing range or a place for hookers to run free), nearly all land is for public use.

But I was also a teenager. So I had more reason than just the wild mustangs, frolicking prostitutes and a serene landscape to return to "my" valley. About halfway along the east edge of the valley was a place where the road turned to the left and headed west toward the stream. Being a small-ish stream flowing along nearly flat ground, there was no need to build a bridge across it; you simple drove through, which, over time, flattened the banks of the stream, allowing the water to spread out into a cool, refreshing pool - a perfect spot for picnicking and demonstrating to those of the female of the species that I was a romantic bastard.

From the other direction the range fence turned east, meeting the road not far from where the road crossed the stream, turning to parallel the stream, about ten feet from it's western bank. A great many days were spent leaning against one of the wooden fence posts, tossing sticks and pebbles into the stream's clear water as the sun warmed my body and soul. And in all those times, I never, not once, saw another human being come down that road from either direction. It was easy to imagine I was the only person on the planet.

Eventually, of course, I convinced a girl that I was worth dating and -since we both lived at home and therefore did not have unfettered access to a private place from which to get our rocks off- it wasn't long before oh, let's call her "Heidi," was frequenting the valley with me.

Each time it was the same: we'd grab $5 in gas and snacks from the neighborhood 7-11 (yes, ladies, I am a romantic fucker) and make our way into the hills to what had become our special place in nature.

We'd spread out our blanket, spend a few moments soaking our feet in the water or the sun into our skin, exchanging light conversation as we cast sidelong glances up and down the road to check for visitors.

Without fail, the road was always empty. And so within about 45 seconds "Heidi" and I had ourselves mostly naked, banging away on the blanket spread out on the carpet of deep green grass between the fence and the water's edge. With the vigor of those of the teenage population, we experienced every single position we could conjure in our minds, most of which requiring one or both of us to grip the fence for balance or leverage.

Forty minutes Twenty seconds later, it was usually over. Since she'd had no greater experience than I did, that was just about the required amount for her to get her toes to curl as well, so it worked out good on all fronts. As adolescent relationships usually do, "Heidi's" and mine eventually ended and we went our separate ways, but I continued to frequent the spot where we'd shared so many trysts.

Some years later, when I was in my first few years of college, I ran into "Heidi" again, at a frat brother's BBQ. Aside from a bit longer hair and somewhat bigger boobs, "Heidi" hadn't really changed much at all. Unlike myself, who had actually filled out and was much hotter than the pizza-faced, scrawny kid she'd been conned into dating before.

Two weeks later I called the phone number she'd given me at the BBQ and invited her on a hike I was going on with another friend and his girlfriend, not far from where "Heidi" and I used to escape to have sex. Yeah, what you're thinking now is the same thought that crossed my mind back then, too. Lucky for me, she agreed to come along.

The four of us drove out. My buddy and his girlfriend started out into the hills while "Heidi" and I decided to hang back at the truck and get caught up on the last handful of years we'd been apart.

We chatted.

We laughed.

We exchanged perfunctory pleasantries.

Our eyes stole sidelong glances up and down the road, in addition to the spot on the hill where our traveling companions had just gone.

We smiled that wicked smile at each other; the one that says "yeah, I know what you want. When are you planning to shut up and go for it?"

Ten seconds later we were rolling in our same spot in the grass, tearing at each other's clothes while trying to keep our lips on each other. Finally naked (mostly), "Heidi" lay down on her back and pulled me over top of her, raising her legs to wrap her legs around my waist, locking her ankles together.

I was instantly ready. With her ankles locked behind my waist, she pulled me into her with one fluid motion. She let out a soft moan as I filled her completely. I reached forward to grip the fence for support. Following my queue, "Heidi" raised her arms to brace herself against my forceful thrusting. For the next several minutes we lost ourselves in wild, sweaty sex. We were like ravenous animals. There was much screaming and grunting. Our eyes locked. Our brows creased in amazed rapture. It was as if every nerve in our bodies was alive and screaming with carnal desire. Our bodies moved frantically against each other. Words were reduced to clipped grunts. Sweat immediately poured from our bodies, quenching the parched desert earth. Finally, in a rush of sexual release, I pushed myself back from the fence, "Heidi" wrapped her arms around my shoulders as we both collapsed into a sweaty, quivering heap.

