Man Beauty Can Be Cruel

 

    When I was a very young lad, I was endowed with ‘cuteness’, which caused the girls to blush and giggle. My wavy locks and drum tight buttocks had more than once caused a few vaporous swoons.

    As I matured and developed into maleosity, I became ‘handsome’. I now had chest hair that flowed like a wheat field across a pectoral prairie and my brown locks laced down to my shoulders like a raging waterfall and my butt was now the topic of many a confessional visit down at St. Agnes.  I also had a moustache that sent out visual invitations of tickling ecstasy. I had become a social stag, which had cursed many a women to a state of moisten possibilities.

    The years cascaded into decades and then one day I became defined as ‘distinguished’ looking. I’m not sure of the exact day it happened, but suddenly, I was being addressed as sir. I was also confronted with a partially exposed scalp and enlarged midriff which made it difficult to turn and admire my legendary derriere. I soon realized I needed industrial liposuck, hair restoration and an Infiniti G-37 convertible to maintain my sex appeal. But, as finances dictated….I wore a cap and bought a Nova.

    As reality is as definite as a bowel moment, I finally woke one auspicious morn and discovered I was now a sixty year old ‘gentleman’. I was rotund, had a glazed cranium, a white chin wig and my ass had collapsed along with the stock market. I may have been handsome at some point of my long existence, but life tends to get ugly really fast. Now, when I sit on my front porch and wave at the pretty girls passing by….they usually report me!

　

 

 

 

 

This is the story of old William McBey,

Told in ale taverns, to this very day.

Of love and remorse, this tale is told,

Of lust and murder by a sailor so bold.

 

He was known as “Popeye” to all his mates,

A fair man at sea on the gives and takes.

He loved the wench Olive, a dark heart unturned,

T’was for her affection, that his soul now burned.

 

Now Olive served at the Lost Anchor Inn,

And for the seamen, she’d trim now and then.

Now Popeye downed a tankard, now and again,

And was apt and ready, for a bit of sin.

 

Now this tavern trollop, she pleasured old Popeye,

Then soon took his booty, leaving him high and dry.

No mermaid vixen, was there ever so cruel,

That took Popeye’s worth, in both coin and pearl.

 

For it was captain Bluto, of the whaler Seahorse,

That Olive set her sails and maneuvered her course.

Now Popeye felt rage, for passion now wasted,

And sought out Bluto, for vengeance to be tasted.

 

Both Bluto and Olive, they begged him to forgive,

But he keelhauled Bluto, and his sea wench Olive.

T’was to Davy Jones’ locker, he tossed their carcass,

Then he climbed the main mast, high in the darkness.

 

He wrapped a rigging rope, tight round his neck,

Then said his sea prayers, then dropped to the deck.

To all me hearties….this tale’s now told,

Of a tormented shipmate, and a woman so cold.

 

And the morale of this ditty, is so very clear,

To lubbers and swabbies, both far and near.

The loves of a sailor, can never be,

Like castles of sand, they just wash out to sea.

 

Charlie 2012

 

 

 

 

 

A few years ago, after the release from the asylum….my son, Teddy, was finally able to tell me of his torments.

   

    Ted’s bedroom was decorated in a cowboy/transformer motif. The room was bordered in shelves crammed with spaceships, worn story books, action figures and plastic animals from every epoch and solar system. The floor space accommodated a bed with a Power Ranger spread, an old battered chest of retired toys, a small desk and chair that served both, as a cliff for action figures to do battle on, and, on occasion, for homework. There was also a closet in his bedroom that served two purposes. First….it was a repository for his clothes, shoes and any clutter that would not fit under his bed. Second….it was a dimensional portal for creatures that stalked the voids between the Jurassic period and galactic black holes.

    The creatures that once dwelled in the caverns burrowed under his bed, had long ago been defeated by the imposing barrier of 400 thread count sheets and a Zeo Gold Ranger bedspread shield. But, the CLOSET….was another domain. For years, the clawed omnivores waited nightly in hopes of Ted opening the sealed door and getting sucked in….all that would be left of my poor son’s legacy would be his picture on a milk carton.

    One night, Ted screamed like a tormented soul, but this time his mother had to come to his aid, as she and I were now in the bedlam of a divorce. He was gasping as he pointed to the closet. She became irritated with the young boy and went and jerked opened the door. She was quickly snatched in and as the door closed, there was the piercing sound of rending flesh and a single muffled scream. The following morning, I was taken away and committed to the asylum….after they pulled me bloodied and smiling from the same closet.

