Randy & Kyle vs Evil

RANDY & KYLE vs EVIL

By:  randy gillis

I was sitting at my wheel in my little pottery shop working on the (as of this writing) elusive moon jar, listening to Simon on the radio (because what other station offers Blue Oyster Cult and Tiffany in the same music block), and just being happy.  It's a little cinder block building nestled in the deep woods of Montgomery County, and my escape from all that troubles me in the world.  Well, almost all.  Sometimes my gay demon Kyle pops up from hell to hang out and bug me.

Come on now, we all have our demons.  I’m just thankful that I got the gay one as opposed to say, the ‘God hates fags’ demon because frankly they’re a dime a dozen in these parts, smelly, and a bit repetitious, and I've always preferred the path less traveled.  It helps that Kyle looks enough like a sunburned Harrison Ford with a 10 point rack to make him tolerable.

It was a beautiful day, the shop door was open to allow a nice breeze to circulate, and I was approaching something very close to a proper moon jar.  Kyle was going on about how his support group in hell just doesn’t understand him when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement.



I turned to the open door (right beside my wheel), and looked down as a python, or maybe it was an anaconda (okay, it was a black snake but it was at least ‘OMFG are you kidding me’ feet long) had crossed the threshold and was working its way into the shop.

The first casualty was the moon jar as I jumped up, catching the top of the jar with my wide swinging leg as I tripped over the power cord and fell into Kyle’s arms.  To be fair, the jar only had a few minutes left to live anyway as I had knocked it off balance and was desperately trying to salvage something out of it. 

The serpent froze from all the commotion (or it could have been the screaming).  Kyle dropped me immediately and started his climb up the closest set of shelves.  I asked him why he was running as I had always assumed that demons and snakes must be pretty tight.  He said there were no snakes in hell as they tended to upset the unicorns.

I looked back and the snake was still frozen in place.  For a second I hoped maybe it had had a heart attack and died but I remembered that evil has no heart so, I jumped up as I was way too close to being eye level with pure, agonizing death (I know black snakes aren’t poisonous, but that meant very little at this particular moment).  I literally started throwing myself against every wall in the shop, desperately looking for a weapon to do battle with the beast when I suddenly realized that to kill this snake would mean to get close to this snake, so that’s off the table.  Kyle’s helpful hint was for me to ‘shoo it out the door’. 

I saw a long-handled shop broom sitting in the corner just screaming to be used for something heroic just once, so, I dove for it like an arthritic Indiana Jones, stepping into a spare bucket full of water I keep around for just such occasions.  So, now I’m scared AND wet and getting pissed.  I whip around with broom in hand to the still motionless predator and, with all the moxie I could muster, screamed, “Die you bastard!”

Not a flinch. The harbinger of pestilence remained motionless across the threshold of my doorway, probably because as opposed to the Sigourney Weaver from Alien that I was shooting for, the scream escaped my lips, riding on an octave closer to Julie Andrews at the beginning of Victor/Victoria.  At least Kyle gave me a thumbs up.

I decided against a full on charge as my legs were a bit on the rubbery side, so, I started a slow approach with the end of the broom on the floor and pushed as far away from my body as a muscle spasming arm would allow.  I got to within about 6 inches and….IT  REARED  UP  AT  ME!  Two and a half feet of this snake were now in the air and my genitalia were no longer alone in my underwear.  Kyle’s screaming added the perfect touch.

I used my free hand to fumble with my I-phone to try and Google ‘black snake’ as I was almost positive that they were incapable of this kind of maneuver, but I dropped it into my slip bucket.  This was no ordinary black snake.  It was obviously some sort of black snake/cobra hybrid that’s escaped from some mad taxidermist's lab (and these woods be thick with them) and is now in my shop.

I raised the end of the broom slightly in hopes of maybe pushing it just enough to allow me to close the door.  IT  STRUCK  THE  END  OF  MY  BROOM……TWICE!!  With a force strong enough to be felt in the handle of the broom and  the inner depths of my soul.  The last thing I remember before everything went completely black was trying to get saved, which is no small feat for an atheist, and Kyle screaming “It’s crawling inside!”