We lay for several minutes, gasping for breath. Finally we got up and began gathering clothing, just finishing dressing and settling into the bed of the truck when the other two of our party re-emerged from the wild.

Several quiet minutes passed before my buddy's girlfriend could stand it no longer.

"Um," she stammered. "I don't mean to embarrass either of you, but we sort of saw you two."

Her boyfriend nodded his agreement. "We didn't mean to pry. We were just returning and hear you two calling out, so we thought something might be wrong. We were halfway down the hill before we realized you were actually in the throws of passion. We didn't know what to do so we just crouched down to wait it out."

"Heidi" and I looked at each other for a moment.

"I guess we were a little louder than we used to be," I said.

His girlfriend grunted. "I'm surprised either of you can walk!"

My friend laughed. "You two used to come here a lot, huh?"

"Yeah," we both replied.

"But this time was different," I added.

"How's that?"

"Heidi" and I looked back toward our old love nest between the stream and fence and exchanged an exhausted smile that said we'd both be sore the next day.

"Well," she said, "when we used to come here before, that fence wasn't electrified."

Monday, March 24, 2008

Advice from Moob

So this morning I was standing at the omelet bar in the hotel and I noticed that if I so chose, I could have shredded chicken as a filler. And that got me wondering: isn't that just wrong? I mean, let's think about that. First the chicken lays the egg. A human comes along and takes that egg. Then he kills, plucks, skins, boils, and shreds the chicken so that my chef here can stuff it into the egg. Isn't that like some kind of poultry cannibalism?

Wouldn' that be like dipping your burger into your milk before you ate it?

Things here have been going well. I'm apparently creating a name for myself within the company. I only wish it were a good one this time. I mean, who the hell wants to be known as Moob Pussmeyer? It's like being in grade school again. heh.

I'm sitting in my assigned office for the day, M. Pussmeyer written on a piece of masking tape stuck to the wall next to the door. I've intermittently entertained myself by calling the facility from my cell phone and asking the receptionist to page Mr. Moob Pussmeyer, just so I could hear the page over the building's intercom system: "Mr. Pussmeyer, telephone call please. Mr. M. Pussmeyer. Please dial the operator." Next month, since the receptionist is young and likely hasn't seen Porky's, I'm going to be Michael Hunt for the day.

So anyway, just before she left for the night, Andrea -my colleague- comes into my office here, all in a huff. She had left the room for a few minutes to go change in one of the vacant patient rooms because she'd flown into town that morning to attend our financial reviews and had a date that night with a friend in the city. She returned, however, without her evening wear, but with her knickers in a twist nevertheless.

"Looks like I need to go shopping," she fumed.

"Why?" I'm such a conversationalist, ain't I?

"My hairspray exploded all over the inside of my bag."

"Ouch. Clearly you are in violation of one of the vital tenets of air travel: always pack your toiletries in a plastic bag."

Her face twisted into a look that either said she was about to make a smart ass comment or had suddenly realized that wind she just let pass wasn't all air. "Well, the obviousness of that statement as I stand here now didn't cross my mind when I packed at 4am this morning."

I shrugged "well, look at the bright side: now your clothes will be firmly pressed throughout the entire evening"

"Actually, I'm going to leave now and go buy new ones."

"You could always wear those. They'd just be all stiff and full bodied. You know, when I was doing art, I used to use hairspray to set the colors of the chalk so they'd never rub off. Now your clothes are permanently colorfast. Yay, you!"

"You're a dork, Mr. Pussmeyer."