 

      What A Ride!!!!!

    This is a topic that effects about 80% of humanity while the other 20% are on life support. It’s a sensitive subject because it involves the morphing of loving and caring individuals into totally insane ecstasy gluttons seeking an outer body lust-gush for about 4 nanoseconds before returning to their right minds.

    I first heard the word orgasm when I was about 12 years old. At the time, I thought it was just one of the many monsters that fought Godzilla in downtown Tokyo. Like the movie poster would say…”Godzilla battles Orgasm in the tunnels of Tokyo.”  Little did I know, the battle was being raged around the world.

    As a young married man, I was under the impression that women only got their goodies once in a great while, like when they bought a new hat, maybe….whereas men got their jollies at the drop of a hat. I thought that was fair back then and had no idea they were involved with someone named BOB, (Battery Operated Boyfriend).

    As a young adult, orgasm was a lot like running track. At the gun, you were off at a sprint and all to often broke records at the finishing line. In my late twenties, I had learned to run the mile heat with a qualified running mate followed by several rounds of Greco-Roman Wrestling. It was during these years that I often trained alone. My forties, I excelled in the marathon and often took time for the occasional shot put. Now, in my 60’s, MEDICARE has no provisions for the condition, so, I just watch the events on DVD’s from California.

  DISCLAIMER:  Just for the record, I like goats.

   Being raised in the deep south, I was used to folks raising chickens, pigs and beef cows. But, those that had an aversion to barbecue, just raised goats. These were mostly your burnt out hippies and hard core vegetarians. To each their own, I guess. Anyway, as an observant (nosey) kid, I was intrigued by goat behavior. They reminded me of people and still do to this day. The goat, with the loudest bleat, seemed to always maintain the attention of the others and they would always scurry after this alpha goat like intoxicated groupies. They would eat what the alpha ate, shit where he dumped, gang up on whatever goat displeased their leader and last of all, they would chant his bleatings over and over again. Too often, they completely surrendered their mental sovereignty to this head of the herd. 

    Once goat-people start to roam in the wake of these mentors, they are almost unsalvageable. Just like goats, you might try to train the critter to think for themselves, but you’ll only frustrate yourself, and irritate the goat. The more you try to make things normal….the more drama you create. Goats are stubborn and don’t care about think tanks and solution pools….they just want to eat everything they see, bite those that try to corral them and shit in everyone’s yard.

    Many socially entitled people just don’t see this analogy with goats, but subconsciously believe that they, like goats, are just deserving sheep from broken homes. Pandering rhetoric does not change what a person is….if you put a Green Bay Packer jersey on a goat….it’s still a goat! In this case, it’s the loudest bleats from politicians that provide this addictive mind-set.

    The sad reality of all this, is that some folks are righteous and hard working, while some are easily misguided individuals with the artistic integrity of a vending machine, the manners of a French waiter with delusions of grandeur and last of all, the morals of a goat. Americans are told from birth that they live in the greatest country on earth….but, the fact is, the U.S. is 55th in world literacy and it’s easy now to understand how sociopaths and politicians can herd them like goats.

 

 

 

 

                            

 

Sometimes we identify places, people and memories by scents;

 

Places:….the rich musk and earthy smell of the Smoky Mountains….the intoxicating and aromatic barrage of Dunkin’ Donuts as you stop to get your morning coffee. The molecular cloud of spicy incense when you pass by a Pizza Hut and then finally there’s the noxious barrier of the men’s room at Barfy’s Bar and Grill.

People:….Mom’s cheap Swan Song perfume that I bought her every Christmas until I was 15….the obscene smell of Jergens lotion on my first roommate at college….my college literature professor and the harsh fragrance of Mexican Primo blend….Grandma’s mothball enhanced wardrobe and uncle Jeff and his hops smelling breath.

Memories:….the aromatic scents wafting through the air at Christmas time many years ago of decorative cookies and flamboyant cakes and luscious pies. The fresh holiday evergreens and the abundance of smoking candles and roaring fireplaces. There were the rose bushes and pectin jelly beans at Easter. The pungent smell of barbecue, charcoal, burgers on the 4th of July and then later that night, the acrid smell from the clouds of smoldering sulfur from fireworks and of course there was uncle Jeff’s breath. Then, finally, there was that chlorine residue on opening day every summer at the city swimming pool.

