Balls and Walnuts
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Lame Reasons to Have Sex #3
Karen: Uh-uh.
Me: You realize, you’re contributing to my risk factors for prostate cancer.
Karen: Oh, that is weak. Besides, I thought you had your bases covered with all that fiddling.
Me: Damn.
D.
How many is too many?
Meet the Duggar family.
Note that (Head Count) – Mom – Dad = 14. This is the Duggar family circa 2004, before #15 arrived. The Duggars were the subject of a Discovery Health channel documentary, “14 Children and Pregnant Again!”, which airs again on October 27 and October 29. Here’s the blurb:
“The Duggars are letting God dictate how many children they have and, with nine boys, five girls, and one on the way, Jim Bob and Michelle feel blessed many times over! Find out how the Duggars coordinate a household that would challenge any manager.”
Before discussing precisely how the Duggars coordinate that household, let’s get some Guinness Book of World Records perspective. According to sexualrecords.com, the 2001 Guinness Book gives the record to “the first wife of Feodor Vassilyev (1707-1782) of Shuya, Russia”: 69 children, many of them multiple births, 67 of whom survived infancy. In recent times, the record belongs to “Leontina Albina from San Antonio, Chile. Now in her mid-sixties, Leontina claims to be the mother of 64 children, of which only 55 of them are documented”.
Can we at least agree that 55 children is too many?
Back to the Duggars. Never mind that Jim Bob and Michelle dress their children like clones and give them names, ALL of them, that start with J (including Jinger — pronounced Ginger, in case you’re wondering). Never mind that the white suprem acist website st0rrmf runt dot org* luuurves the Duggars cuz they’re bringin’ all them white Christian babies into the world. After all, the Duggars can’t help it if they’ve become the neo-Knotsies’ poster family.
No. What I wonder is whether Jim Bob and Michelle are doing the job. Not that job — obviously, they’re doing very little else. I mean the job of parenting.
Take a look at the Quiverfull FAQ. Here’s their response to the question (not really a question, but what the hey), “You won’t be able to give as much time or attention to a dozen kids as you could to just two or three”:
“We trust that God will give us the ability to meet the needs of all the children He gives us — and that includes their need for love and attention as well as material needs.”
Read the rest, if you like. They go on to talk about all the great parenting opportunities you get eating and praying together as a family. And don’t forget the joys of having ten or more siblings:
“[H]ow could we consider robbing our children of the opportunity for a life-time of shared experiences with another brother or sister, in exchange for a theoretical increase in attention from their parents?”
I have a brother and a sister. One each. Did I really need to have another ten of ’em to get that wonderful experience? Damn it, I’m going to call my parents and tell them I’ve been ROBBED.
Karen and I got tweaked over the Duggars, the Prairie Muffins, and the Quiverfull folks thanks to the comments thread for this post at The News Blog. That thread led Karen to discover the Television Without Pity website, which, when it comes to television programming, has to be the snarkiest of the snarky snark. They truly live up to their name. Anyway, for the last four days, Karen has been a slave to TWP’s two hundred page thread of comments in response to “14 Children and Pregnant Again!” Since we haven’t watched the show, our understanding of its content comes from that comment thread. (Check it out, but prepare to be addicted. Some of the posters are hilarious — e.g., “I think my tubes just spontaneously tied themselves.”)
Remember, “Find out how the Duggars coordinate a household that would challenge any manager”? Here are a few highlights of the Duggars’ managerial, I mean child-rearing, methods.
- The kids are home-schooled. Their only outside contact is with other Fundamentalist Christian families; they don’t even go to church (they hold services at home).
- There’s a “buddy system” in place to care for newly weaned infants. Eight- to ten-year-old children are charged with care responsibilities for children under two. Where’s mom? Giving suck to the next in line.
- With fourteen (now fifteen) kids on board, economies must be observed. The photo above is the rule, not the exception: the kids all dress in the same clothes. The program also focused on meals in the Duggar household — they sure like Tater Tot casserole!
- In a household of this size, the chores are enormous. Each child is given his/her “jurisdiction”. A six-year-old is responsible for all of the laundry, and so forth.
Some of you will no doubt point out that in past generations, this, or something close to it, was the norm. But consider:
Back then, such folks lived on farms, and the numbers were necessary to provide labor.
Back then, infant mortality claimed a sizable share of the family.
Back then, birth control was illegal, unavailable, or (if available) next to useless.
Back then, a child wasn’t expected to do much more than finish grade school and learn a trade (or work on the family farm). With scaled-down expectations, and with the fruits of a family farm (such as a ready supply of chicken eggs and cow’s milk), a husband and wife could provide for a large family in what was, at the time, a respectably ample fashion.
Back then, what opportunities did a woman have? It was the rare woman who could rise above this fate.
Yes, you can argue that this is a free country. The Duggars are self-sufficient thanks to Jim Bob’s real estate investments, so they’re not living on the public dole. Why shouldn’t they procreate like bunnies, if that’s what they want?
I worry about the kids. Except for the youngest (the one lucky enough to be born just before Michelle Duggar’s uterus commits seppuku), they’ll grow up without a childhood, and they’ll grow up knowing nothing else but the Duggar Way. I can’t help but think the Duggars are carrying their freedom a little too far.
Further reading (in case you found this post last): So you want to be a Prairie Muffin?
D.
*I don’t particularly want these guys sniffing around my website, you know what I mean? Hence the misspellings. Google the Duggars and you’ll find plenty of Knotsie links.
Lame Reasons to Have Sex #2
Karen: NO.
Me: But it’s my second day after my birthday day!
Karen: Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
D.
Banned Books Week: the Muffin POV
Thanks to Kate for pointing out that, here in the (still free, but for a limited time only) US of A, it’s the American Library Association’s Banned Books Week.
Funny thing: one way or another, I would have found this out. I was trying to research Muffin attitudes towards child-rearing when I discovered the Buried Treasure Weblog, which is the online home of the Muffin Manifesto. (I blogged on this yesterday.) Carmon, the Buried Treasure Muffin Maven, has this to say about Banned Books Week:
“You probably already guessed that I don’t think all ideas are created equal. In fact, I think some ideas are so blasphemous that they ought to be challenged and yes, sometimes banned. The French Revolution was the ultimate object lesson on the aphorism “ideas have consequencesâ€: the evil, humanist ideas of the Enlightenment led to deadly consequences.”
How’s that for historical revisionism?
Carmon urges her readers to celebrate Official Discernment Week instead. