Love Stories Insult My Intelligence

Once upon a time, a young Mr. Duck was enamored with a certain Ms. Duck.  He’d keep his eyes glued on her and she’d just swim on by, oblivious to his existence.

These ain't lovebirds.

One fine summer day, Mr. Duck realized that he’d need something really big to grab her attention.  And, lo and behold, a gargantuan human clad in a Daffy Duck t-shirt came ambling towards the lake. 

Mr Duck, mistaking himself for an owl, wisely deduced that Mr. Human was a fan.  Maybe Mr. Human would assist with his procreative efforts.  So Mr. Duck flapped and flapped and quacked and quacked and got a lot of attention for himself and his beloved. 

Unfortunately for the not-quite-couple, it was duck season, not wabbit season.  Fortunately for us, we get a crispy story of culinary love instead of sappy sentimentality.

This summer, find your true love and put it on a plate.

Caveman Dentistry Insults My Intelligence

Barely illuminated by a smoldering fire, a large cave sheltered the exploits of Dr. Orin, the man generally recognized as the father of dental phonetics. His reputation is still unmatched and his life story has even been adapted to a modern setting:

But back to the real history.  Dressed in the prehistoric equivalent of a toga, he surveyed his office with great pride. The cave walls abounded with the standard pictures of wildlife, cheaply drawn and scattered liberally above the uncomfortable rocks people sat in as they awaited the dentist. The rocks were made of galena and they sliced into people’s butts. Orin saw no need to trouble himself with supplying furniture made from more comfortable stones because he didn’t want people arriving early and sharing their worries with one another. Business ran more smoothly when people remained in the dark.

Therefore, the tiny fire. It prevented people from seeing the far side of the cave where Orin worked on his patients. Sure, the echoes carried but no one could ever know for sure whether Orin or the everpresent cockroachasaurs were terrifying the patients.

And so one day Mr. Ugg arrived at his appointed time to get a few teeth pulled. Orin called him to the back and let him lie on the giant slab that functioned as a dentist’s chair. After exchanging pleasantries, Orin told Ugg to say ahhh.

Unfortunately for Ugg, Orin didn’t wait for him to say anything. Instead, Orin immediately smashed Ugg’s mouth with his caveman club.

“Ahhh!!!” said Ugg.

Since then, doctors have told patients to say “ahhh” as a way of disguising the subsequent shrieks of anguish.

Blogger’s note: This post was written in response to kokkieh’s Song Title Challenge.  However, I’m the one who recommended the song title and literary genre.  So… to avoid accusations of cheating, this post also functions as a response to the Weekly Writing Challenge.  It had not yet been released when I made my suggestions to Mr. Kok.  (Incidentally, the song title was “Ahhh!!!,” not “I am the Dentist.”)

General Stupidity Insults My Intelligence

The neighborhood of Screevelton had deteriorated over the past eighty years. Abandoned by the wealthy landowners as the area’s once luxurious condominiums began showing their age, the high rise monstrosities had long since converted to slums.   Violence and drug dealing had grown beyond the police’s ability to maintain any semblance of control and, as a result, no outsider dared to enter the neighborhood. Well, almost no outsiders. Newly homeless people flocked there because they could sleep in peace and quiet at night, for the occasional bullet disturbed them less than the stuck-up folks in other parts of Screevopolis who were always shooing them away.

(Photo credit: Anton Zelenov)

Home is where the heart is punctured.  (Photo credit: Anton Zelenov)

Amid this paradise, for it was paradise to the people who feared clowns more than decaying rat carcasses, stood a wooden statue of General J. Horatio Screevels. General Screevels had founded the city, though no one still remembered that “General” was just a nickname.   After all, people will call you anything if you ask them to. And, once upon a time, General Screevels had been a much beloved leader in the community.