Home:…. Every house had it’s own distinctive whiff:….Our house smelled of Mom frying bacon every Saturday morning followed by good smells from the oven in the afternoon and then a baked ham or roast chicken on Sundays. The rest of the week there was always that gentle under scent of Lysol that made our house feel and smell clean….Grandma and Granddad’s house smelled like a taxidermist shop….my fat cousin Ruth, (with all the cats), had a house that also smelled like Barfy’s Bar and Grill and then there was uncle Jeff’s house, well, it just smelled.

   Even though I had a little fun with this post, it is true that there are many wonderful and nostalgic memories associated with our sniffers. The fact that I can still remember ancient fragrances from over fifty years ago attests to the power of our olfactory memory vaults, and I was just curious of what some of your fondest ones are……………………?

    

 “Breasts are a scandal because they shatter the border between motherhood and sexuality.”

 

    Breast are everywhere. That’s what I said, everywhere! No matter where I go or what activity I’m evolved in….they are all around me! They are flouted, exposed, gyrated, uplifted and enhanced beyond my ability to cope. It has been documented, on the walls of ancient caves in France, Scotland and Des Moines Iowa, that breast were most likely discovered around 8,500 B.C.  It was after the last “Ice Age” when the female species finally started removing their extra woolly mammoth hides, that the affliction was first noticed. I say affliction, since these appendages did not resemble man’s pectorals in any way….therefore, they must have been hereditary flukes. Faulty, in that they also leaked.

    I personally discovered breast when I was 13 years old, A.D. I remember many years ago, my Dad warning me about this feminine asset as being hazardous to the male species. He would start to explain what to be aware of and then all of a sudden he would become speechless and start perspiring. It remained a mystery. When I was twelve years of age, a woman’s breast were no more than awkward body luggage to me, but at thirteen….they became a pulsating beacon to every hormone my body could produce while working overtime. They were both fascinating and scary. They had the mysterious ability to make my young brain shut down, causing me to forget about half the English language I had worked so hard to master in my first decade of life.

    When I was sixteen, I had surveyed the female terrain of high school and was now well familiar with the genetic phenomenon and on more than a few occasions had exercised my male ordained privilege of exploring more than a few terrains. I was still having a language problem and drooling had become an issue. Well into my twenties, bosoms had become essential in my social life.  Women that registered as double cups were prized much like a trophy elk.  Showing up at a party with what’s her name and her fantastic cauliflower smorgasbord, was more than enough to maintain one’s status as alpha stud of the evening.  The fact that she had a college education or any education was superfluous. When I was almost thirty, I discovered breast had brains. After wasting years studying the “titty menu”, I finally married and settled down to a rewarding life with a good job, home, and a smart wife that worked. I was also blessed with the guardianship of some of the finest double D tatas allowed without a permit. Then she got pregnant.

    I have learned now, that life is a lot like a new backpack for school. It’s bright and exciting and shaped perfect to hold all your books, snacks, pencil box and gym clothes. As time passes, it’s tossed and slung in ever direction and fought over by you and the Labrador. Too often, it’s over used, neglected, stuffed with junk and on more than a few occasions, left out in the rain. Pregnant breast are like used up back packs. One day they look like they were sculptured by Michelangelo and then one postnatal morning, like my nephew’s sculpture of warm PLAY-DOH.  Her boobs had become feeding stations and were no longer pleasure zones.  Once again, I was speechless.

    Now the years have passed and the mammaries have long ago served their purpose and function. In effect….they have been retired. My spouse and I make light humor about them from time to time, but in our sixties, conversations about bowel movements seem more relevant. Then, one morning after I showered, I stand before the mirror to shave….and that’s when I discover….man breast!  Sagging, floppy man breast. Once again, I’m speechless.

 

 

              

            

                  YA DID GREAT HON!

 

    I was chatting with Wifey the other night as I did the dishes and we were discussing how our memories were now acting up at our age or something like that, I don’t remember….anyway, she told me that her memories from years ago were just fine, but her problem were the short-termers that tended to evaporated like farts in a snowstorm. I had to agree as this was my defense for neglecting my ‘honey-do’ list.

     I asked her did she still remember all the details when the kids were babies. She assured me she did and then I made a poorly calculated error when I opened my mouth and asked……”Do you still remember giving birth?” There was a moment of silence and all you could hear was the dog’s paw nails scratching on the tile floor as it quickly left the room. The room’s temperature also rose substantially and Wifey’s beautiful green eyes turned into the dark hollow orbs of Beelzebub!

