There is a small village in the eastern interior of Thailand, not far from the Laos border, by the name of Ban Nong Lum Phuk that is rich in ancient rituals and customs that have developed throughout history in that region. It seems that for almost any particular situation one could face in life, this culture has some sort of ritual or custom that pertains to it. In my studies of eastern philosophy, I found one particular custom from that area quite appealing.
The custom has its roots during the mid sixteenth century as the European explorers began to search the interior of modern day Thailand in hopes of finding valuable natural resources to exploit. There was a tribal leader by the name of Phaya Thaksin that controlled the area known simply as Phuk at that time... Ban Nong Lum is added later to honor other leaders in the history of the area. Thaksin was a self-centered and egotistical man that was easily swayed by the attentions of the European explorers. By playing upon Thaksin's ego and thirst for power, the European explorers were able to acquire food and supplies for their journey that left the villagers in a precarious situation with winter a few weeks away. Thaksin, although envisioning himself as a great leader, had left his people in a position to starve.
As winter set in and food became scarce, disease spread throughout the villages of the area, most likely introduced to the area unwittingly by the Europeans. As Thaksin's people died of starvation and disease, the Europeans continued to visit Thaksin for supplies on their journey. Thaksin felt the attention of the European visitors was of great importance and would entertain his guests and shower them with riches, but could not be bothered with the problems of the people of his lands. Thaksin would adorn himself in the finest textiles brought to him by the Europeans and demanded that his people refer to him as "king". The concept of a king was foreign to the peoples of the area at that time, but Thaksin gave them a crash course in European traditions and demanded royal treatment along with "taxation" of his people. This could not have come at a less opportune time for Thaksin's people, or Thaksin, for that matter.
The legend has it that Thaksin's people planned to overthrow Thaksin, but being a peaceful people, they were not prone to violence. Instead they decided to play upon Thaksin's own inflated self worth and pay homage to their royal leader with a yellow lamb. The yellow lamb was offered to Thaksin as a token of the tribe's appreciation for all he had done for them and Thaksin graciously accepted thinking his people had finally come to realize his value in the world. However, as one might expect, there was more to the offer than a simple token of appreciation... the villagers had poisoned the lamb with a slow acting poison that did not actually kill the lamb outright, but yet laced its meat with a deadly toxin. After feasting on the lamb for three days, and offering none to his starving people, Thaksin succumbed to the poison and died. It was reported that the villagers dragged his body along the ground for miles where it was thrown upon an ant mound to be devoured by the lowest of creatures in the jungle.
The custom born from this moment in history is still practiced by the people of the area. The giving of a golden trinket, a lamb, to be exact, to a pompous, self absorbed person as a symbol of one's disdain for that person. A royal gift to one who has done you wrong and is not worthy of recognition. A very passive aggressive means of putting one in their place, if you will.
So, to all the pompous, self centered, egotistical people out there who think you are better than everyone else, I give to you, this golden, royal, "Phuk Ewe".
There is said to be an ancient Indian ritual that would foretell a young man's fate in battle as he became of age to wage war. Although the general idea behind the ritual has been known for quite some time, it wasn't until relatively recently that any actual record could be found. This is primarily due to the lack of written records kept by any of the Indian tribes. In the late 1990's, students from the Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, Kansas, discovered artifacts and written documentation (as recorded three generations removed) describing this ritual as performed by the Conestoga (Kanastoge, "at the place of the immersed pole" ) people, an important Iroquoian tribe. This tribe lived along the Susquehanna river and its branches and were in alliance with the Algonquian tribes of the east shore of the Chesapeake bay. They were a warlike tribe and possessed a physique far superior to that of all the other neighboring tribes. They were said to be successful in battle due to the strength and bravery of their warriors. Warriors that were chosen in accordance with the ritual at hand.
At the appropriate age, most likely between the ages of 14 and 17, the youth would be brought before the village to perform the ritual and determine his fate in battle. The youth would be disrobed completely and placed inside a ring of firewood and brush. Once the ring was lit and ablaze, at the command of the tribal chief, the youth would begin chanting the sacred phrase to awaken the gods and determine the young man's fate. If the ring of fire was visible in reflection within the youth's eyes, it was a sign he was strong and ready for battle. If there was no reflection, he would fulfill lesser roles and not be permitted to enter into battle. Seeing as there was great honor in battle, the outcome of the ritual was of the utmost importance.