I’m not sure how long I was out, but when I came to, I was alone in the shop.  No snake, no Kyle, just Tiffany on the radio singing 'I think we're alone now'.  I have no idea what happened, but based on Kyle’s last words, I’m considering having an x-ray.

The Trouble With Trannies

THE TROUBLE WITH TRANNIES

By:  Randy Gillis

Captain’s log.  Just kidding!  I’ve always wanted to start a non-pornographic piece with those words.  Anyway, let me get my credentials out there quickly.  I proudly, joyously, belligerently, consider myself to be a tranny (in mind if not in body).  Trannyism has nothing to do with plumbing (okay, maybe a little to do with plumbing).  But, it’s also about a mindset, a worldview, a sensibility, it’s the gift that allows you to see through eyes not hampered by gender roles or rules.  It’s why we find team sports and war so tiresome.  But, for some, it’s about plumbing.


And, much like the L’s, G’s, B’s, and Q’s (and whatever other letter we arbitrarily decide to co-opt), there are hundreds of subspecies of T’s out there. There’s the Vegas showgirl trannies, the mid-western housewife trannies, the drag queen to tranny converts (thanks RuPaul!), the square state trannies, and the ‘ass-on-my-shoulders, politically ultra-correct, sense of humor gone the way of the penis’ transsexuals (trans-woman or trans-man for short because that’s not offensive like ‘tranny’).  But I wish they all could be California trannies.  And now, the newest category to the tranny family, the white, rich, privileged, conservative, republican, entitled, Christian, granny tranny, or, as I affectionately like to say…Bruce.  I’m not throwing shade, I’m totally one too.  Well, except for the rich, conservative, republican, Christian part.

I remember Bruce Jenner back in the day, with those short-shorts and those legs.  I prayed to the gods that he would be on my team (and when Can’t Stop the Music came out, I thought the gods were listening).  I should have been more specific.

I asked Patricia (my lesbian wife) the other night what kind of tranny she considers me to be.  When she answered, I politely pointed out that ‘boring, bitchy, bellyaching, old tranny queen’ was not among the options.  But let’s get back to Bruce.

It probably shouldn’t have shocked (disappointed, bewildered, astounded, infuriated, saddened to the point of urinary incontinence) me as much as it did.  But it did.  It felt like a betrayal. I hear ‘Bruce Jenner is a woman,’ and I’ve got the pom-poms out and I’m practicing my splits in order to give her a proper cheer, and then I hear ‘blah, blah, blah, Republican, blah, blah, blah, Christian,’ and I turn into Daffy Duck, staring dumbfounded, with my jaw on the floor.

I’m sure there are scads of reasons for why a prominent letter in the alphabet soup of sexual anarchy would turn all republicany and christiany.  But I can only think of maybe two.  Actually, just one….money.  Because in this country, at this time, money trumps everything, especially humanity.  And I don’t want to generalize but it seems money creates a rightward lean the more of it you have in your pocket. 

How else could you justify aligning yourself with the two human institutions that are peerless in their relentless attacks on the very community you want to claim as yours?  Or do you want to claim it?  I would be lying if I didn’t own up to the fact that, in a small corner of my mind, I harbor the thought that maybe some trannies don’t want to be the ‘T’ in LGBT.  They want ‘normalcy’ so badly they want to distance themselves from all the messiness of the community at large.  I’ve even heard whispers of some trannies who don’t support marriage equality.  But in fairness, there are queers out there who don’t support marriage equality as well.  We hate them too.

