Creative Mediocrity For Fun and Profit

"I'm all about Truth, Justice, and the American Way, baby. And part of the American Way is macking on hotties." -- The Mighty Buzzard

Yet Another Tedious...

Me: Jefferson
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Creative Mediocrity For Fun and Profit


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Shameless (And, I Assure You, Worthy) Plugs:
Super Sister Raindrop Outlook

The Mighty Buzzard's
Here There Be

The goddess of, well, something I'm sure -- Genevieve's Ink Stain

The eye candy at Aristry Images

Dr. God's
Waxing Sociologic
Waxing Theologic

Other Groovine Stuff:

The Raging Capitalist
Inaudible Refrain
Chris's Noodleshop
Xaos Rising
Siren's Song
Where you can find Davemania!
Into the mind of Phases
Stepherific's Blog-o-rific
Through a Glass, Darkly
The Occasional
How The Other Side Lives
and of course...
Why Being Human Kicks Ass

Stuff I Like To Keep Up With:

What's playing at the nearest theater to Yours Truly

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The Deep And Abiding Wisdom of Yours Truly About:
The Temperment Of Being Sick
Proper Application Of Jealousy
The Appeal Of Wisdom
When Women Actually Come To The Rescue
The Refreshing Integrity Of Strippers
Guy Math
Relationship Sex Vs. Casual Sex
The Male Sex Drive
Types of Women
Tom Boys
Nice Guys
Crush Friends
The Hosses
More About The Hosses
Good Old (well, still new) Tink

* Yours Truly
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Sunday, September 28, 2003

I'm revisiting an essay I wrote about a year and a half ago, my Interested Party, and you're invited. Why? It's not just because I'm lazy – though that would be reason enough, since I am. It has to do with some of my friends and myself – not just a story, but the way we think. The way we're wired. Being the Interested Party that you are, I knew you'd love to know. In the event that you've already read it, feel free to bask again in the celebration.

About a year or so back, my old room-mate Dave said to me, “Next week is a four day week! Yay boobies! And you know what? The week after is a four day week! Yay boobies!”

“Yay boobies…?” I asked. I was familiar with the term. It is, after all, pretty much self-explanatory. It’s an exclaimation from which a listener may infer an abrupt presence of joy and, of course, boobies. Buzzard is the first person I ever heard say it. It had first been uttered while a heap of us bachelors were gathered around the livingroom watching rented movies when, lo and behold, some sweet young actress had effected an entire disregard for her clothes.

Yay boobies! It almost seems unmasculine to say. This is because it is the twelve-year-old boy’s equivalent of ‘viva la difference!’ And while twelve-year old boys are male, they aren't especially good at it yet. Buzz is not a twelve year old boy -- unless you use that term without literal prejudice -- but when he first spoke it we all felt its truth ring clearly. We all nodded solemnly of one accord.

“Yay boobies!” found itself at home around us.

Check out that girl dancing under the mirror-ball? Yay boobies! Heads up at that fine little waitress? Yay boobies! Jennifer Love-Hewitt? Yay boobies! So when Dave added “Yay boobies!” to his telling of how his next two weeks were going to offer a little less work than normal, I waited patiently for him to explain exactly how the presence of boobies were related. Whose, for instance. And where (just in case they might be finding themselves eventually in my house—you never know).

Walk with me for a moment, and let us examine the subject of the human female breast. If you’re a guy, you almost certainly understand the appeal. A friend of mine who is gay told me that he even found breasts appealing, though he wasn’t sure why.

Speaking as a heterosexual male though, I know why. It’s simple Guy-Math. Guy-Math implies that breasts equal women. Not that the reverse is true. Women don’t necessarily equal breasts according to Guy-Math. Throw out the traditional senses and concepts of equality here. No, in Guy-Math ‘equals’ is more akin to ‘is similar to’, or ‘indicates the significant probability of’, or sometimes even ‘will drag along behind them’.

If you, Interested Party, are now shaking your head in irritated confusion at the precepts of Guy-Math, let me give you an example that might clear it up a bit: Guys in general will have considerably less problems with homosexuality if it is taking place between two (or more) beautiful women. It’s got nothing to do with lesbian-chic. It’s not because guys feel threatened by the greater ability that women tend to wield in society. It’s not because guys are frustrated at the incomprehensible subtlties of Why She Might Be Pissed At Me This Time.