She began packing up her computer again while I returned to slashing the budgets. Psha! Food? They don't need food. Jell-O costs, what, fourteen cents a pound? And water's free! $40,000 for food. What the hell is this, the Ritz Carleton?

"You know," Andrea said conversationally, "I've used hairspray to get ink out of fabric before."

And what follows is a moment that speaks to how I get my reputation:

"Oh yeah? Well maybe you could use ink to get the hairspray out."

Apparently, I have all these great genes, but they're all recessive.

Saturday, March 22, 2008

Intelligence and the Concept of Mutuality

So despite my reputation, I was actually a good kid growing up. I didn't really get into a lot of trouble at school or within my neighborhood. The frustration my parents felt stemmed more from the zany ideas that would cause my body to act before my rational brain would gather the reins. I performed well in school - very well in fact - and was basically respectful and easy going toward my parents.

But don't let that confuse you. What kept me in line wasn't as much a healthy respect for authority as it was a healthy fear of the consequences. Yeah, yeah, I here you: where was the fear before I got sent to prison, right? Believe me, it's been throw into my face enough that I'll never forget -or likely receive an answer to- that same question in my own brain. And here's the lesser known lesson kids: even standing up and trying your level best to make it right won't save you from heartbreak later; some of the dearest people to your heart, despite offering forgiveness and understanding at the time, will nevertheless use it against you if they get angry enough years later.

Anyway, it wasn't that I never had mischievous thoughts. It's just that the reality is that I didn't want to suffer the humiliation of feeling like I'd disappointed those around me; those who thought of me as such a good -if somewhat overly impetuous- child, which is good since I virtually always got caught.

I may have done very well in school, yes, but I hated it as much as the next kid. Many a morning passed that I'd wish I could somehow get out of going.

I also believe in the principle of "mutuality," which states that any benefit should be mutual; each party should receive something from the agreement. Never is this more clearly proven than in teaching a child your actual name.

When my daughter was very young, my wife and I (back when she still loved me and I stupidly thought we'd grow old and wrinkled together) asked her if she knew our names, besides "mommy" and "daddy" that is.

"Yes," she nodded. "They're 'hon' and 'hey Kel'."

Of course this demonstrates the importance of teaching our children our names so that police, when finding a lost child don't hear "Mommy and Daddy" in response to the question: "what are your parents' names?"

Where is this going? How does it tie into the first half of this stupid post? Well just hang on a second and I'll tie them together. Like most my posts, you have to read all the way to the bottom before you understand why I even bothered. And sometimes it's a long way to go, fuckers. Something a certain poon-loving clown points out on a fairly consistent basis.

Anyway, where was I? Pardon me while I scroll up and get my train of thought back on the right track...

Yes, teaching your kids your actual name and the concept of mutuality.

See, we all like our young kids to know our name so they can aid in our finding them if they should ever become lost, like at Disneyland or an Insane Clown Posse concert. Wait... who am I kidding? No parent would let their kid out of their site at Disneyland, right? Besides, what is the admission to Disneyland nowadays? An I.R.A. statement and $150? I know! That's like... 45 lap dances or something. Well, actually it's not; I don't charge that much.

Anyway, what most people don't realize is that had my parents taught me their actual names, it would have not only helped them locate me at the Jimmi Hendrix Reefer-fest '70, but the mutual benefit would have allowed me to not get caught trying to skip school.

Oh I'd try to skip from time to time, but I'd get caught because while I not only lacked the creativity of a truly evil-genius mind, I apparently also lacked cognitive learning skills because the futility of my attempt never became obvious until after I was on the phone with the principal.

"I'd like to speak to the principle, please" I'd say with my heavily disguised voice (read, lowered deeply), speaking into the mouthpiece that was covered with a wash cloth. Incidentally, who but a child actually thinks covering a phone's mouthpiece with terrycloth will actually make your voice sound older? In reality you sound like a kid speaking into the phone from across the room.

"Please hold."

