This was too juicy to pass up…
Seems a moratorium has been declared on hugging in Boston. Go figure.
So, as a public service I’ve devised the perfect anti-hugging letter for these dastardly 5-year olds, the freakin’ pervs.
Dear *insert name here*,
I’m sorry for hugging little *insert name here*. It won’t happen again.
Since I now have some free time, no hugging in my life anymore, I did some research into the perils of a fervent embrace.
The hug is a ritualistic salutation, typically to express intimacy, wherein a person wraps their arms around another and squeezes for an undisclosed duration. The duration depends a number of different factors: 1) female breast size; 2) body chemistry, particularly the elements that compose body odor; 3) any perfume or cologne worn by the participants; 4) arm length musculature; 5) height differential; 6) breath odor; 7) complexion; 8) penis size and/or the presence of an erection.
Many people think the hug originated with the Huguenots during the Protestant Reformation in France, circa 1500. Not so. The hug dates back to hallowed antiquity, as far back as the Stone Age. The Neanderthals would huddle together and hug in an effort to warm them or garner comfort before the big kitty cat ate them whole. Around the time of Christ the Romans used the hug after hard fought victories as a sign of fellowship.
It wasn’t until the Spartans that the hug took a turn towards the salacious. From the age of seven Spartan males were made to exercise in the nude. Around the age of twenty the men were admitted into military academies. Older men were encouraged to have sexual relations with the younger men, the elders were eispnelas, "inspirer," and for the younger beloved, aitas, "hearer."
From there the hug degenerated into an erotic right. Napoleon had Josephine as his wife even though she was much taller. Assumedly this was for the purpose of having his face resting on her dirty pillows while they hugged.
Then the sexual revolution of the 1960’s ushered in an era of wanton depravity wherein hugs were doled out to the nearest passer-by. In the ‘80’s the hug was symbolic of the fight for gay rights and was a catalyst for the spread of the AIDS virus.
Even now American pop culture does continually portray the hug in a most sensual and despicable manner. One of the most popular movie franchises in history, Lord of the Rings, portrayed the hug as a homo erotic gesture of perverse fidelity. No one can argue that the relationship between Frodo and Sam was an undoubtedly a homosexual metaphor as they shared countless hugs.
Those with the word hug in their names are indeed pernicious influences and peddle in depravity: Hugh Jackman, Hugh Heffner, Howard Hughes, Baby Hughey, John Hughes.
The hug has reached iconic status as National Hugging Day was founded on January 21, 1986, by Reverend Kevin Zaborney.
The hug has pierced the veil of the church and American society. We, the chaste, need to stand up and stop this madness, stop the proliferation of homo erotic messages, and stop the hugging.
What to write, oh what to write
Thursday night, hmmmmmmmmmmm, what to write about.
Should I examine the immigration debate that we’ve heard at nauseum the last few days? Nope.
What about the sublimely ridiculous Cynthia McKinny and her run in with DC police? Nope, too easy.
What about the debate between Ward Churchill and David Horowitz taking place tonight at George Washington University and the sordid display that followed on Hannity & Colmes? Promising but ultimately boring.
Then there’s the war in Iraq…No.
Education…Huh?
What about the two samaritan New York City police officers who were convicted of murder today? Now we’re talking but there’s little satirical fodder there.
What about the three ski patrol members who fell into a volcanic fissure at Mammoth Mountain Resort in California? The best yet but a bit raw to mock/lampoon.
I could talk about the papers Scooter Libby says prove Bush leaked or OK’d the leaking of Valerie Plame’s true identity…hell no.
Then there’s this little gem. A 65-year old unmarried Russian man has devised a way to take his porn stash with him when he shuffles his mortal coil…Bingo!
I love a good story that revolves around obsession for smut. It makes me all tingly and giddy.