Times had changed. No one knew who he was anymore even though the city was named after him. Seeing that the schools no longer thought George Washington was important enough to teach the children, General Screevels stood no chance at being remembered. Nevertheless, the wealthier citizens worshipped the tradition of having a statue. They kept photographs of the statue on their mantelpieces and they even bought deluxe toilet paper with his picture on it. (Never let it be said that the wealthy are immune to marketing tactics.) In spite of this, no one ever visited the statue except for the rats and an occasional homeless person looking for something to lean on.

And one winter day the statue caught fire. No one knows how or why. The police were too busy to investigate and the fire department couldn’t be bothered. Sans fire department, many of the apartment buildings also succumbed to the blaze.

Hooray for insurance payouts!

Since the statue was so iconic, the city government decided that a replica had to be erected. Ten million dollars were put aside to fund the project, covering everything from imported lumber to gourmet meals (pork, of course) for the landlords. Because so many people owned a photograph of the statue, the city deemed it imperative that the original statue remain in existence.

Unfortunately, no one was willing to enter the neighborhood to rebuild. The lumber has long since rotted but the citizens haven’t stopped demanding the return of their beloved statue.

Temptation Insults My Intelligence

Even though I had decided not to do any more award acceptances, this one had way too much baggage entertainment value for me to skip it.

So here we go.  Ron Lewis has nominated me for the Liebster Award.  Before I get to the good stuff, I’ll deal with his question first:


If you inherited a lot of money or won the lottery and never had to worry about money or work again, how would that change your life, and what would you like to do that is different?


And my answer:


I would never worry about money or work again, and that’s what I would like to do differently.

But now the fun part:  Ron’s ex-wife also follows this blog.

I will behave myself.
I will behave myself.
I will behave myself.
I will behave myself.

I warned Ron and his ex that I wasn’t sure I wanted to do an award acceptance post, but both urged me to do an entertaining one.  They know I’m always happy to please my readers.


The following is a fictional representation.  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

An insurance salesman and a menopausal pentagenarian walk into a bar.


Before the party started.  (Photo credit: Evan Munro)

Before the party started. (Photo credit: Evan Munro)


The women were all over the salesman because he’s built exactly like Brock Lesnar.  Or maybe they just needed insurance.  You never know.

On the other hand, the lady more closely resembles Weird Al Yankovic, but with a much better figure and no discernible facial hair… plus makeup and a vagina.  And since the average 20-something guy would grope anything that sports a pair of DD’s and some nice long hair, Madame Yankovic was getting plenty of positive attention too.

Our two protagonists had somehow remained friends even though they were divorced.  However, the divorce opened up a brand new can of worms that neither of them could have expected.  Madame Yankovic, clad in her favorite hot pink lamé body suit with “Abercrombie” printed across the butt, had always been popular with her sons’ friends… but now the sons were away at college.  The friends, however, were not and a couple of them frequented that very bar.

Upon seeing her, the two friends walked up to her and started making nice; her sons weren’t there to dissuade their friends from an attempted “conquest.”  And the friends knew they didn’t have to fear Mr. Lesnar anymore because of the divorce but they could have never predicted Madame Yankovic’s reaction to their advances.  You see, Madame Yankovic is an upstanding human being with no ethical weaknesses whatsoever.  Therefore, the emerging threat to her chastity inspired her to rush to the nearest church and take a few vows.

Sister Mary Alfred Yankovic is now the sexiest nun in California.  And, fortunately for her, the enemies of virtue would never think she’d consider life in a convent.  Her morals are permanently safe now.

Meanwhile, Mr. Lesnar is living it up with the ladies.  He remains comfortable and a little smug with the knowledge that he gets a lot more action than his religiously affiliated ex.  Plus, the nuns eagerly purchased insurance from him because he was so understanding of his ex-wife’s religious “enlightenment.”

So they all lived happily ever after.

Blogger’s notes:

I’m not spending my time nominating blogs for the Liebster Award because I need to wash my hair.  If you want an award, consider yourself nominated.  Or you can have this nifty award.

Also, be sure to come back to this post and check for new comments now and again.  Them lovebirds will surely entertain you with their witticisms.

Do Absentee Stories Insult My Intelligence?