For nearly three centuries the details of this ritual and the exact phrase had been lost. Once rediscovered, psychologists and scientists began running a series of tests to determine the basis, if any, for the claims of foretelling one's lot in life. Although scientific proof of religious beliefs and existential matters is often difficult or impossible to come by, there were many anecdotal successes throughout the trials. Seems scientists and psychologists couldn't agree on the imposition of outside factors influencing the outcome of the trials, so no official benefit could be determined in the studies. In other words, you couldn't keep a human in a bubble without influence from the outside world to determine their fate in life.
The anecdotal evidence seemed enough to spurn a cult-like following of this ritual on college campuses, which in many cases resembled hazing rituals performed by many fraternities and sororities anyway. In modern times the ritual is said to be effective in determining one's fortune in life and is reportedly effective for both men and women at an age of adolescence or beyond. The ancient ritual has been adapted to modern times, but reportedly, the directions must be followed to the letter to achieve accurate results. Although I'm not certain to the validity of the exercise and I recognize the fact that it can be equated to the modern day "snipe hunt", I will describe the ritual to you in full, along with any materials needed for its performance.
The ritual can be performed as intended, in front of others, or in private, with minor modifications for someone performing it solo. Due to the requirement of complete nudity, the choice is a personal matter that would hinge upon one's own comfort level and the particular company involved. Materials needed for both the traditional method and the solo method include candles, enough to encircle one performing the ritual in a traditional method or enough for a semi-circle for the solo practitioner, and tables, counters, or stands to place the lit candles at waist height. For the solo practitioner, a large mirror will be necessary so that the practitioner can view himself/herself while performing the ritual.
The ritual was traditionally performed at night and is said to be most accurate if done so in modern times. I would assume this is due to the darkness necessary for the candlelight to provide enough illumination, so I'm not certain if artificial darkness would suffice or not. In the end, it is again a choice of the individual practitioner. It is difficult to determine the correct number of candles due to varying sizes and structures involved, just be certain to have "enough" to cast an ample amount of light. I would avoid using candles housed in votives of colored glass.
Once the candles are lit and placed in a circle (semi circle for solo practitioner) the subject performing the ritual is to disrobe completely and step into the circle. The traditional method would have the practitioner facing the observing parties while the solo practitioner would face the mirror to allow him/her to see their own reflection.
Once in place, the practitioner should recite the following incantation, slowly at first, but gaining in speed as the phrase is repeated. I've provided a phonetic key in parenthesis to assist in the proper pronunciation:
After repeating the phrase several times at an ever faster pace, the observing parties (or the solo practitioner) should be able to see the person's fate in life within their eyes.
Personally I believe the incantation to be highly accurate, but I'll leave the final judgment to each of you individually. I just hope you enjoy the exercise.
If you build a man a fire, you'll keep him warm for a day.
If you teach him how to build a fire, he'll have warmth for life.
If you set a man on fire, he'll be REALLY warm, but for a shorter length of time and his relatives will most likely sue you.
If you give a man a fish, you'll cure his hunger for a day.
If you teach a man to fish, you'll cure his hunger for life.
If you give him a whole yellow-fin tuna, he'll feed off that thing until he's sick of fish and will most likely develop severe seafood allergies breaking out in a rash and large puss-filled sores. Although he will secretly find great sexual satisfaction from squeezing the puss out of the sores in a sickened masochistic way that would leave Freud thoughtless while sitting on a toilet reading a compilation of Nietzsche's greatest works, he will complain to his relatives and then, in turn, his relatives will most likely sue you.
... but... if you shove that yellow-fin tuna up (the posterior end of his corporal form), he'll most likely forget he was ever hungry in the first place. I doubt his relatives would sue you as the sheer embarrassment of holding still while you lather up a giant yellow-fin tuna and ram it up his (posterior end of his corporal form) would most likely keep him from talking about it at family gatherings... unless, of course, you are a member of my family. We always find that kind of story entertaining at family weddings or funerals.
I'm not entirely sure how that applies to the mysteries of life, but I enjoyed writing it. Most people sit around brain-storming... I brain-sprinkle. Which reminds me... I have to pee.
I remember the moment you were born. I actually watched your birth... something I never thought I'd do. All of my anxiety, apprehension, and fears were lifted as you entered the world before me. I'd never been one to have much interest in babies, but you were beautiful... perfect in every sense. You were born with a full head of dark hair... so much hair that the nurses actually combed it into mini-Mohawk for your very first picture. I was there for your very first breath and your very first look at the new world around you.
We brought you home to a new room that had been painted and decorated just for you, but I moved your crib into our room so I could be near you. I needed to hear you breath at night... to know you were real. Your birth and recognition of me as your father was the most touching moment of my life... and will most likely always remain as such.
