Wonder

I can't blog at work. Here's a bit more of the nonsense rattling around in my head...when I'm supposed to be working.

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That's not all
MCs...have the gall
To pray & pray for my downfall

You don't know nuthin' 'bout Biggie. I already know.

The thoughts that I most need to express are the ones that I can never reveal. The intense scrutiny and cross-examination that would follow their revelation would surely topple the house of cards that my existence has come to resemble. I dare not even consider what I truly feel lest the chaos ensue. Better to remain in chrysalis until the time for revelation & reflection is proper.

Sucks to be me, huh?

Maybe it’s pheromones. I’ve been in my own world for the last little while. I haven’t been dealing with people other than close family for weeks. Now, that I’m out & about...things are different. EVERY woman that I see flashes before my eyes in positions of passion: head back, face strained in a frozen rictus of pleasure.

It has to be pheromones.

It’s like the TV shows when the psychic sees a vision that no one else can view. “What is it? What do you see?” Except...I don’t freeze up long enough to build the backstory for a one-hour episode with mine. I have missed a step from a couple of them, though.

Her shoes are some hideous Book of Deuteronomy Israelite leather sandals. They’re at least 3” tall at the heel...you’d think that I’d be pleased given my penchant for appreciation of nice shoes on pretty women...but, no! These are ugly. They nearly distracted me from noticing that wagon she’s draggin’.

Then, there’s the blonde brickhouse from yesterday. *pant! pant! pant!*

The libidinous gears of testosterone-lubricated thought turn relentlessly forward as my mind slides appreciatively around the XX curves of homo sapiens phatassica. I should have other concerns, I know. Bills, parenting, my career, home, fitness, diet...these should preoccupy me because I’m an adult...and stuff. But, in all honesty, my life would just be existence if it wasn’t for my cross-cultural appreciation of nicely proportioned female secondary mammalian characteristics...the sheer, juicy goodness of womanity.

Still...

No matter how fine she is, some other guy is sick & tired of her bullshit!

Heh! Believable...but, every woman on this planet has at least a theoretical chance at me. (Whether they want it or not is irrelevant to this particular discussion.)

Bratty

I can't blog @ work. Here is more recorded mental wandering.

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He brings a new phrase (oxymoron) to mind: cluttered precision.

Whodathunk the baby girls would turn out to be the sane ones?

Do what he say! Do what he say!

I can’t wait to share Blazing Saddles with the kids. I just bought a Three Stooges DVD. I’m going to watch that with BamBam just to see his reaction. He got on my nerves with his precociously sage pronouncement regarding the initial Superman movie, “This is so cheesy!”

What goes around comes around. My mother kicked my and my sisters out of her bedroom when she put on the original version of “The Thing” with James Arness. She built up anticipation by telling how scary the movie was. We howled with derision, “THIS scared you?!? *bwah hah ha ha ha ha!* Why didn’t they just run? How are you gonna catch somebody moving that slowly?” We heaped scorn & ridicule on the movie with the sophomoric certainty of teenagers. The point where my mother had enough of us was tangible! *click* “Get out!”

Why we got such pleasure from aggravating her, I still don’t know.

My children play within earshot and querulously debate things mundane & esoteric. Theories normally degenerate from thoughtful debate to outright goofiness. Then, they laugh riotously when I call them “dingbats”, “goofballs” and “idiots”.

My eight- and ten-year-olds include their little brother in all of their discussions, naturally. As a result, his level of conversational sophistication catches me off-guard, sometimes. It shouldn’t. I’m an expert on precociousness. When I was five-years-old, I gave a six-minute reading & speech in front of 200 people. I was so short that I had to stand on a box to reach the lectern. When I finished the speech and got back to my seat, I promptly threw up all over my burgundy crushed velvet suit. (It was The Seventies.)

Breakdown

I can't blog at work...here's the accumulation of minutiae.

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A man only complains about a woman’s wardrobe when she won’t give him any.

I hate flip-flops. Any shoe that makes that sound when she walks is a flip-flop. Mules with a 4+-inch heel are, of course, excepted. Any male that wears flip-flops, who isn’t still wet from swimming, lacks a fully functional set of cojones.

BamBam doesn’t talk trash. He talks CA$H shit. I think you have to be from Detroit to fully understand that phrase. His older brother & sister are already easing upon him to keep it competitive. He does possess a bit of skill in some videogames, though. So, if they take it too easy, he’ll come out on top. If he does, he crows. All I know is: if he was my little brother, I’d take the whipping and punch him any way.

I just made the worst cup of coffee in history. Italian Roast with French vanilla creamer.

X^(

Sleepy! It’s keeping me awake, though.

I’ve never been colorstruck. Fine is fine regardless of her skin tone. Sometimes, though, you have to drop in an ethnic reference to aid in the descriptive process. The Asian girl that just left is fine as hell! Li’l hot ass! My stoic mien allows thoughts like these to scamper across my synaptic plain without a hint of their ludicrous nature betrayed outwardly.

You never smile!

I always thought you were so mean!

You were looking?!? I couldn’t tell.

So, I get to sit & look without it being a leer. I can observe without causing tension. Of course, just my presence causes tension in some. I hat working around women who stare at the floor or look at the wall rather than speak. I don’t want every woman I see. Appreciation does not always equal desire. After all: I like flounder, but I don’t always want to eat it.

Playing with her hair…checking out my “package”…then, she invites me to church?!? What the…?

Flounder…

Update: The Asian chick has a stank attitude. I never said a word to her or approached her. I just observed her interact with someone doing some work that she requested. What is it with some people?

I HATE being cold…and I’m working around a bunch of Brits.

So, like, what are your names? Neil & Bob? Or is that what you do? – Andrew “Dice” Clay

Don’t you hate people that only speak when they need something?

SLEEPY!

They just changed the rules. Business casual…jeans are acceptable now. Brotha just jandered by in some FUBU & Timbs. Neater than some of the old Levi’s & running shoes that I’ve seen around here, but I know somebody’s going to pester him about his gear, though.

My brother’s on his third cell phone this year. When a phone drops off your belt & you’re 6’8”, well…gravity works.

White girls are always apologetic and embarrassed when they have a big butt. That’s too funny! There’s nothing at all wrong with a big (shapely) ass. If your ass looks like a grocery sack full of gravel [square & flat], that’s one thing. But, bubbles? Don’t hide bubbles. Those are genetic gifts of rotund magnificence.

Church! I still can’t get over that!

For whatever reason, my mind is giving randomly graphic scenes. I know why. I know how to fix it. But, that behavior is unacceptable, apparently.

Listen to Prince’s “Temptation” on the “Around the World in a Day” CD/album/tape.

Oh, silly man! That’s not how it works! You have to want her for the right reasons!
I do!
You don’t! Now, die!

Noooo! Nooooooooooo!

*psy*

FUBU, Timbs, and a celly? Yeah, they’re gonna get him. He doesn’t even see it coming either.

Ever see the episode of Dexter’s Laboratory with the bully? “Hey! Yew tawk phunnee!” That’s me, here! I’m a minority, not because I’m black, but because I’m an American! Strange happening for Jawja, don’t you think?

*Headknodz*