If you follow this blog, you may remember this grand photo I posted with no explanation not too long ago:


I’ll discuss the photograph relatively soonish, I think.

In the meantime, I’d like to tell you about a book I’ve been reading: “My Name is Red” by the Turkish author Orhan Pamuk.  Aside from the novel’s murder mystery aspect, it includes a lot of Islamic philosophy on art… specifically drawing.   And as far as I can tell, it incorporates an Islamic traditionalist point of view. (Yes, other perspectives are included.)  Considering all the death threats made against artists and authors who depict Muhammad, I found this novel extraordinarily relevant to today’s world.

That’s in spite of the novel’s 16th century setting.

(Caveat: I have relatively little knowledge about Islam.  Since the author won a Nobel, I trust that his representation is reasonably accurate and relevant.  I apologize if I am butchering the religion.)

Throughout the novel, much is made of how drawings ought to be created to illustrate something else; in other words, it ought to accompany a story.  Loose pictures with no referent are to be avoided and “style” is considered a flaw.  A horse, for example, ought to be drawn from memory in the style of the Old Masters and any deviation from that ideal is inherently wrong.  Allah’s vision for the world, according to the traditionalist view, is best replicated through a hand that draws from its own memory of having drawn the same horse a thousand times; individual “style” cannot hope to compare.

Thus, blind men are believed to have the greatest artistic vision.

If one draws the horse one sees in a pasture, the drawing will inevitably be flawed.  Moreover, the horse will be insulted by the drawing because the artist is depicting the animal in a less perfect form than Allah sees him in.  Similarly, using a Western ground-level perspective with a horizon reduces a drawing’s quality because it’s not drawn from an overhead perspective as Allah would see it from.

And, if I may extrapolate from this, that’s presumably why visual representations of Muhammad are considered blasphemous.

That’s not to defend those who make the death threats against artists.  I abhor that such a thing is done. Those of us who are not Muslim ought not be compelled to behave according to that religion’s dictates, and a death sentence for irreligious behavior, no matter how blasphemous, is more than a little excessive.  Nevertheless, we benefit from knowing that deeper philosophical reasons exist for the prohibition than an intolerance for religious criticism.  Until Muslims and non-Muslims learn to understand each other, little will improve between us.

And that brings me to my real reason for posting today: the photograph, an image from a technology that has replaced drawings. The original post about the photograph garnered a couple of interesting guesses… and you’ll have to visit the post if you want to see them.

Anyway, what we have here is a picture stripped of its context, much like a drawing of a horse in a pasture that was similarly decontextualized.  And so the question for today is: did the photograph gain or lose stature because I had disconnected it from its origin?  To answer that, you probably need to know where that photo came from.  I shot that photo at the ruins of Pompeii, which a volcanic eruption destroyed in 79 AD.  This was the public bathhouse.

The New “Teen Spirit” Insults My Intelligence


Load up on guns because we’re taking down the school and bring all your friends who want to share our glory.  It’s fun to lose even though winners and losers don’t exist and to pretend because we know deep down that losers exist, and we’re them.

She’s a bitch, oh sorry, the politically correct phrase is overboard and self-assured because she screws all the athletes.  Oh no, I know a dirty word!  That’s right, she’s a bitch, and don’t you forget it.

With the lights out, it’s less dangerous, or that’s what she tells herself every time she gets into bed with a guy.  The thought comforts her when they don’t want to use a condom.  

Music Notes

(Photo credit: all that improbable blue)

“Here we are now, entertain us,” demand the guys who’ve heard all about what this girl will do.   Since when is sex nothing but a form of entertainment?

I feel stupid even though my life has been, like, totally and uniquely difficult. Don’t tell me that depression is contagious.  You know nothing of what I’ve been through. 

Here we are now and boy are we ever armed.  Entertain us or else.

A mulatto was the term I forgot and it made me fail biology class.  It’s the teacher’s fault for not understanding how much stress I’m under.  My life can’t get any worse.