I was there for your first words... although there may be argument as to which utterance was actually a word, my opinion would have to side with "da". You were such a content little child... very little crying... very little fuss... a fat little baby with a big toothless grin and bright eyes always searching out for her dad. Once you became mobile, we became inseparable. You followed me everywhere your chubby little legs would take you. When you came to steps, you would turn and face them backing down one at a time with your hands on the steps above you. There was nothing that would let "da" get too far away. You used to say, "like-a-you, like-a-me" as you copied and mimicked everything I did.
As you grew older, our relationship changed, but remained as precious to me as the day you were born. "Da" gave way to "Dad", but carried the same weight in my heart. I remember buying you a leather vest for your tenth birthday so you'd feel all grown up as you rode on the back of my Harley. You preferred shorter rides in town as to long highway ventures... I believe it was for the exposure... so people could see you riding with your dad.
I remember the ride we took when you were eleven to the North Fork River in southern Missouri. It was a long ride, not your favorite, but you wanted to go anyway. I lured you along with the promise of a picnic at the park on the banks of the river right along the side of the old two-lane blacktop highway. It was late August and the weather was beginning to change. We stopped for sandwiches and drinks a few miles from the park and you somehow carried the drinks without spilling them on the back of my bike... you always wanted me to get saddle bags.
At the park, we ate our lunch and talked and laughed about various things as the cars and trucks drove by on the highway and the river-rats floated by in their canoes... an intersection between two worlds adjacent to one another in space, but completely foreign to one another in experience. Somehow we were able to sit there and exist in both worlds at once.
We watched as the Monarch butterflies slowly drifted south for their annual migration. I remember the joy in your face as one landed upon your shoulder to rest its weary wings... and how you cried when your newly found friend was struck by a semi-truck as it attempted to cross the highway. I remember holding you and comforting you as I'd done so many times before, and so many times afterwards, and telling you, "Even butterflies get hit by semis." Although a simple facet of life, it gave you little comfort.
I'm not sure exactly when or where your troubles began, but I recall the change in our relationship as you entered your teens. The precious quiet moments I used to cherish with you disappeared and were replaced by paranoia, anger, and frustration. What I believed to be a simple passing phase, a stage of development, I later learned was a much more dark and serious problem. Somehow, in someway, heroin had entered your life. In a matter of months, what had been a life filled with laughter and joy, a carefree existence with the world at your feet, had now become a torturous battle with addiction... a constant shift between nodding off and a visceral hunger for the next fix. A bright and shining face beaming with curiosity and a lust for life, had become a dark and hollow shell of the person she had once been.
Through all of this, I journeyed with you. I stayed up late at night, wringing my heart and soul with fear, wondering where you were... if you were safe... feeling a great sense of relief when you would finally find your way home, even though the empty shadow of a human being walking through the door bore little resemblance to the daughter I'd raised. I remember the hope and joy I felt when you came out of rehab the very first time... and how that hope and joy was hacked away with each successive visit into and out of the same program. I felt completely helpless... lost... powerless to fight an evil I could not lay my hands upon... hopeless in a battle I could not understand.
I remember the end of my fear... a late night visit to my house by two clean and proper young men dressed in blue on a cold November night. I always expected the reaper to be more ominous in appearance, but the effects were just the same. My fears came to an end, not in a joyous and happy occasion, but in the tragic and horrific news of your death. The officers told me they'd found your body, bruised and battered, near a dumpster in an alley in one of the rougher parts of town. The most beautiful and precious thing in my life had been used and discarded without reverence like a common piece of trash. Once again I found myself in an abyss looking skyward for some sign of a greater plan... some kind of reason... some explanation of why a parent should be faced with burying their child. Then I remembered... even butterflies get hit by semis.
creates and takes life,
heals all wounds.
Are the two dependent upon one another? ...intertwined in an endless dance? ...or can love stand alone?
Time without love is what makes hearts yearn... but can there be love without time?
Can a man love a baby from the moment it is born? It is love... it is real... it is immediate.
Can a man love a woman from the moment they first meet?
...only time will tell.
Nothing but time...
From the moment I first saw you,
I wanted to be part of you.
You came into my life unannounced,
unpretentious... no chance for disappointment.
Your presence was captivating.
I followed as if on a string...
you never so much as noticed.
I can't help but wonder if you knew.
My eyes traced your every movement
regardless of how small.
Every graceful step... every touch of the glass to your lips...
every turn of your head...
I watched in awe.
The smell of your hair,
the sound of your voice,
the touch of your skin...
all more precious than the air I breathe.
Now your life is about to change.
I tremble with anticipation...
ache over the fear of your pain...
prostrated by thoughts of rejection.
Over the miles of empty space,
I long for your touch.
Through countless hours and endless time,
I wait for the moment.