 

All of these conflicting attributes and trying to juggle a meaning out of them is playing havoc with my dreams.  Just the other night, I was dreaming I was having massive sex with Harrison Ford while hanging on to the ropes of a swing bridge dangling on the side of a cliff, over a river of crocodiles (or was it alligators?), you know, my typical recurring dream, when all of a sudden, I lost my grip on Harrison’s…lifeline, and fell into the open mouth of a tranny hippo carrying a republican armadillo.  As the hippo’s mouth began to close I heard the armadillo’s whispered words, ‘I believe in the constitution.’  I began flailing wildly and would have knocked Patricia out of bed, but even in REM sleep her reflexes are like a snake and she soon had me restrained and snatched from the jaws of tranny horror with nothing but her dove’s coo of a voice shrieking ‘wake the fuck up’!

When my breathing returned to normal, and Patricia released her grip, I told her what I had just been through.  Her only response was, ‘you’ve got to stop watching The Temple of Doom for Christ’s sake.  As she rolled over to return to sleep I asked her if she would do Bruce Jenner once his journey is complete.  She yawned and said, “Why would I settle for store-bought when I can get fresh from the sea?”  As is becoming the case more and more frequently with Patricia these days, I’m not exactly sure what she meant by that, but I’m pretty sure it was offensive.


So, here we are Bruce.  I don’t know where exactly to file you yet, but, we are all still learning.  Maybe time will help clear things up for us both.  Until then, I promise to be supportive (of the tranny part).  And when the dust settles and if you decide to go lesbian, give me a holler.  Patricia buys from the store all the time.


 

RANDY & PATRICIA RUB ONE OUT

RANDY & PATRICIA RUB ONE OUT

by: Randy Gillis 

 

 

I was doing some deep knee bends in the kitchen when Patricia walked through the door carrying our dinner, two #3’s from Wendy’s (I’d forgiven them for pulling their advertising from Ellen’s famous coming out episode back in 1997 with the advent of ‘the Baconator’).  She walked passed me and put the food on the counter and pulled out some paper plates.  “You’re really going through with this?” she asked.  “I have to,” I panted, “I have to make a change in my life.”

How, oh how, did people survive without ‘Lifestyle Designers’?  I was a bundle of energy after visiting Tim Ferriss’ blog and accepting the NOBNOM challenge.  For 30 days men vow to abstain.  No Booze, No Masturbation.  Well, the booze part is easy.  I have exactly one frozen margarita per year.  Now, as for masturbation, I knew I’d have my hands full with that one.  But I’m feeling really up for it.

I switched to push-ups as Patricia began unpacking the seductively glorious, grease-soaked foils to my efforts.  “I’m really getting a déjà vu sort-of-a vibe with this.  Do you remember that little ‘ex-gay’ thing you tried a while back?” she asked coyly.  I grunted, counted off number 5, and collapsed on my belly.  “You made it, what, 45 minutes?” she needled.  I looked up, breathless.  “It’s already been almost 9 hours, and I feel great!” I boasted. 

Based on what I’ve read on his blog (including comments from guys offering support), Alpha males don’t masturbate.  Okay, maybe they do, but it’s a time-waster, especially when coupled with booze and porn.  It makes you weak, indifferent, lethargic, passive, etc., all ‘beta male’ characteristics. Patricia bent down and put a French fry in my mouth.  “Sweetie, I’ve told you before, I’m the Alpha male in this household,” she said, patting my head.  “But you are a solid second in command.” 

She walked back to the kitchen counter and sat down.  I groaned my way up to my knees and then to my feet and hobbled over to her.  “Well, according to Tim Ferriss, I will be 50-100% more productive during these 30 days,” I said with a slight wheeze.  “Great,” she said, “I’ll make you a ‘to do’ list.”  “Hey, maybe you should try this with me,” I suggested.

You know that split second of unearthly silence that happens in horror films right before an explosion, or hatchet murder, or someone just showing up behind you?  Patricia looked piercingly into my eyes.  “Do you have any idea just how many people are walking around alive today for no other reason than because I DO masturbate on a regular basis?” she stated matter-of-factly.  “My masturbation is a service to humanity and worthy of some sort of ‘peace prize’.  The fact that I have a biological pressure release mechanism so conveniently located has already saved the life of one pimply-faced drive-thru ass-wipe with an attitude, today alone.  Now, if you want to follow the lead of some hyper-inflated, blustering, egotistical, alpha asshole of a banty rooster, pushing his snake oil by shaming self-love, then that’s on you.” 

