Wry and Ginger | Seriously Funny Cards | Greeting Cards

Today I want to talk to you about the dangers of sex.  I’m not going to bore you with warnings about various diseases that will cause bits to fall off etc. No, we’re all aware of those.

I want to warn you all about the lesser known dangers of sex. The secret ones…the ones that even your friends won’t warn you about.  It’s a bit like that whole “and during the birth of your baby, it is highly likely that you will shit yourself in front of your significant other and the people paid to be there” secret that all the ladies keep from one another. Think I am kidding? Mention it in front of a woman with offspring and watch how she flushes with remembered humiliation, and then gazes at her child with a mixture of love and the desire for revenge.

So…

SEX IS DANGEROUS SECRET #1: Every year, dozens of people choke to death on lacey thongs and the like.

The authorities would have you believe that frilly undergarments are perfectly safe, when they have known for years that their feather-light nature combined with heavy breathing commonly result in  injury and even death.

It may seem like a fun idea the moment before you put teeth to rayon, but dying whilst being heimliched by a half naked lady only sounds sexy.

Look at this fellow…does he look like he is having fun? You get that far enough down your gullet and any attempt to pull it free could result in a Wile. E. Coyote-like demise.

He can see his obituary and he regrets this decision. (Even more so when he learns that is a dog-thong in the picture. No kidding!)

SEX IS DANGEROUS SECRET #2: That hot Dyson fellow has ruined appliance play forever.

Time was, you could spice things up a little by seeing what sort of household appliance could be incorporated into things. Now, thanks to an deliciously sexy Englishman, you might as well grab any dangly bits you have,  tie them to a horse and yourself to a nearby tree, then slap the horse on the rump. Hey presto: the Dyson Effect. Nothing can exist in a vacuum, least of all a todger.

SEX IS DANGEROUS SECRET #3: Monkeys belong in the jungle.

Ever since that sad-sack Ross from Friends got himself a monkey, the popularity these exotic pets has been on the rise. This poses a grave threat to us all, for once nerds mate with monkeys, we are all lost. If mopey bachelors around the country start thinking that it’s a good idea to get a small primate as a companion, it’s only a matter of time (and a stash of the ex’s left-behind make up and undergarments)  before they make the leap to this:

You could put a wig on her, but monkeys are flingers. Off-putting.

Anyone notice how her right arm is more muscular than the left?  Damn dirty ape.

Next time: I explain how fire alarms are imperiling the youth of today.

A few minor entries from the Book of Grievances.

1. People who say EXspresso when referring to a lovely, delicious drink. First, Italians invented it and they do not use the X.  Second, it is not fast. Or at least not at the hipster infected joints where I am doomed to line up for mine. Jesus there are at least 8 nozzles sticking out of that piece of engineering mastery. You, behind the counter! Challenge yourself, you slouchy, bearded, ironically odd-socked, be-spectacled weedy reed of a boy. This entire world cannot be expected to move at the same pace that Portland, Oregon has chosen for itself.

2. Half-assed busking. You know these guys…hanging out by the liquor store or library playing a recorder (likely rescued from the garbage of some disillusioned third grader),  bleating away at nothing in particular, thinking that simply showing up will earn them some coin. You, sir, are just a panhandler with no style. At least my favourite panhandler sings TO ME. Yes, with lyrics in accordance with my appearance that day. He is rewarded handsomely and there you stand, smashing the guts out of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. C-C-G-G-A-A-G for fuck’s sake! Christ almighty, when the squeegee kids are out-performing you with their Fisher-Price pianos and trained rats, you may as well chop that thing up and use it for firewood.

Also,  jugglers can sit on it and spin.

3. People whose every third word is ‘like.’ Continue with this in front of me and I swear on a kitten’s head that I will kick you so hard in the slats that your nostrils will be plugged.

Having reviewed the above entries, it would appear that I also have grievances against hipsters, Portland, and jugglers.

Fair enough.

Actually, NO IT’S NOT.

It’s a service to humanity, for we are burdened enough with terrors and frights in this day and age. This modern world of ours  is fraught with things, we are told, that put us in peril. Drive-by shootings, Russians with the bomb, CRACK BABIES!

Wait now…that’s the 1983 list of perils. That was a good year. Yeah, boy, they don’t make looming disaster like that anymore! Does anyone remember that mini-series The Day After?  Soviet Russia bombing middle America? Holy shit I was never so glad not to live in Kansas. I created a makeshift bomb shelter in our dog’s kennel shortly after watching that. Duchess did not warm to my company, though I never determined if this was due to her inability to open canned goods, or the way I talked openly about the necessity of eating pets in a nuclear aftermath.

Never mind, it’s 2010 now and we have perils  far more sophisticated than 1983 ever imagined. Back then, we worried constantly about the Russians, and their sinister plans to vaporise us and take away our shopping malls and drive-in theatres.  I often imagined Soviet generals hunched over maps, with tell-tale red push pins indicating all the decadent Western shopping malls they would take out. Then they would come for the drive-ins. After this, Western governments would teeter on the verge of capitulation, until a plucky bunch of teenagers took on the entire Red Army and won!  (Hollywood has often been my comfort in times of peril. ) And then there were  the Iranians and their Islamic Revolution. Religious zealots who also had their eye on our malls and drive-ins.

But it’s no longer 1983, and things have changed. In these unsure times, where we have so much to worry about on top of Russians and Iranians, people should not have to hesitate to squash a spider. If you have ever walked face first into a web inhabited by some fat, leggy fucker, you know what I am talking about.  Consider it the removal of one small peril that you can take charge of. One little fright in your day that the Russians and Iranians have no control over.