Guy-Math ignores such issues and leaves them for Oprah and Dr. Phil. Guy-Math simply states that if One Beautiful Woman Frolicking Lustily equals Good, then Two equals Twice As Good.

Understand? Guy-Math is more fundamental to a guy’s nature than logic or manners. It’s the same reason we get the largest order of fries and the most obsenely gigantic fountain drink possible when left to our own devices. In fact, I daresay that the whole application of Guy-Math to women in general is probably a defensive mechanism. Without the appeal of women so-clearly explained in Guy-Math, most men would have Guy-Mathed themselves into heart-failure or accidental crushing by mastedons long, long ago. I could go on and on about this, but no…

Anyway, back to breasts. I was recently talking about breasts with a friend of mine who, by coincidence, has her very own set. I was explaining that the human male, deep down, does not care how big breasts are. Oh sure we’ll gawk a little more if the breasts in question rival the rough mass of a buick, but that’s just because of the novelty (well, that and a little bit of basic Guy-math mixed in). The single-most admired quality of the female breast is that they are not in the wrong place.

Just like with real estate, it’s all about location, location, location (and at least two of those locations have to do with their proximity to the guy doing the admiring). Which brings me back to Dave. I was hoping upon hope that his “Yay boobies!” was implying that I might soon be able to find them very locally. Say, for example, attatched to several fine lasses sitting my livingroom and flirting shamelessly with Yours Truly. As soon as he realized I was waiting for such an explanation, he told me, “No man, I was just happy because I only have to work four days a week for the next two weeks.”

So it seems “Yay boobies!” has undergone another alteration, becoming more vague. Instead of celebrating something appealingly female, it celebrates celebration. And there was much rejoicing!

Posted at 03:22 am by soapwort
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Friday, September 26, 2003
Reason To Stay In On Friday Night

Just go here and to hell with dating.

Posted at 09:26 pm by soapwort
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Buzzard of Wisdom

Hey there, Interested Party. I'm going to tell you about my friend Buzzard. My previous quotes up there – look up just a little – have up until now been from various and sundry books or movies. Today, I decided to go with something a little more unique, though. I'm quoting my friend Buzzard, a guy I've known for years. I'd tell you about how his wit is second only to my own if I weren't so damned modest. I have spent the last ten years or so not collecting his quotations and now I'm kicking myself for it. The guy sweats wisdom. I have found it to be wisdom for all occasions, only it's dressed up to look like something you wouldn't want to lend five bucks to.

I am seriously considering it my practice to keep fresh Buzzard Quotations up for you, Interested Party. I think you'll dig them as much as I do. Okay, I hope you'll dig them. Maybe you'll read them and your inner-monologue will suddenly find itself busy coming up with reasons you can't part with a few bucks. With great risk comes great, well, risk. But occasionally it comes with great returns.

These quotations come, almost exclusively, from conversations with Buzz. I won't bother about mentioning the context of the quote. That'd take all the fun out of it! Besides, since when did expressions of wisdom need context? For that matter, they don't need any text – but this is a blog. If I just sat here gesturing emphatically at my keyboard, you'd miss out on the latest revelation.

You're welcome.

Posted at 08:17 pm by soapwort
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Thursday, September 25, 2003
Lesson on Flirting

I am fucking amazed at the people who don't know how to flirt. This being so, I find that I occasionally have to give people lessons on the subject. So, to save myself some time and trouble in the future, I am going to post some flirting tips. This way I can just refer folks here in the future and save my breath.

That's right, Interested Party, this post is for my own personal use. It will be written with these very selfish motives specifically in mind. Well, of course we all post blogs with ego-maniacal assumption paired up with the daring hope that others will read them – and that's selfish too, though more understandably so since we also browse other blogs and find that we are not alone, even in our dark little rooms with our keyboards. Hmm. That was a fun sentence.