And I'd stand there listening to the dead silence that made you wonder if they'd hung up or you were still on hold. This was in the days prior to Hold Muzak, when we'd be entertained by Elton John's The Bitch is Back as performed by The Boston Pops.

[click] "This is Mr. Combover, the principle. How may I help you?"

Still in my slow, chin-to-the-chest, lowest tone possible voice that makes children think they sound adult and women think they sound male: "Yes, Mr. Combover. Kelly won't be in school today. He's sick."

"What? You sound like you're really far away. Who is this?"

Nooooowwws where the concept of mutual benefit and teaching your kids your actual name ties together, people.

Slight pause... "Uh, it's... my dad."

And now you know why I never successfully skipped school as a kid. Clearly a moron such as myself needed all the learnin' he could get.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Looks Can Be Deceiving

So hi there. How are ya? Been a while, hasn't it? I'd like to say that what's kept me from you had to do with nudity and a beautiful woman, but alas, the truth is I've been traveling for work. As a matter of fact, I've been home for a whopping two days and now I'm about to hop a plane again, except this time the kids come with me. And while there has been nudity involved, it's more been of the doctor-slash-patient variety, and I'm afraid it wasn't as fun as my fantasy conjured. As you read this I'm sitting at a table in one of the many thousand centers of the universe for those of the caffeine addicted: Starbucks. I'm in the Galleria area of Houston, sipping a nice iced latte (although a little strong on the espresso) while my naughty offspring read over my shoulder at what I'm typing. So no swearing, fuckers.

We're here waiting for our flight out to the coast (west, not east). I'm reminded of the James Brown song "Pappa's Got A Brand New Bag." Not because it carries any relevance to my life right now, but because it's being pumped into the air over the speaker system in here. And after all, when I think classic Soul music, I think Starbuck's.

On the other side of the tall, plate-glass window from my checker-top round table is a bright red, chick magnet Ferrari Spyder. Yes, it's all the poon you can handle for the bargain price of $200,000. FlyBoy is gibbering and carrying on about it in the same way I do when I spy an unclaimed Twinkie or exposed boobie. So at least I understand the compulsion.

I have a venti iced latte here next to me, that as of twenty seconds ago, has become undrinkable. I say that it is undrinkable because as my younger offspring -FlyBoy- bent over to read my words of wisdom he confused my latte with his smoothie and took a big ol' swig... paused for a moment with a look of abject horror on his face... then promptly spit it all back into my cup. Yay me. "Yes Miss barrista, I'll have a venti non-fat iced latte with an extra shot of spittle please! Oh, and don't forget the partially masticated chocolate chip remnants from his gaping maw."

So anyway, here we sit, waiting to board a plane for the coast. This job, aside from a salary large enough to achieve love in the really old fashioned way (by paying for it), may also very likely turn into the job that allows me to roam the country at will and work remotely. I've been looking for one of those every since we decided we wanted to travel full time. Back before things went to shit. I hinted about working from Montana one month, Wisconsin the next, Florida the next to my boss during a conference call earlier this week and his reply was that after I get this business into the kind of financial shape he desires, he can't say he'd necessarily care where I'm actually located each day; as long as the job's done and I make it back to California or Houston on an as-needed basis. Again, yay me.

It's later. Quite a bit later, actually. We made it to California. I've just returned home from making a trip back to the airport to pick up the bags they conveniently lost for us earlier. The airline is considerate that way. And the offspring left my laptop in Houston. In the back seat of my car. Which is parked in the... wait. Perhaps it wouldn't be a smart idea to mention to everyone on the 'nets that my laptop is unattended.

Needless to say, so far, the best part of my trip was the iced latte at the International House of Caffeinated Crack, aka Starbucks. The garage was totally, 100% full; my laptop missed it's flight; the airline lost two of our bags; and I've still not had sex since Woodrow Wilson was in the White House.

So when time came to rent a car, I decided to go high-end.

Agent: OK sir, here's your ford POS.