Inspired by my new hero, Vladimir Villisov, I bring you my coffin, complete with a way to take my porn with me…
The outside is a muted gray with metallic flakes and is adorned with a Denver Broncos sticker, a Colorado Avalanche picture (preferably Joe Sakic), a Colorado Buffaloes logo, and a “Do not Disturb” placard. The casket is lined with purple velvet to denote my position as King of My Domain (you Seinfeldniks should be chuckling right about now), and a tasteful white pillow to show of my golden locks. In the lid will be a drop down plasma screen TV that will show streaming video of Super Bowl XXXII, Mary Carry’s Greatest Hits, and The Holy Grail (the scene where Lancelot storms the castle of the virgins will be on a continual loop). A video game consol will be graveside so those who mourn my passing can play Madden or Halo while they pay their collective respects. Captain Morgan & Coke will flow freely from a tap perched majestically atop my headstone. As a pis det resistance my epitaph will read either, “Ouch! Your standing on my head shit-for-brains!”, or, “What the hell are you looking at?”, or, “Is it a skoch drafty in here?”, or, “Damn, I can see right up her skirt!”
Should I examine the immigration debate that we’ve heard at nauseum the last few days? Nope.
What about the sublimely ridiculous Cynthia McKinny and her run in with DC police? Nope, too easy.
What about the debate between Ward Churchill and David Horowitz taking place tonight at George Washington University and the sordid display that followed on Hannity & Colmes? Promising but ultimately boring.
Then there’s the war in Iraq…No.
Education…Huh?
What about the two samaritan New York City police officers who were convicted of murder today? Now we’re talking but there’s little satirical fodder there.
What about the three ski patrol members who fell into a volcanic fissure at Mammoth Mountain Resort in California? The best yet but a bit raw to mock/lampoon.
I could talk about the papers Scooter Libby says prove Bush leaked or OK’d the leaking of Valerie Plame’s true identity…hell no.
Then there’s this little gem. A 65-year old unmarried Russian man has devised a way to take his porn stash with him when he shuffles his mortal coil…Bingo!
I love a good story that revolves around obsession for smut. It makes me all tingly and giddy.
Inspired by my new hero, Vladimir Villisov, I bring you my coffin, complete with a way to take my porn with me…
The outside is a muted gray with metallic flakes and is adorned with a Denver Broncos sticker, a Colorado Avalanche picture (preferably Joe Sakic), a Colorado Buffaloes logo, and a “Do not Disturb” placard. The casket is lined with purple velvet to denote my position as King of My Domain (you Seinfeldniks should be chuckling right about now), and a tasteful white pillow to show of my golden locks. In the lid will be a drop down plasma screen TV that will show streaming video of Super Bowl XXXII, Mary Carry’s Greatest Hits, and The Holy Grail (the scene where Lancelot storms the castle of the virgins will be on a continual loop). A video game consol will be graveside so those who mourn my passing can play Madden or Halo while they pay their collective respects. Captain Morgan & Coke will flow freely from a tap perched majestically atop my headstone. As a pis det resistance my epitaph will read either, “Ouch! Your standing on my head shit-for-brains!”, or, “What the hell are you looking at?”, or, “Is it a skoch drafty in here?”, or, “Damn, I can see right up her skirt!”
Me sad, very sad
I’m distraught, overcome with sadness. A profound tragedy has rocked the very foundation of my existence. It’s almost too tragic for words but I must share my sorrow in the hopes that a compassionate hand will reach out and help me as I feel the urge to collapse. There’s a poem called Footprints that describes immeasurable sorrow and how God will carry one through. Now, more than ever I need his help. I now know the pain of true loss, the loss of something precious and dear. But how can I go on when the death of joy has touched my life? As I type this tears roll down my face and I scream at the heavens, “Why?!”
One of my best friends informed me today that one of the vestiges of my ritualistic existence has been unceremoniously taken away. He informed me I will no longer be able to purchase my beloved Denver Bronco season tickets from him any longer.
Who will weep for this lost soul? I sign off now a broken man. Pray for me.
One of my best friends informed me today that one of the vestiges of my ritualistic existence has been unceremoniously taken away. He informed me I will no longer be able to purchase my beloved Denver Bronco season tickets from him any longer.
Who will weep for this lost soul? I sign off now a broken man. Pray for me.
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