My life's goals have decayed and tumbled...
all gone, save one.
To lose myself completely...
and find myself in you.
The hair is gone... so is the beard. Although I've received many comments on how I should "lose the beard" (thanks Jules), the decision to do so was more of timing than anything else... about 2:00 AM to be exact. As I recently told a friend (you know who you are), I've always considered myself above the rules that govern mere mortal man... the troubles that seem to bog the masses down could never touch me. I was a rock... able to stand alone and resist movement or change from any outside forces. I was either deceiving or lying to myself.
The truth of the matter is I've been just as vulnerable and fragile as the weakest among us... I've just honed the ability to hide "feeling". The hair and beard, although I personally liked it, was just something to hide behind... like sunglasses when you've been crying. I guess the healing process is in full swing, but I've come to realize that it isn't a healing process from the most recent lost relationship... it goes back much further and deeper. The pain and anguish over that relationship was mostly projected there from within... a scapegoat of sorts... a stool pigeon or decoy. I've always taken great pride in the fact that I'm as transparent as a piece of glass... what you see is what you get... no hidden mystic or meaning. I'm beginning to see it was all smoke and mirrors and the only wide-eyed kid in the crowd being fooled by the illusion was me.
As I write, I continue to peel away layers of camouflage... not certain if I'll like what I find when I reach the center. I know there is something there that must be the cause of my inability to maintain a relationship... after all, "one hundred Helen's" can't be wrong. Seems I'm learning the painful lessons of life that most learn in their formative years. I skipped those chapters and proceeded directly to the climactic part of the story... only to be forced to return and revisit them as I didn't realize there would be a quiz and I cannot answer life's questions without the information within.
As I stood there above the pile of hair on my bathroom floor, I had mixed emotions. I know what it must feel like for the trapeze artist to perform the first stunt... to let go of the safety and security of the known in hopes that something will be there to keep you from falling. I've learned enough in my journey to know that forward is the only path for me... and if I don't let go of the past, I'll never reach the other side.
I thank you for your time.
Main Street in Skidmore, Missouri, the notorious bully Ken Rex McElroy was gunned down in broad daylight in front of nearly fifty witnesses after a town meeting, but yet not a single person could provide any information as to who fired the shots. A paramilitary compound near Smithville, Arkansas, where federal agents killed Posse Comitatus member Gordon Kahl at the conclusion of an extensive manhunt after a shootout in Montana left two US Marshals dead. And the old Chain of Rocks Bridge near St. Louis, Missouri, the site of a brutal murder of two teenage girls that were tossed off the bridge into the murky waters below as easily as one discards a paper cup after draining the contents on hot summer day. These are some of the stories with which I grew up as a teenager in southern Missouri. As an adult I've felt compelled to visit such sites over the years. I've never really understood why... almost like paying respect to those who've been immortalized by the stories, regardless of whether they deserved such recognition or not.
In preparation for my visit to the Chain of Rocks Bridge, I preserved a rose. I decided to leave the rose on the rail where the bridge makes a twenty-two degree turn... the site where the two girls had been thrown to their deaths. A token of love and lost opportunities to two people I'd never met. A preserved rose that would last forever, for two people who'd been dead for twenty-five years. I assumed the compulsion was the result of yet another destroyed relationship in my own life. Some sick fantasy or delusion that perhaps one of these two girls would have been someone with whom I could have built a relationship that would have weathered the rough waters as the old bridge had weather all the Mississippi River had to offer.
The bridge has long been closed to traffic, but has been opened to pedestrians and bicyclists as a point of interest due to it's unique features. I arrived long after dark on a muggy August evening in which thunderstorms loomed in all directions making the air thick and heavy... normal for this time of year in this part of the country. I parked my van in the empty parking lot, took the rose off the passenger seat, and began my short walk out onto the bridge. The old yellow lights on the bridge illuminated the haze in all directions, but did a relatively poor job of lighting the bridge itself.
As I walked in silence, listening to the sounds of the Mississippi River below me, I heard the sound of an aluminum can striking the concrete. I noticed someone sitting on the rail at the bend in the bridge. As I grew closer, I noticed it was a young man, most likely in his early twenties. He was large and thick... like a lineman for a large high school or small college football team. He wore an old pair of faded denim jeans, ratty tennis shoes, and a red and white football jersey with the sleeves tight around his biceps... number 72. He was seated straddling the rail right at the twenty-two degree bend facing out towards the water. On the rail in front of him were five unopened beer cans lined up like little soldiers awaiting orders that they would blindly follow to their deaths. On the surface of the bridge below him were their six fallen comrades... not thrown, crushed, or tossed, but simply drained and dropped without any thought or purpose. The twelfth was wrapped in the young man's massive right hand as he drained the can of it's contents in silence. He'd yet to even acknowledge my presence and I could tell by the look of his face that he'd been crying. I asked him if everything was alright and he responded with three questions in succession without hesitating for an answer. His speech was slow and deliberate. He wanted to know who I was, why I was there, and if "she" had sent me. I told him I was a lonely traveler who'd come to the bridge to pay my respects to lost friends and that I didn't even know who "she" was. I placed the rose on the rail a few feet in front of him and looked out over the water.
