Testicle Tuesday: Retro babe

This weeks theme was inspired by Rachel Hunter and Waterboy, who astutely drew a here-to-for unseen paralel...




Every guy who grew up in the 80's knows what a spankfest many of the most revered movies of the decade were. And no scene was as memorable as Phoebe Cates seductivey strutting pool side as she shed her bikini top whilst Judge Rhinehold choked his chicken. Fast Times at Ridgemont High was a classic not only for Sean Penn's greatest work but for Phoebe Cates shattering the innocence and underwear of every adolescent male priviledged enough to see this scene. Cates' swimsuit is a carbon copy of the one worn by Rachel Hunter in the Stacey's Mom video. Thanks for connecting the dots Waterboy.

Prankaplegic

The following is an insight to my whimsical nature. I give the best practical jokes I ever pulled.

One day my mom came home in an especially vile mood. She kicked off her shoes and yelled for me to take them, along with another pair sitting by the door, upstairs and put them in her closet. Both pairs of shoes were identical except one was black and the other navy blue. I dutifully put mi madre’s shoes away but in inverse order. So, I arranged them blue-black-black-blue. I knew she’d grab either the pair on the right or the ones on the left ensuring she’d have to walk around all day in miss-matched footwear. She didn’t disappoint.

Me and Leonard were driving down a busy street here in Denver one morning around 3 a.m. when we passed a local liquor store that frequently had those massive inflatable beer bottles perched on the front lawn. Much to our surprise the proprietors of the store just deflated the bottles and left them out front. So being the enterprising little scamps that we were we designed to pilfer the deflated bottle. We stopped, removed the mooring straps from the stakes embedded in the ground, rolled up the bottle, and stowed it in the back of L’s truck. We’d seen similar giant inflatable stuff before and knew it required a big ass fan to blow the thing back up but none was in sight. It appeared we had been stymied in our attempt at the joke hall of fame. My bladder was near the bursting point as a twelve pack of Coors light will do that so I hid in a nearby trash enclosure to drain the main vein. Eureka! The dumbasses at the liquor store had stowed the fan behind the dumpster. Our plan was nearing fruition. We took the bottle, fan, and another twelve pack to the roof of L’s school where we proceeded to inflate the giant bottle of Bud. The principal at L’s school was greeted that Monday morning by a most unusual sight, a thirty foot tall beer bottle turned on its side.

In high school we had this letch of a teacher named Mr. O. We all hated him. He coached the girls’ cross country team, ostensibly to ogle their goodies as they bounced during the daily 5-10 mile jaunts around the neighborhood. So, one day after school whilst he was at practice and the school was nearly deserted myself and several mischievous friends devised a most sadistic joke. Mr. O’s prized possession was his 1965 yellow VW Bug. Now, anyone who’s ever owned one knows they’re insanely easy to break into. So, we popped open his door, took the Bug out of gear, and pushed it next to the gymnasium wall which jutted out about forty feet and was thirty twenty feet tall and had a set of double wide entry doors. We pushed his car into the middle of the gym and closed the door. Here’s the kicker, our basketball coach/head gym teacher, Mr. G, was watching. His reaction was of utter disbelief. You could see the look on his face. Next thing we saw was Mr. G head around the corner then we heard him explode with laughter. Mr. O never found out who violated his sanctity as Mr. G was an impossible nut to crack.

There was an unwritten rule at our high school that states never be the first to get drunk and pass out at our parties. Many people went home with fairly vile and embarrassing tokens scribbled in magic marker all over their bodies. Some even had their hair dyed a different color or were stripped of all clothing save a strategically placed bear can, box, or plastic grocery bag. We were not nice people. Now, if you were the first to pass out and were disliked by a large portion of the onlookers you were screwed. One night this kid whom I’d developed a stern disliking of was the first to pass out. I chimed up to everyone to let me go take a wiz and contemplate his fate. Everyone knew I hated the guy and also knew of my reputation for creativity and inventiveness. They all laughed as I went off to do my thing. I was drunk as shit and when I’m like that I have a tendency to do bizarre stuff. After I’d emptied my bladder I started snooping in the medicine cabinet. Sweet mother of God if I didn’t find the perfect tool of torment. I reappeared and a hush fell over the crowd as they could see I was holding something behind my back. I donned a shit-eating grin and revealed…a bottle of Nair. This kid looked like a young Jason Voorhees come Monday morning.