I sat, silently, stunned again by Patricia’s rapid-fire response. As I was mulling over what she said, she reached into her Wendy’s bag.  “Why, what do we have here?” she mused.  She pulled out something in plastic. “Why lookie here, a Han Solo action figure. Is that timing or what?”  I watched as she removed the figure from its plastic confinement.  “Ooh, Randy, his arms move,” she teased.  I refused to react.
What happened next is the result of that ‘whatever it takes’ school of winning that would make Mr. Ferriss proud.  “Hey,” she added, “have you seen the latest porn parody of Star Wars?”  I braced myself for the death blow.  “Yeah, I hear there’s a scene with Han Solo and Lando Calrissian that’s like 20 minutes long.” I furiously snatched the figure from her hands.  “I hate you.” I muttered through clenched jaws as I headed to my bedroom.

And now, a special message from Randy & Patricia:  We hope you enjoyed our little dramatization.  We simply want to let young and old alike know that masturbation is……AWESOME!  Really, it’s fun, it feels fantastic, is available as an option virtually any time of day or night (especially if you don’t mind the occasional fine and subsequent police record), it relieves tension and stress, for men it’s essential for prostate health, and it’s a better sleep instigator than any pill.  And frankly, at my age, that fact that I can still manage it routinely is a source of pride.

With porn and booze or without, although I personally I prefer without because you can create an entire universe based on your most depraved fantasies and no one gets hurt. In my case, I’ve helped Harrison Ford reach his full potential in thousands of ways. You can even replay your actual sexual experiences and get them right this time. And as Patricia rightfully points out, negative energy redirected through nature’s fire extinguisher equals many less homicides per year.

And most importantly of all, never ever let anyone attempt to shame you for something so natural and amazing and…..yours.

So, relax, kick back, and rub one out.  The life you save could be your own…..or a pimply-faced drive-thru ass-wipe with an attitude.   

 

OFFENSIVE BY DESIGN

OFFENSIVE BY DESIGN

By:  Randy Gillis

 

Patricia walked in the back door and I froze in place.  She paused only for a second and walked to the counter that separates the dining room from the kitchen, pulled out one of the bar stools and sat down, waiting for my explanation.  You see, the counter, the stove, the sink, basically every surface in the kitchen was covered with flour, baking pans, Pam, mixing bowls, measuring cups and sugar. I was wearing the modified chef’s outfit that I picked up at the fetish store.  I say modified in that I was wearing pants under the apron.

“Before you get pissy,” I explained, “just listen.”  She smiled pleasantly and waited.  “I’m just trying to come up with some signature dishes for our new business venture.”  “Ooh,” she cooed, “starting a business at our age.  Sounds promising.”  The sarcasm dripped from her lips like venom.  “If you’d let me explain, you will see that this is what we’ve been waiting for,” I boasted. 

I got the idea while reading about the baker that is being sued for discrimination because she wouldn’t make a cake for some piece of shit….uh…I mean a future valued customer, who wanted something gay-bashing written on it.  Probably something that ends with ‘in Jesus’ holy name I pray.’  Then BAM!  The idea hit me like a chocolate-covered, hate-filled doughnut. 

“What if we offered to create the offensive desert of choice?” I asked.  “I mean, anything goes.  Whatever vile, sick, disgusting thought that oozes from the darkest corner of the spiritual bowels and can be made with icing.”  Patricia scrunched her nose (her thinking face) and after a thoughtful moment, “Aren’t there already bakers who specialize in that sort of thing?” she asked.  “Yes,” I conceded, “but they’re mostly about penises and vaginas.  I’m talking about something much more hardcore.”