Perhaps my approach made him feel at ease or the amount of beer consumed was beginning to wear away on his emotions... whatever the cause, he began to talk. He talked about his girlfriend... her long black hair, big brown eyes, and a smile that could move mountains. He talked about how they'd met in high school and all the things they used to do together... how she'd drift off to sleep in his arms while they stayed up late watching movies on the couch at her mother's house. He talked about how she'd stayed home after high school and taken a job at a daycare while he went away to college to play football on scholarship. He talked about how he'd just found out she was pregnant, but instead of it being the beginning of their life together, she was getting an abortion and told him she didn't want to see him anymore. He talked about his parents, with whom he still lived while home from college, and how he argued with them over his girlfriend. Apparently they disapproved of his girlfriend, but I never found out why as I didn't want to interrupt him and the only sounds I made were the occasional "uh-huh" and "yeah" to let him know I was still listening. I doubt my gestures would have made any difference as I felt he'd have had this conversation at this particular point in time regardless of whether or not I'd been present.
He talked and drank and drank and talked. He emptied one can after another and dropped them effortlessly to join the ranks of fallen soldiers below him. His mood waffled back and forth like a soccer ball between anger at one goal and sorrow at the other. He was very intimidating when angry. His muscles would tense and his cold blue eyes would disappear as he scrunched his face in anger. His thick lips would all but disappear as they were pulled tightly against his teeth as he talked. Then moments later he'd be sobbing like a child who'd just discovered his dog had been hit by a car, limp and helpless, snot running down his nose, and convulsing as he took deep inward breaths.
I'd never met this young man before, but I knew him and I knew his story. I knew his pain and sorrow. I knew his anger and frustration. I knew him better than he knew himself. I also knew that he'd just opened the last little soldier and the beer remaining within that can was the last bit of sand in the hourglass of his life. I knew what had brought him there and I knew it was time for me to talk.
I told him I knew why he was there and that he couldn't carry out his plans. I told him about the two women that had lost their lives on that bridge and how the many lives they'd been meant to touch had gone on untouched in their absence. I told him his life had a greater purpose and that he was on this earth to help his fellow man... that if he could touch one person and bring meaning to their life everything would make sense. I told him the things that had happened to him were what shaped him, formed him, and made him who he was... although painful, they made him a better man. I talked and talked and talked... and he listened silently.
He wiped the tears from his eyes with his club-like hands and set the half empty beer on the rail. He swung his left leg over the rail onto the bridge as if dismounting a horse and walked towards me as I stood there frozen in time... half in fear of what he might do when he reached me and half in awe that he'd left the rail, and the beer, on the side of the bridge and not the side of the river. He was bigger than I thought... more like a lineman from a large college football team. He held his massive arms out, wrapped them around me, and began to sob again. I stood there dwarfed in his arms as his giant tears fell to my shoulder. After a few moments, he regained his composure and said, "thank you, sir." He then turned back towards the beer and reached out to pick it up. Without thinking, I grabbed his arm and somehow stopped it's forward progress prior to his giant hand reaching the beer. I told him I thought we should just let that one stand.
We left the half empty beer and the rose on the rail and turned to walk back towards the parking lot. Both of us looking down at the surface of the old weathered bridge beneath the yellow lights with our hands stuffed deep into our pants pockets. Lightening from distant thunderstorms illuminated the horizon, but I barely even noticed. As we reached the parking lot, he spoke again... firing off three more questions without waiting for a response. I could sense "buyer's remorse" in his voice. He wanted to know how I knew he had a purpose, how I knew he would be able to help someone else, and how I could be so sure when I didn't even know him.
We stood there motionless at the edge of the dimly lit bridge. Two complete strangers who's paths had crossed at the perfect moment in time. I took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eyes and told him I knew because my wife had left me a few months ago and HE had just saved MY life.
I once casually mentioned in a blog the theory of how to make a baby cry. Having grown up in Southern Missouri, I thought everyone was familiar with the theory. However, it seems many have only been told the shortened version of how to make a baby cry and I've been asked to provide the full theory.