I”m being far more deliberate and mercenary here. I have my cigar lit – a cheap Jewel's Black and Gold since you're curious. I have a not-so-cold drink close enough to my hand that if I reach too suddenly for the 'tab' key, I'll be wearing it. I am in the sort of mood that cries out with a wink for someone to dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians. I'm ready to flirt, and finding no one here to do it with, I'll channel my charm into showing you, my fine Interested Party, how. Lucky you, lucky me.

It is supposed to be fun. If it isn't fun, it's because you are doing something wrong. Not the person you're trying to flirt with. Not the atmosphere. Not the situation. You. Fortunately, flirting is a light-hearted activity. If flirting were an animal, it'd be a kitten. If you've screwed something up you can just jingle a key-chain or something in front of it, and it'll forget all about it. It's all about now, so your past fumbles aren't even in the picture.

Why is this? If my calculations are correct, it's because flirting is all about paying attention to one another. We all love getting friendly attention, and the best way to get it is to give it. Any waitress in one of those trendy places that tacks on an additional charge for atmosphere will tell you that if you flirt, you make better tips.

Flirting really doesn't necessarily have anything to do with sex, so relax. What is this foreign thing of which you now speak, you ask? You heard me. Some of the best flirting in the world goes on without the slightest twitch or tingle in anyone's fun parts. Little kids are the best beings in the world about flirting! They don't mean anything raunchy by it. They don't want anything from you except that you pay attention back to them, so they give it freely and with total abandon. A fantastic way to flirt is to be playful like a little kid.

My cigar is out now, but my drink is still fresh as the morning. Since flirting is subconscious as well as intentional interaction, let's talk little more about your mood. We aren't going to concern ourselves with the mood of whoever you're flirting with – that's advanced-level stuff (in so far as you must advance in order to understand how much it doesn't matter a damn)... Don't try too hard. It doesn't require concentration. It... Wait, where was I? It just requires a desire to enjoy the attention of...

Come to think of it, I do believe I'm going to stop here and go call a girl or something. Night, yall.

Posted at 10:21 pm by soapwort
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Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Cold Drink of Something-or-another

My good old Interested Party, I have always dug a quality cold beverage. I'm going to list my favorites for you, since I have no doubt whatsoever that you're dying to know. In the event that you're wondering what brings this suddenly to mind -- and I know you are -- I'll tell you. I just stopped at a remote and tiny convenient store to grab myself a cold drink. The store just sort of sits along this boring stretch of highway, out in the middle of no where, like it's really got nothing better to do at the moment. It is a curious experiment in cross-breeding capitalism and hermitude. Is hermitude even a word? If it wasn't before, it damn sure is now. I dig that store though, and I fully intend to support it by stopping there more often.

Now to the good stuff. Keep in mind that these cold drinks are not ranked. They're not in any particular sort of order. A good drink quenches all sorts of things, not just your thirst. The human critter is more than just his or her appetites. That being the case, each drink will be more enjoyable under certain conditions.

1) Coke in Eight-Ounce Returnable Bottles

That store I discovered not fifteen minutes ago, sells those little 8-ounce returnable bottles of coke. Hell yeah! In case you don't have the foggiest notion of what I'm talking about, let me explain. Returnable bottles are made with this super-thick, almost greenish, almost blueish glass. I'll swear they're able to keep the cokes fresher, and they damned sure keep them cold longer. Go get yourself a six-pack of them, poke them in some ice, and six hours later come back and have the best coke you've ever had in your life. Oh yeah, and make sure you bring a bottle-opener.

2) Tall Glass of Iced Tea

This isn't your average iced tea experience here. If you want something as understated as that, go find a diner where they wipe all the glasses down before they reuse them. If you're wanting some quality iced tea, you're going to have to spend a little personal effort. Not much though. Get a large glass pitcher filled with water, drop in some tea-bags, and set it outside on a sunny day. It's called “Sun Tea” around these parts. Make sure you put a lid on it too, unless you don't mind sharing the tea with all the local fauna. In a few hours the tea should be ready for consumption, but again it's important to observe tradition. Iced tea is best in it's natural environment – a front porch on a gorgeous day.