Me: Don't you have anything... nicer?

Agent: Sure! What did you have in mind?

Me: Oh, I don't know, something that says sexy and that I have a higher income than IQ?

Agent [tapping on keyboard]: Oh, well ok; that level of ego stroke comes to an extra $925 a day.

Me: Money is no object. Set me up. I gotta look cool for the chicks. I mean look at me; clearly I need all the help I can get. After all, it worked for those guys who married Sandra Bullock and Julia Roberts, right?

Agent: tappity tappity. OK sir. I need you to sign the following affidavits and waivers.

She passed a phone book sized stack of papers over to me and began shuffling through to the relevant pages.

Agent: This one stipulates that we here at [rental agency] are not responsible for any harm caused by the rampant testosterone that will be coursing through your veins. [I scribble my initials]. And this one says you won't try to drive while receiving road head from a 21 year old blonde you meet in a bar then pay the cover charge at every other nightclub in town trying to find her after you return from the restroom to find that she and her friend have left. [scribble my initials while saying "what they don't know won't hurt me" to myself]. OK, good; and finally this one says that while we know you are male and will not be able to resist fucking with all the buttons and gadgets in the cockpit, you will only do so from a complete stop and only AFTER you get road head from the girl you just signed wouldn't be. [check]. OK, here's your key fob. Just exit these doors and turn left. Then look for the group of...

And that's right about the time I tuned out because, you know, I'm male and have a short attention span.

Let's see.... down isle "R," in slot 44..... and there she was... a brand spanking new Cadillac sports car.

I pressed the "I'm your new master" button on the fob. Her lights winked at me from across the parking lot. She roared to life and opened herself to me as if to say c'mere baby, everything you want is right in here.

I slid inside with one fluid motion. Her warm interior enfolded me as my hands glided over her smooth features. My breathing started to become heavy. I could feel her gently pulsing underneath me.

Then, just as I became fully engaged in pressing the right buttons there came a knock at the door and I head "Dad! Dad! What are you doing in there! Open the door, let us in!"

Huh, just like real life. I swear since having kids I haven't had 10 minutes for either sex or the bathroom. I shut off the engine and fingered the button on the door and the kids piled in. Suddenly I'm just EA again, hopeless romantic father of two, just trying to string another successful today between yesterday and tomorrow.

Once settled with seatbelts on, I press the 'come to life' button on the fob again. Nothing happened.

I pressed it again and was greeted with an audible "ding" and a sexy, sultry female voice.

"I'm sorry. My sensors indicate that you're a man. You must first pass the test before I am able to submit to you."


"Yes sir. Test. Please place your hands on the steering wheel and hold still while I conduct my analysis."


"Please refer to paragraph 2b of your rental contract: drivers must first submit to an assessment and aptitude test before I will allow the world to know you've been inside me. Please place your hands on the steering wheel and remain still for a moment."

I know! It seemed really odd to me too. But I figured I've got what it takes to handle even the most pretentious vehicles, so I did as she instructed. She didn't keep me waiting long.

"Sorry sir, my analysis has determined that your penis is too large to drive a vehicle like me. Also, I detect the presence of offspring and that you are approximately 42,000 pounds too heavy for me to be seen in public with you.


"Approximately, yes. Please return to the rental counter to exchange me for one of this agencies many Ford POS'."

"Oh c'mon! Isn't there an appeals process?"

"Well, I do detect that you have a high income. And I can see from my background analysis that you have just the right amount of bad boy in you and that you used to be pretty hot. So perhaps we can work something out. Please insert $4,000 into the CD slot and for the next few days I'll act as though you need me to compensate for another 'shortcoming'."

Thank God I'd just seen my pimp the day before.

By the way, I noticed that our flight crew, including the pilots, on our first flight was almost entirely women. So do you suppose that with an all female flight crew, the cockpit suddenly becomes referred to as "the box office?"

- The Number of People Stunned by My Mediocrity