I drew in a big breath and started my sales pitch.  “Okay,” I began, nervously.  “The infomercial would go something like this.”  Patricia leaned forward and, being his usual rude self, my gay demon Kyle pops up from hell and takes the stool next to Patricia.  “This, I’m dying to see,” Kyle huffed.  “I’m choosing to ignore you,” I snapped.  Patricia looked around confused, as Kyle is my gay demon, I'm the only one who can see him.  “Who are you talking to?” she asked.  “Uh, no one,” I answered, cutting my eyes to Kyle.

“I’m thinking that we go straight for the kill with this.  No sugar coating.”  I over exaggerated a wink causing Kyle and Patricia to roll their eyes.  It was great!  “We cut straight to the chase with something like, ‘have you been turned away by bakeries trying to hamper your God-given freedom of speech?  Are you tired of having your pettiness impeded by prejudice?  Just bring your dark thoughts, attention whoring, and desperate compensating for personal powerlessness to Offensive by Design!  The bakery that never says no.” 

“I’m liking what I hear so far,” Kyle snorted.  Patricia was a bit slack-jawed.  “You know,” she finally conceded, “this might actually work.”  I had them.

I next laid out some possible advertising strategies.  And since everyone hates someone, the world is our target market.  I explained that hate (or righteous indignation, or god’s love, however you want to justify it), doesn’t have to be a bitter pill.  It can now be a delicious pastry.

CAMPAIGN 1:  The Anti-Gay Market:  Let’s be frank.  Do you hate fags?  Then come on in, and let us show you our entire fag-bashing line.  We have cakes (made from the freshest ingredients including farm-fresh eggs) shaped in the form of the AIDS virus, ready for the poorly translated bible verse of your choice, or pearls of wisdom from your very own mind.  And if your hate isn’t particularly bible-based, why not try sinking your teeth into one of our delicious butthole Bundt cakes (heavy on the chocolate drizzle? No problem!).  With as many possibilities to offend as there are perversions in bathhouses, we dare you to be filthier.

CAMPAIGN 2:  The Anti-Christian Market:  You know’em, you hate’em, so let us help you express it.  For starters, how about our ‘Ménage a Trinity’ sheet cake (our biggest seller) featuring the Father, the Son, and the holy ghost involved in a daisy-chain with some backdoor finger action thanks to our famous cinnamon sticks!   Homosexuality, blasphemy, incest, and necrophilia, all on one delicious desert.  And that’s just the tip of this holy iceberg.

CAMPAIGN 3:  The Anti-Muslim Market:  Islam.  Who doesn’t hate it, right?  Thumb through our professionally designed Islam chewing cornucopia of incendiary classic confections. We’ve got more images of Allah than that blogger has lashes left on his sentence.  Allah as a top (2 images), Allah as a bottom (46 images), Allah as a power bottom (736 images). 

“That’s my favorite one!” Kyle screamed out, referring to the ‘Allah as a power bottom.’ I’ll explain to him later that it isn’t complementary in this particular context.   

“And that’s just 3 campaigns off the top of my head.  There are endless opportunities for expansion,” I explained.  “We could create lines for women haters, for men haters, for Twilight haters, for Harrison Ford haters (of which there are none and if there were we would refuse them service because even I must draw the line somewhere) and for people not hampered by menstruation when satisfying sexual needs (ever since Googling the phrase ‘vampire Popsicle’ I’ve been dying to bring it to life….with red velvet cake mix!”).

And that doesn’t even include racial and national hatreds.  I, personally, would love to introduce the phrase ‘dyke-jumpers’ to an American audience because frankly, the Dutch are annoying and because it has cross-over potential with the lesbian haters.

Patricia bolted to her feet after what was an apparent epiphany.  “I’ve got it!” she exclaimed.  “A perfect slogan.  ‘Put your hate on our cake, take it home and….EAT IT!”  She then stormed to her room.  “What a dyke-jumper,” Kyle huffed. 