Or DO THEY?

We all knew it.

[note: I see the its-it's thing in the title. it's a trick of the font used there. Greater minds than mine will have to work on that. ]

I love the internet and I love computers.  I really, really do.  I love lolcats, streaming TV shows, cloud computing, image searches that scorch your retinas, the world of social media where no one seems to care that I talk too much, all of it!  I love it all so much I would surely expire if it were taken away.

But despite this deep and abiding love, I have not the first fucking clue how any of this really works.

To cope with the magic that is computers,  I have developed my Elf Theory of Computing, which can be understood thusly:

Computer Elves (which are being bred tinier and tinier these days) control the vast amount of data within any given computer, as well as the flow from computer to computer. When you open a document, for example, a Computer Elf (or Elves should extra hands be required) rushes to the filing cabinet wherein this is stored, and hurriedly posts it to your screen. System crashed? Obviously a Computer Elf, failing to follow the “rush but don’t run” rule, has tripped, sending files hither and thither.

Computer Elves are unionized, and thus have  a work ethic which is inversely proportional to their sense of entitlement. Slow-downs on your system, painful moments waiting for webpages to load etc, are generally the result of union actions. Wildcat strikes are not uncommon and often result in viral contamination.

So as we can see, this is a precarious world I live in, built on a foundation of fantasy, and held up by the flying buttresses of iron-clad delusion.

It was while I was happily skipping through this world, one fateful night not very long ago, that the walls came crashing down. Or rather my computer did.

Now, I don’t want to get into finger pointing or complicated calculations of who was to blame for this horrifying incident. If the Wall Street bailout has taught us anything, it is that parceling out blame is a thing of the past.  Who decided to hit the power button while the computer was in the middle of some very hard work? Hey…we still don’t know who shot Kennedy, so good luck with that.  Who may or may not have failed to act on the fact that her anti-virus software was gagging for updates?  Well maybe when you are done digging Hoffa up, we can try to figure that one out.

And so, crumpled on a heap on my floor, clutching the mouse to my breast,  sobbing so hard that I had lost any hope of inhaling but was showing excellent form in the “soundless jag accompanied by an embarrassing string of drool” category, I placed a call to my Ex, who is very handy with these things and also very kind.  He agreed to come by the next night.

I survived the following day through a combination of  denial, workplace internet access and street drugs.*

That night, the Ex came by and spent four gruelling (for him) hours fixing all that ailed my machine. And it was a lengthy list, if I do say so. But the important thing to focus on here is not what was wrong with the machine, or why, but what did we learn from this?

Lesson 1.  Security updates are a lot like flossing. We get regular reminders to participate in this, but when asked if we are keeping up with it, grossly overestimate actual time spent.

Ex: OK, so have you been doing your updates?

Me: Oh yeah. I’ve been very good with that. I mean, except maybe in the last month or so.

Ex: I see. There’s forty of them here for you to download and install.

Me: Wow, Microsoft is really churning those out like Grisham novels…

Ex: [stares unblinkingly]

Me: [contemplates going in to lengthy explanation of Elf Computing. Discards idea. Looks at floor]

Ex: Can I automate those for you?

Me: If you must.

Lesson 2.  The Internet is a dangerous place. We all become complacent over time, and the reason for this is simple: the cancellation of To Catch a Predator. Personally speaking, I really needed that weekly dose of Chris Hansen’s drone-like reading of various filthy chat room transcripts to keep my alert level at DANGER!

But now, all is well that has ended well. And by that I mean someone else has cleaned up my mess, I have learned two loose and to-be-unused lessons from this experience, and I go forward, smashing away at the internet as if nothing ever happened.

* That last bit is not true, Mom.  I bought them over-the-counter.

I live alone.  I have not always, and I may not always, but I don’t mind it.

And not in that brave, “put a smile on the shit sandwich” way that I think some people live alone. I have had some of my best years living alone, I don’t mind my own company and can see the advantage in it enough that living alone is often a real treat.

Sometimes, as well, you realize it may have gone too far. Back in the good old days, when my late companion Rudy was still with us, I did have one of those moments.

The Man. Rudy.

Rudy and I had had a long day. I was sitting on the floor, watching TV and  eating one of those pre-cooked supermarket chickens straight from its plastic coffin. With my hands. Possibly with a greasy beer on one side, definitely with a opportunistic feeder on the other.  I had some chicken, Rudy had some chicken, I had some chicken, Rudy had some chicken, and so on.  Soon it was nothing but a stripped carcass. Lying there, chicken coffin on my stomach, I contemplated my greasy fingers. I looked at Rudy, and he at me. We both knew the solution. I stuck my hand out and he commenced the, um, cleansing.

Suddenly, as if near death, I was transported from my body, up in the air and I looked down upon myself. My lazy, no-fork using, dog-finger-cleaning self.

I now have strict rules about at least using cutlery with meals.

But there are some real advantages to living alone. Sure you can do all the things you hear people talk about when they tout living alone: You watch whatever you  like and never EVER have to watch NASCAR. You can walk about naked as a jaybird and never hear calls of “whiiiiitte whaaaaaale!!”

But forget about all this. It’s the really weird stuff that you can do when you live alone that is the true liberation here. The thing about the really weird stuff is, however, that you have to figure out for yourself what your weird stuff is. If I were to detail for you my weird stuff, that would just pollute your own stream of ideas.  So I will not go on at length about any lost weekend spent doing nothing but attempting to master the cartwheel, no matter what the cost to me in glassware and drywall. No. But I will give you one visual. From this, I expect you to go forth and find your own weirdness.

Free yourself.