3) A Cold Bottle of Beer

Again, put this on ice for a few hours before you will be drinking it. If I'm going for domestic stuff, my tendencies lean toward Miller Genuine Draft. Some folks will tell you Michelob is the way to go, but I disagree. Of course Michelob isn't bad, but for some reason those bottles it's sold in are capable of making it go from freezing to room temperature in about eight seconds. I firmly believe that a key sign of advanced culture is a society's ability to have ice-cold anything, so stick with MGD, I say. And as for the optimum conditions, drink them after any long hot day. Any ice cold beer will do in a pinch, but far and away the best beer I ever had in my life was an icy bottle of Miller after a blistering day of hauling hay.

So there's my list, Interested Party. It may seem like nothing spectacular, but I assure you these cold drinks will help you feel all is right with the world. Until you have to go piss, at least.

Posted at 02:31 pm by soapwort
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Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Thing or two to do

Interested Party, since you're obviously as bored as myself, I'll go ahead and show you a couple of things I can't quit reading lately. Not saying you'll love it, mind you, because there's no accounting for taste.

Been meaning to give up cable TV, since all you do is bitch about how nothing's ever on? Now you can feel free to, and just go here instead.

Too lazy to search the entire net for stuff that's better than all that shit your kinfolks forward you constantly? Fear not, young hero, this cat seems to have the goods.

Have fun, then call your mother in the morning. She misses you.

Posted at 11:03 pm by soapwort
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Nasal Issue

Do you, Interested Party, realize how precarious a woman's self-esteem is? Well, obviously if you're a woman you do. I'm not one, and I don't. I have, however, noticed some things that amaze me. What are they? I'm happy to share...

Women hate their noses. I shit you not! Don't believe me? Then stroll up to the most gorgeous woman you see tomorrow and ask her what she thinks about her nose. One'll get you ten that she at least covers it up with her hand. I have asked dozens and dozens of them.

I know of one – count them: one – female who does not dislike her nose. It happens to be my sister and she, by accident of genetics, happens to have the same nose as I do. And even she told me that she didn't like it until she realized how much it looked like mine. Did I mention my nose? It, I am told, kicks a lot of ass. Who knew? Not I, said the cat. Because it's a freaking nose! We hang out all the time but for the most part if it ignores me, I'm content to ignore it, and so we get along fine.

Now, I didn't just arbitrarily settle on the nose for this post. No, no. But years back I began to notice a trend. I'd be talking to a girlfriend or any friend who happened to be female and sooner or later they'd mention how much they disliked their own nose. I'd ask what she think is wrong with it, she'd go on about how she wished it were smaller, or bigger, or thinner, or turned up more, or less.

Oh, and she'd be specific about what she didn't like. It's shaped like a potato. It looks like a horse. It looks like a kitchen knife. It looks like a shoe-box. It clashes with my chin. It makes my ears look big. I swear I have heard all of these.

Any honest person has things about themselves that they don't like. And, okay, women tend to not like their hips, boobs, ass, or legs... but even those can vary from woman to woman. They all agree, however, on hating that thing they've been looking over since birth. Who ever heard of someone not liking some car because of the hood-ornament? Back when they had hood-ornaments, I mean. Nobody, that's who.

So, Interested Party, if you're female please comment and let me know why you hate your nose. I promise to be kind, albeit confused as ever about the issue. Forgive the pun. If, on the other hand, you are one of us blessed with external genitalia, we are left only sit and wonder idly how to twist this to our advantage in day-to-day life.

Posted at 09:14 pm by soapwort
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Monday, September 22, 2003
Pondering a kiss. Still.

Okay Interested Party, where were we? Ahh yeah. We were talking about the Magical New, and so we were only halfway there. I'm a huge fan of the Magical New. Love it. It's flirty, adorable and it makes listening to the radio considerably easier because you don't have to shop around through the stations as much – all the love songs are anthems made personally for you.

But, like I said, it's all about you and so it's selfish. You don't actually have anything of yourself invested into it yet, and that way it seems harmless. It's like gambling with someone else's money. It might seem like this is a thing that you're pouring yourself into, but really it's something you're pouring over yourself.

And if you've got wide enough streak of the tragic-poet in you, maybe you're going to let it end here. Pretty soon, all the fascinating things about her that ring your bell – the way she tilts her head, the shape of her eyes when she's laughing – become normal. But do they become mundane and uninteresting? That's the question and screw “To be or not to be”.