I can understand why Patricia wouldn’t be completely on board with this, but she didn’t have to be so offensive about it.

INDULGING IN A LITTLE POSTMORTEM GAYIFICATION

INDULGING IN A LITTLE POSTMORTEM GAYIFICATION

By:  Randy Gillis

 

I walked into the kitchen carrying a 55-gallon hefty extra-heavy duty trash bag full of our weekly laundry (because that's how we roll around here) and I see Patricia sitting at the counter with ‘Thank You’ cards.  “Who are you thanking, and what are you thanking them for?” I asked.  “I’m sending one to Pope Francis and one to Lucien Greaves of The Satanic Temple,” she replied. 

One of the reasons that Patricia and I have been together for so long is that she is always able to say something that makes my left eyebrow go up, and I love that.  I love it even more now, as I watch North Carolina plummet off of all of the good lists and sky-rocket up all of the bad lists as the dookie-heads in Raleigh keep spreading their dookie, led by Pat ‘I’m basking in the attention, North Carolinians be damned’ McCrory.  Well, at least I had a year to get used to it (remember Amendment One?).  So when Patricia offers me something like this, it almost makes the shame bearable.

“You’ve been moping around here lately,” she continued, “and I’ve figured out a way to lift your spirits and put some cash in our pockets at the same time.”  “From Pope Francis?” I asked.  “He gave me the first piece of the puzzle,” she explained.  “He is now selling indulgences.  Anyone who follows his tweets can have their time in purgatory slashed to an insanely reduced sentence.  Oh, and we are now official followers.”  “First of all,” I cautiously began, “I didn’t know purgatory was still a thing.  And, we’re not Catholic, but I’m dying to see how The Satanic Temple fits into this.” She told me to shut up.

She went on to explain how the members of The Satanic Temple performed a ‘Pink Mass’ over the grave of Westboro Baptist Church founder Fred Phelps’ mother, thereby turning her into a postmortem lesbian.  First of all, I always thought a ‘Pink Mass’ was not so much a religious ritual as the gathering of 3 or more evangelical, republican, politically teabaggy-type people. 

















Secondly, I always thought the Mormons were evil bitches for doing this kind of thing, but it seems so very, very right when Satanists have a go at it.  And lastly, any sex that produces a Fred Phelps would be, I would think, lesbian-producing as a consequence, all by itself.

Patricia went on to explain her plan of performing Pink Masses over the graves of the relatives of people our ‘clients’ don’t  like, turning them gay, and then something about karma.  “Isn’t that homophobic,” I asked.  “Only to them,” she smiled.  I had my doubts and Patricia obviously saw them on my face.  “Look,” she stressed, “haven’t you ever thought about turning a straight person gay?”  I looked off dreamily as the theme from RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK played in my head.  “Fair point,” I conceded.

I thought about it some more and finally decided that, what-the- heck, it couldn’t hurt, and besides, the spirit world can always use more gay.  I asked her what we should charge for this service and I’m still not sure how she came up with an estimated retail price of $37.50.  It had something to do with volume and the skyrocketing cost of camping equipment.

Then, other questions came to me:

1.      What exactly is a “Pink Mass”?

2.      Is there a certification process?

3.      Do we need classes or is it more of a ‘calling’?

4.      What about insurance?

5.      Can this be done without using chickens?

6.      What if their relative was already gay?  Will that rip a hole though time and will it hurt?

7.      Is ‘Posthumous Gay Done The Right Way’ too cheesy for the brochure?

8.      Can we call ourselves priests and can I wear a collar?

9.      Does gay sex on a gravestone count as desecration?  If not, what else will be needed?

10.  How heavy a hand will Satan have in this?

11.  Does vomit have to be involved?

12.  What if I get dizzy?

13.  Can we act as independent contractors or does The Satanic Temple hold the patent?

As I was studying these questions, Patricia said something that changed everything.  “What if,” she speculated, “that by changing a living person’s ancestor’s sexual orientation, the living person’s sexual orientation could be altered and what if that was enough to alter everything else?  What if they became someone totally different?  What if a few of North Carolina’s legislators could suddenly see the cruelty behind their political jockeying with the help of freshly gayified ancestors from beyond?” 