An albino is what the bitch is going to look like by the time all those STD’s are done with her.  If she’s still alive by then…

A mosquito couldn’t suck all the diseases out of her body if you gave it a million years.  I don’t think she’ll live.

My libido tells me that I’d do her anyway if I had a chance.  With or without a condom.

I’m worst at what I do best which is why all those guys sleep with me just once and for this skill I feel blessed. Otherwise, a girl like me could end up like those losers over there.  Those girls won’t get laid until they’re forty.  Our little group of vixens has always been lucky to avoid getting pregnant and we always will be thankful for that until the end of our run with all of these cute and desperate guys.

“Hello, hello, hello” they always mutter as they start their sexual exploits. “How low?” they ask as if they had no clue where a vagina is located.  And then they always act all macho the next day.

“Hello, hello, hello” we gasp because this is what we’re supposed to do to be popular.  We have no idea where else to start.  The slut knows what she’s doing but how low can we get before hitting rock bottom?

“Hello, hello, hello” they never said to us, but soon they will once their friends start dying.  They’ll regret everything.

We need a plan before we attack.  How low do we need to crouch so they won’t see us as they walk out of the classroom?  With the lights out, it’s less dangerous because they can’t see us when we shoot.

“Here we are now, entertain us,” we say to the teachers who ought to understand that our well-being consists of nothing more than our immediate gratification.

I feel stupid and contagious because my balls hurt.  Maybe I should see the nurse.

“Here we are now,” and nothing more than that, I sneer as I enter a classroom of rowdy teenagers who are chanting “entertain us” like they always do.  I need a cigarette and a shot of something quick.

Music Note Bokeh

(Photo credit: all that improbable blue)

A mulatto screams, “Get down, they’re shooting people!”  An albino is shot in the head while tackling the armed students.  He’ll be remembered as a hero for his actions, but his was an act of suicide.  It will be forgotten that he had suffered far more during his life than the shooters ever did. 

Once the SWAT team arrives, they’ll squash the shooters like a mosquito.

My libido is not looking forward to prison.  No surrender!

And I forget just why I taste good to all those guys.  I’m not the prettiest, just the most willing.  Oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile for now.  I found it hard to sleep with them when I first started and now it’s hard to find a way to stop.  Oh well, whatever, never mind, I’ll continue down this path.  It’s the best I can hope for.

Hello, nurse… hello… hello… how low are my vitals?  I feel like hell.

Hello? Hello? Hello? You’re not going to die.  How low is your mood going to get?

Hello?  Hello?  Hello?  You dolt!  How low do I have to get before things start getting better?

Hello!  Hello!!!   Hello!!!!!!!  It’s always possible for things to start getting better no matter what your current circumstances are.  Unless your condition is terminal…

With the lights out, it’s less dangerous for us girls to go get help.  They can’t see our tears.  We just hope the guidance counselors aren’t thinking “here we are now, entertain us with your stupid decisions.”  Our problems will seem like nothing compared to what the shooting victims and their families are going through.  I feel stupid because these psychological scars are painful and they weren’t contagious.  The guys aren’t suffering.

“Here we are now,” cry the scars, “entertain us by going back to your bad habits.  Numb your pain the only way you know how.”

A mulatto, an albino, and a mosquito all bring back warm memories of sixth grade spelling tests, just three years ago, back before I let myself be conquered by my libido.  I miss my childhood.


(Photo credit: mag3737)

A denial: “The sex and violence in the media today had not been around for very long before Columbine.   Today’s problems are not an extension of anything older than the students.  We weren’t like this and we didn’t create this.”

A denial: “Why worry?  Things turned out fine for people like Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love.”

A denial: “All we have to do is fix the popular culture and everything will be okay.”

A denial: “There’s no way we could have prevented these shootings.”

A denial: “These shootings could have been prevented if we had been more vigilant.”

A denial: “I’ve fallen too low.  There’s no way back up.”

A denial: “Nothing I do today could possibly ruin the rest of my life.”

A denial: “My kids would never do anything like that.”

A denial: “All teenagers are like this.  None of them have the strength to resist.”