It seems you're leaving the uncharted waters of the Magical New, and if you'll look portside, please note that we're entering the territory of the Comfortable Shirt.

What is the Comfortable Shirt? Well, Interested Party, I'm glad you ask. The Comfortable Shirt is something you have invested yourself in. Time and effort have gone into the Comfortable Shirt. Your time and effort. You've worn it until it was dirty, then you've taken the time to clean it, dry it, and hang it back up again. Or left it in the “clean clothes hamper”. Or whatever your practice is.

The Comfortable Shirt is something you've learned that you may depend upon. You know every seam. You have history. When it gets a tear, you lament not because of it's monetary cost but because there's a part of you in it. There's a part of it in you.

The Comfortable Shirt isn't innocent and flawless – not after all the shit you've been through together, but it is genuine and true. The two of you have been together so long that it fits you as surely as you fill it out.

The Comfortable Shirt is all about knowing how her day went by seeing the way she walks in the door.

Is it worth trading the Magical New for the Comfortable shirt? I sure as hell hope so. We all do

But how in the thundering hell do you go from the Magical New to the Comfortable Shirt? In response to your shrewd question, Interested Party, I must admit that I have to shrug and say that I have no fucking idea. Hopefully I'll post something lighter to talk about tomorrow. Who knows?

Posted at 10:21 pm by soapwort
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Sunday, September 21, 2003
Pondering of the kiss

Who doesn't love a really good kiss? One of those slow, crowded kisses that takes over what had started out being something as simple as a little good-bye peck. Somewhere in the middle of it the two of you discover that all the little things in the moment -- like the feel of each other's breathing and the sound of your clothes rustling against one another -- just took a vote and found in favor of Going For It. It's a hungry thing with mouths and hands and necks and ears all tangled up together.

It's the kind of kiss that'll keep you company on a long drive away from her, when your nose is still filled with her -- the scent of her perfume on your shirt and the scent of her shampoo on your hands. You can still feel her sucking on your ear-lobe; You can still taste her too, and you're so distracted by all this that you don't bother wondering whether she is back there noticing the smell you on her clothes.

It's a selfish moment -- or at best a moment of shallow introspection. Right now you're thinking of her only in the fashion of how she has connected to you. It's plainly biological, but who gives a rat's ass? Because right now it's happening to you, it's fundamental, and it's magical.

Now, everything is new, you know? That's the magic. The Magical New. Right now, all those hormones are tearing around inside you in a sublime way, and you have no reason for regret or wistful reflection on some soured relationship between the two of you. It hasn't happened yet. Right now, the only thing that's happened is a connection between the two of you. The Magical New is so sweet that it can't help but seem the most innocent thing in all of creation.

It's innocent, but only in the same way that a baby is. It's self-centered because it hasn't had the opportunity to grow beyond that.

So, you ask, is this all you're going to say on the issue? Nope. It's just half of the deal, after all. Mayhap I'll get some more in later.

Posted at 10:21 pm by soapwort
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Damn Fool Horse

My dear Interested Party, I know that you're dying to know some things about my colt. She's a half-arabian / half-paint. This means that she's entirely too smart for her own good and that she is spotted. Really, she's got a gorgeous blanket (color-pattern). I call her Tinkerbell (which, I know, is a fruity-assed name), but hear me out.

Did you ever read Peter Pan? Not watched it, but read it? Well, just like the character in the book, this filly is a pretty little thing and is probably the most malicious, selfish creature in existence. We're talking criminal genius here.

Here is what a colt does every day. It wakes up and then says to itself, “Self, I wonder how I can get myself killed today?” Everything it does is an extension of this theme. See, just like other babies, colts don't have enough life-experience to understand how the world works. The biggest difference between colts and other kids is that horses tend to be far more sudden about things.

An adult takes certain rules for granted. Things like, “Do not eat this barb-wire fence”, for example. A colt, on the other hand, has to figure out why running very fast, directly into a bois d'arc tree is a bad idea. And you've just got to check up on them constantly to patch up any cuts and scrapes and pray they live through it.

Posted at 12:28 pm by soapwort
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