After I broke my neck in 1990 I spent six months at Craig Hospital here in Denver. After two months in I was paired up with Zorba the Greek in room 308. We developed a tight friendship and all the staff and our fellow gimps knew it. One day we acquired the the number by which you could access the hospital intercom from any phone in the building. Nick insisted we use this to play a joke on the patients and staff. Zorba held the phone, dialed 483, and I announced, “Attention Craig Hospital patients and staff. We would like to announce a change in the education protocol. Disabled sexuality and driver training will now be taught in the same car.”

Please let me know what your best practical jokes were and I’ll start a Hall of Fame. Leave as detailed accounts as you can possibly remember. Later.

Of God & Woman on a sunny Sunday morning

There are certain universal questions that we ask ourselves as human beings…Is there a God? Why are we here? The answer to these is as fleeting as a falling star and as difficult to grasp as eating Jell-o with chop sticks.

Maybe a different approach is in order. Maybe we need to fall back and reevaluate the premise that there is a tangible answer or explanation to these questions.

Alfred Lord Tennyson once wrote, “I am a part of all that I have met.” Yet another luminary, Louise Bogan, said this, “The initial mystery that attends each journey is: how did the traveller reach his starting point in the first place?” And on introspection another wise person exclaimed, “No journey carries one far unless, as it extends into the world around us, it goes an equal distance into the world within.”

The one mutuality we all share is the desire to know that our presence on this Earth has somehow effected and impacted those around us. But how do we measure the impact of our own existence? Simple, we don’t. The power is not ours and it will never be. We are no more capable of measuring the force of our life than the fish is capable of measuring how much water it displaces as it swims through the ocean. How do we measure the impact our lives have had on the human condition? We don’t, that power belongs only to our creator, to God.

The singular pursuit of being human should be that of creation and imagination. To build cathedrals in the sky, to fly on the wings of passion and imagination, to dream what was once thought impossible. To feel, if but for one fleeting moment, that we have been touched by the finger of God. And as a man the touch of the Almighty can be found in one place, a woman’s heart.

Men of America here this...women are perfect. For all their maddening idiocyncracies and illogical tendencies women are and always have been God's most sublime creation. The big guy up above was certainly at the top of his game when the fairer sex was molded. Michaelangelo chiseling the statue of David, Da Vinci painting the Last Supper, and the literary works of Shakespere are Earthly examples of inspired creation but they all pale by comparison to the divine female form. Women are possessed of a rare combination of beauty, intelligence, and an unfathomable capacity for caring and nurturing. The soft curves of the female body belie the inner strength and dignity these creatures possess. God brought his A game to the table the day Woman was created.

Before my grandfather had passed away in 1993, he knew the love of a good woman. He was so devoted to his wife of 47 years he chose to die at home close to my grandmother as cancer ravaged his body. Hospice was not an option. Nursing homes are too sterile. Hospitals too impersonal. Besides, he wouldn't have been able to spend his last days with the woman he loved. He died literally in his wife's arms and breathed his last breath on my grandmother's cheek. We should all be so lucky to spend our final days engulfed by the love of a good woman.

The history books are filled with men paying the ultimate tribute for a woman's love. Edward VIII gave up the throne of England. The Trojan War was fought over Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships. Marc Anthony paid the ultimate price for his love of Cleopatra. The ancients had it right. Women should be cherished as the precious jewels they are.

The hand of a woman is a man's greatest gift. In this day and age of fifty percent divorce rates, Hollywood marriages measured by stop watches, and a perceived increasing willingness by men to take women for granted, trends must be stopped. We need to take marriage more seriously. We need to respect women. We need to treat them as equals and not like trophies or brood mares the way too many men do.

If indeed it is true that woman was created from a part of man, they got the best part of us. It's time we men stand up, salute, and pay tribute to the opposite sex. After all, they deserve it.