I stood up and bolted for my office.  I sat down and Googled as fast as I could.  Patricia was right behind me.  “What are you doing,” she asked.  “Be quiet,” I pleaded.  “I’m trying to track down Harrison Ford’s family cemetery.”

 

 

FETUS, LOVE THYSELF

FETUS, LOVE THYSELF

By:  Randy Gillis

 

I’ll never forget the first time I masturbated.  I was around 22 weeks gestation (I was a late bloomer), and thanks to Rep. Michael Burgess, R-Texas, I finally feel completely vindicated.  During the House Rules Committee debate  on the 'Pain-Capable Unborn Child Protection Act,' he asserts that he has personally witnessed male fetuses with their hands “between their legs” pleasuring themselves.  I was personally outraged and horrified by his admission….until I realized he is a former OB/GYN and was referring to watching an Ultrasound and not a website that requires a membership and features fetal porn.

This is also great news for the Westboro Baptist Church.  Now they can identify the damned before they’re born and schedule protests for everything from 1^st birthday parties to kindergarten graduations, because really, we're at a point in this society where we need just half a reason to protest anything.  But let me back track just a bit.

I was having another argument with Patricia that started with a sincere question on my part.  I asked her why women had such a hang up about the gentle art of ‘rotating the tires’ when she somehow twisted it into something squalid.  She accused me of misogyny and I huffed “just like a woman,” under my breath.

After she won the slap fight, I told her of all the women I’ve asked about this who either claim (rather angrily if you ask me) to have “NEVER” touched themselves “EVER!”  Or grudgingly confessed to liking the hobby horses just a little too much but thanks to Jesus, it’s all okay now.   

Patricia assured me that uptightness is not specific to one gender or the other (or that 3^rd one). And she has the Carrie Prejean ‘educational’ bootleg video to prove it.  I conceded her point (not wishing to witness exhibit A) with the proviso that she concede that people in the entertainment industry are generally not the best examples of the general consensus on…..anything.

But back to the women I have spoken with.  Maybe it’s a small-town thing, maybe it’s a southern thing, maybe it’s a Christian thing, but these women acted as if just the thought of even accidentally ‘letting your fingers do the walking’ ranks right up there with murder and Satan worship. 

 I know it’s all a part of that whole ‘women are different’ thing and I believe it’s true, when it comes to this issue.  I recently read in Psychology Today that a recent study by Chicago sociologists revealed that out of a random sample of people across a wide age range that only 38% of women admitted to masturbating in the past year.  It’s the only way I can understand it because I can’t imagine why anyone would not want to spend quality time ‘adjusting the thermostat’.  I always considered it a part of routine body maintenance (one of the few that I actually look forward to).  I mean, for god's sake, if for no other reason, it's a better sleep facilitator than Tylenol Flu medication (and much cheaper).
 

The most shocking number was that only 61% of men admitted to masturbating in the past year.  The only conclusion that I can draw from this is that 39% of men in the Chicago area are filthy liars.

I know that Patricia doesn’t have a problem with it.  There have been many a night she has spent at my house when, in the middle of the night, I could swear I heard some kind of brawl happening in her room.  No wonder she can’t keep a girlfriend.  There’s very few that can match her intensity.



One of the silliest arguments I heard against ‘nursing the grudge’ was from a clinched, very prim churchy type.  She proclaimed with an authority earned from decades of self-denial, that it was a selfish act.  I told the woman that that was a lie, because all my male friends know that they barely have to ask and I would be more than happy to ‘lend a hand’.

So, all you fathers-to-be, the next time you are huddled around an Ultrasound screen with a roomful of strangers and Junior decides to launch into his solo, take a deep breath, hold you head high with shoulders back, smile broadly and proudly proclaim, “that’s my boy!”