     “Do I still remember child birth?” she whispered in another voice. “Do you mean, can I remember the pain and anguish caused by a single male sperm that caused me to be vivisected from one genital area to another? Those memories?” she asked in still another voice.

     I looked away from her glare and whimpered, “Yes,“ as I redried the same pot.

    “Yes, love, I can clearly remember the 17 hard hours of intense labor that changed my hair color and altered my vocal cords for life. I can still remember you laughing and telling me to make sure it would be a boy or put it back in to cook some more, (I didn’t remember that…..but I think I might have).

     “Well….it was all worth it in the long run,” I said, “and besides, it was years ago, hon.” It was at this point, Wifey stood up and started regurgitating spasms of verbal pea soup!!

     “Let me tell you something, my beloved ‘semen bag’. No man, even the wonderful obstetrician, knows the anguish of having an eight pound, gyrating ham yanked out of their crotch to the cheers and applause of over worked nurses and bewildered relatives!” At this point, my legs were really getting shaky, because now she was approaching me and she knew where all the kitchen knives were.

     “You were very brave, sweetheart, and I was sooo proud of you,” I yammered.    

“Bite me stud! Let me explain child birth to you in a language you will understand….’tool-ology’.” I wanted to remind her that the current evenings subject was about memory lost, but I feared she had already forgotten it as one more casualty to her dying brain cells.

     “Tool-ology, did you just make that up?” I sorta giggled.

     “Shut up and listen breeder. If you take your thumb and put it on the counter and then take a ball-peen hammer and bring it down full force on your thumb nail…..that would only rate a four on a birth scale of ten!” I stood there not making a move and trying to remember where my hammers were. “Then,” she whispered in a hoarse voice, “I could nail your scrodum to your work bench and then connect a tow chain to the leg of the bench and to the bumper of the car and then peel out of the driveway hollering ‘congratulation, you just gave birth to a useless nut sack!!’”

     At this point I’m sweating profusely. “Boy, I tell ya hon, you really went through it,” I said. “What you did can’t be measured and I’m so proud of you.”

     “And then,” she said as the room was beginning to spin. “your first question to me after you brought me home. Do you remember?”

     “Ahhhhh….can I get you a beer?”

     “No my love stallion,” she smiled, “you asked me how long until we could get nasty again? I had more stitches than grandma’s quilt and all you were concerned in was when the next ‘nookie’ express was due!! And what about the hemorrhoids!!! I had em hanging like ripe tomatoes on the vine!!”

     At this point I fell to my knees sobbing and begging for forgiveness. I had forgotten all of this and I was amazed at her recall. She turned around and went back and sat down. What I learned that night is that it’s not easy being a sperm supplier. As to the fact she was the last one with my contribution and was thus responsible for it upkeep and maintenance……why should I have to be mentally castrated to understand her dilemma? Some things are just better off being lost to memory.

                                                                                                 Charlie

 

                                                                                          OH MAMA!

                             

It takes 7 seconds for food to pass from mouth to stomach…. 

A human hair can hold 3kg. of protein….

The length of a male’s penis is three times the length of his thumb….

The femur is as hard as concrete….

A woman’s heart beats faster than a man’s….

Women blink twice as much as men….

We use 300 muscles just to keep our balance when we stand….

The stomach daily produces nine pounds of gastric juice for digesting food….

The heart beats one hundred thousand times in twenty-four hours….

An adult breathes in three thousand cubic feet of air every hour….

The average man takes five and one-half pounds of food and drink each day….

The average woman can read this entire text in 14 seconds….

The average man is still looking at his thumb….

 

 

 

 

 

 

             

 

 

~TREES By Joyce Kilmer~

 

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by people like me,

But only God can make a tree.

 

 

~MY TREES by Charlie~

Trees have leaves that cover the ground,

That beckon me to rake my weekends away.

Trees have acorns and cones that fall to earth,

And pound my roof, night and day.

 

Trees have roots, that plow the earth,

And claims my pipes as it rips terrain. 

Worshiped by plumber and gardener alike,

For me, the tree is but torment and pain.

 

Chop them up for kindling and fuel,

Timber for houses and gallows alike.

I’ll not hug a spruce, pine or maple,

Nor share a woody, on a forest hike.

 

Tree poems are made by idiots like me,

But only a lumberjack, truly loves a tree.