Some think that to make a baby cry, you just simply refuse to give it candy. Although that may result in the desired effects some of the time, to be certain the baby will cry, for whatever twisted reason you may have, you should follow these directions to the letter... it has been proven effective many, many times.
To make a baby cry, you must first GIVE the baby candy... but if you just hand it over, you are truly cutting the whole experience short. Instead, let the baby casually see the candy from across the room. Just a quick glance at irregular intervals... nothing too obvious as you don't want to arouse the baby's suspicions. Then slowly work the candy across the room, stopping on occasions for idle inspection by others in the room or simple passers-by. Now hold the candy in front of the baby... just out of reach, but close enough to where the baby's mind will make it think it actually feels the candy. Inch the candy, ever so slowly, closer. When the baby strains forward with outreaching hands and can reach forward no further, quickly move the candy across the tips of the baby's fingers... not quick enough to impact the fingers, but just quick enough to brush across the very tips of the fingers enticing a tingling sensation that awakens the deepest urges within the baby's infantile mind. Just enough of a touch to make the baby want, no, CRAVE more. Place the candy within the baby's hands, but don't let it grab hold. Slowly stroke the baby's palms with the candy... move to the outside of the hand and slowly move the candy up the baby's arm with the gentle touch of a peacock feather on naked skin. Bring the candy back down the arm along the top of the hand and gently run it down the length of the fingers to the very tip.
Now you should have the baby's undivided attention. The world could be on fire and crumbling around him, but he'll never notice as every fiber in the baby's mind is on that piece of candy. Every thought is of how he can obtain that candy. Will the candy taste as good as it looks? Will the candy satisfy his growing candy needs? Will it dissolve too quickly? Will he be able to handle this piece of candy? Or will he only be able to eat a portion of it to leave it on the coffee table sticky and wet only to be eaten by a passing dog at a later time? Will it be too sweet? Will it be too tart? Will it taste perfect, but yet turn sour leaving a bitter taste in his mouth? Will his mother approve of this particular piece of candy? After all, she didn't buy it. Will it be the kind of candy that breaks into sharp jagged pieces and lodges in your teeth to cause pain and discomfort for hours long after the sweet seductive tastes are gone? None of this matters... all he knows is he WANTS the candy.
Now take the candy and move it closer to the baby's face. Hold it in front of the baby so he can see it's candied perfection. Every edge... every corner... every curve. Move the candy left to right slowly in front of the baby's eyes. Watch as the baby's head actually moves with the piece of candy while the eyes are transfixed in a locked position within their tiny sockets. Move the candy towards the baby's mouth. As the baby slowly tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and sticks out his tongue to accept the piece of candy, bring it close enough to the baby's mouth so that it can actually taste the smells coming from the piece of candy. So close that the anticipation actually disrupts the baby's breathing at the precise moment that the baby expects the candy to touch his tongue. Then veer the candy to a side brushing the side of the baby's mouth with the candy. As the baby adjusts his mouth to accept the candy, move it further away sliding it gently up the baby's cheek, down around the jaw line, across the neck, and up the other side. The baby will now be completely motionless, transfixed by temptation and the desire to have what must be the sweetest candy on the face of the planet. This MUST be the right piece of candy. You can now gently rub the candy left to right across the baby's lips... allowing the baby to take in the full fragrance of the candy with each passage under his nose.
Move the piece of candy down along the side of the baby's mouth, down under the chin, and bring it up directly along the center of the chin, across the lips and just below the nose. Hesitate for a moment... just long enough for the baby to know, instinctively, that now is the time. Bring the candy down across the upper lip and stop directly on the lower lip... that has now swollen and is protruding in a pouty fashion. At this moment's hesitation, the baby will slowly drop his lower jaw and accept the piece of candy.
This is now the climactic point of this baby's life... above and beyond any other piece of candy that has ever crossed his lips. It's texture is smooth and flawless. It's taste is gently sweet. It makes his mouth water and brings tears of joy to his eyes. This piece of candy is perfect. He wants to climb to the highest point and announce to the world that he has found the perfect piece of candy and the perfect piece of candy has found him. This piece of candy will outlast any other piece of candy. This is HIS piece of candy for all time.
... you can now take the piece of candy from the baby and watch him cry. These are the tears that will leave stains on the baby's face. These are the tears that will turn his eyes red and make them swell shut. These are the tears that come from within... the tears that will erode mountains and shape all things that will stand before him in the future. These are the tears that will never go away and that baby will have to look at the world through these tears for the rest of time.
These are the tears that have changed my life. Some say it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved before... try telling that to the crying baby.
Although I can't take full credit for this one, I've altered it over the years to fit my own personality... perhaps I shouldn't reveal such info on a "dating site", huh? I've obviously altered certain words to please the powers-that-be at BK. You can feel free to copy, paste, and alter as you see fit. By using this response, I've drastically reduced the number of chain letters I receive... and the number of party invitations.
Hello, my name is Botar and I suffer from the guilt of not forwarding 50 billion f'ing chain letters sent to me by people who actually believe that if you send them on, a poor 6-year-old girl in Arkansas with a breast on her forehead will be able to raise enough money to have it removed before her redneck parents sell her to a traveling freak show.
Do you honestly believe that Bill Gates is going to give you, and everyone to whom you send "his" email, $1000? How stupid are we?
"Ooooh, looky here! If I scroll down this page and make a wish, I'll get laid by a model who will just happen to come do my door tomorrow selling vaccuum cleaners!" What a bunch of BS.
Or better yet, the warm and fuzzy "Friends" chain letter that describes how the life of one sad lonely dork was saved by the kind words of another. Of course it failed to mention that the dork later changed his name to Theodore Bundy and, thanks the kind actions of one well-meaning kid, he later became very successful in his chosen profession... as a serial killer. Its called natural selection... let it happen.
Maybe the evil chain letter leprechauns will come into my house and sodomize me in my sleep for not continuing a chain letter that was started by Peter in 5 AD and brought to this country by midget pilgrims on the Mayflower. F' them.
If you're going to forward something, at least send me something mildly amusing. I've seen all the "send this to 10 of your closest friends, and this poor, wretched excuse for a human being will somehow receive a nickel from some 'omniscient being' if he forwards it about 90 times" BS. I don't f'ing care.
Show a little intelligence and think about what you're actually contributing to by sending out these forwards. Chances are, it's your own unpopularity.
The point being? If you get some chain letter that's threatening to leave you shagless or luckless for the rest of your life, delete it. If it's funny, send it on. Don't piss people off by making them feel guilty about a leper in Botswana with no teeth who has been tied to the ass of a dead elephant for 27 years and whose only salvation is the 5 cents per letter he'll receive if you forward this e-mail.
Now instead of forwarding this to ten of your friends, forward it to the ignorant f' who sent you the chain letter that you forwarded to me. Otherwise, tomorrow morning your underwear will turn carnivorous and will consume your genitals.
I wasn't born with enough middle fingers.
Have a nice day.
For starters, I guess I should admit now that I'm a "retired" cop. I was in law enforcement for 17 years and have been "free" now for 2 years. I had to do a few months working the streets as a male prostitute to regain my self-esteem, but I'm with the living now. Although I've been riding since I was a child, I'm new to the "biker" world.
This actually occurred in September of 2001 and I posted the below story on a hobby forum a year or so afterwards.
On to the story...
A lot of you know about my marital history... 3 strikes and your out... and each one was a little less desirable than the previous. Anyway, after the immediate annulment of the third I refused to date. I spent all of my social time on the computer... good to know some things never change. I met someone on-line that was local. I loved her sense of humor. She was a Marine and a kickboxer... right up my alley. I never got a picture of her and I wasn't interested in her for her looks anyway, so when she mentioned meeting, I agreed.
We met at a coffee shop and I was very surprised and pleased with what I saw coming through the door. I was even more pleased when I discovered it was the person I was there to meet. We hit it off fine and set up a "date" for her to come to my house for dinner two days later. I had to work a midnight shift that night, so there was little concern of things going too far too fast. Unusual comment for a man, but I can live with that.
Over the next 48 hours she called over 20 times and "broke up" with me twice. This was a bit of a shock since I didn't even know we were going steady. She called at 1 AM on the morning we were to have dinner at my place and asked me if I would go on a work related road trip with her that day. I declined. She called again at 7 AM with the same question and acted as if she had never called the first time. With my history of being able to locate a raving mental in a convent, I was growing a bit concerned.
Around noon the day of our scheduled dinner, she called and sounded as if she'd been drinking. So now I had an intoxicated mental that I didn't know coming to my house for dinner. I asked her if she'd been drinking and she declined... a lying, intoxicated mental that I didn't know was coming to my house for dinner.
A few hours later she called and said she'd just been in a fight with her ex. I asked her if she called the cops and she said "No, that NEVER works." A wounded, lying, intoxicated mental that I didn't know was coming to my house for dinner. I told her I wanted to cancel and she wasn't taking no for an answer. I told her not to come or I would call the cops... she said she was on her way.
I called the local PD and told them who I was (a sergeant with the Sheriff's Office at the time) and my situation. They told me to just call 9-1-1 and they'd send a car.
As I'm cooking dinner, she walks into my house like we were old neighborhood buddies. She comes into my kitchen and shows me her newly pierced tongue as a reason for the slurred speech. I said I was happy for her.
She raised her shirt and showed me her newly pierced belly button. Again I applauded with great enthusiasm.
This woman, who I'd met just over 48 hours before, then dropped trou in my kitchen and showed me her newly pierced clitoris. I stood in my kitchen with my chin on the floor in utter disbelief. The only words that I could force out of my mouth was,"You need to leave... now." Much to my surprise, that wasn't the reaction she was expecting and I got to see her evil twin in action.
She's now angry, cursing at me, and digging through her purse explaining how she was trained in how to treat a sucking chest wound in the Marine Corps... I'm reaching for my cast iron skillet in hopes of defraying bullets a la Saturday morning cartoon style.
So now the local PD arrives... a patrol officer, his trainee, and a sergeant. They ask me if I want her arrested. I explain I just want her gone. She is intoxicated so they take her to the station and call a friend to come pick her up. I eat my dinner, count my blessings, and head off to work.
A short time after I arrive at work, I get a call from her on my cell phone. "Guess where I am." I'm thinking she's calling from my drive way... but noooooo. She's calling from the local PD. Aparently she'd been arrested, but I couldn't understand anything she was saying so I asked to speak with the officer. He told me her friend picked her up at the station and took her to get her car at my house. Then they went to a bar to discuss the evenings events over a cocktail or twenty. Once she's good and loaded her friend did what all good friends would do... sent her back to my house. Unfortunately she forgot where it was. End of story... right? Noooooo.
She knew the local PD knew where I lived. Perhaps they'd help her out. Yep, she called 9-1-1 and told them she couldn't find her way back to my house and asked if they'd send a car to show her the way. They were more than happy to send a car... and arrest her for DUI. The officer said, "I don't know what you've got going on with this girl, but she's already offered us BJ's if we let her go." I told him I'd just met her two days prior and to do whatever he felt was appropriate. She went to jail.
So now she's in the jail ran by my boss. She decides to give the booking officer my name and number as her emergency contact and then calls me the next morning, after she bonds out of jail, and wants to know if I'd like to meet her for lunch. I later found out she was on probation for falsely accusing a man of rape.
THAT is why I'm single. With the way my luck has been, the next one will kill me for sure.
"Pinkie" was my responsibility while my daughter was visiting her mom for the weekend. Not that I take such responsibilities lightly, but I have a LOT of mouths to feed. Anyway, "Pinkie" joined the rodent masses in chew toy heaven and I was faced with finding a suitable replacement... and fast.
I went to a local pet store owned by a friend of mine and found a ringer... surely I could pull this off. So I loaded "Pinkie II" into the little cardboard box and threw her in the truck for the journey home.
As I'm travelling down I-35 headed home in rush hour traffic, I noticed a carload of twenty-something hotties in the lane next to me. Knowing that a carload of twenty-somethings are ALWAYS seeking middle-age-man for a night of naked gymnastics, I put on my best "cool dude" face as they passed by. Just as I thought my romantic stars were about to change, I noticed the little furry she devil had chewed a hole in the box and was making good her escape in my truck.
I tried to maintain the "cool dude" look as I was wrangling the Carl Malone of the hamster world who was now running a 4-minute mile in the confines of the cab of my truck as I'm swerving lane to lane at 70 MPH down the freeway. Just as I thought I was pulling it off, "Pinkie II" made her way up the leg of my jeans. This must have caused quite the humorous look upon my face as I now had the undivided attention of the twenty-somethings I'd been so desparately trying to impress. Not wanting to have to go purchase "Pinkie III", I tried pulling my jeans away from my leg to attempt to keep from squishing Pinkie II... not to metion the fact that I really didn't want a dead hamster in my pants... sounds like the aftermath of a Frat party.
Let me take the opportunity to tell you that in the hamster world, no good deed goes unpunished. Pinkie II, not feeling the constricting confines of my jeans against my leg took this opportunity to venture forward towards the delicate underbelly of my nether region where, once all movement was no longer possible, she decided to clamp down like a starving Ethiopian at a hot dog eating contest. I'm now jumping around in the cab of my truck trying to remove my pants and free Pinkie II from my flesh... much to the enjoyment of the twenty-somethings who had maintained a position next to me throughout the entire event.
In the end, I made it home without wrecking my truck, Pinkie II survived, and I'm sure the twenty-something hotties were all laughing it up that night at the local bar and grill over a few cold ones. My daughter never noticed the change, but I can feel the cold glare of the rabid hamster as I walk by her cage at night... I sleep in fear.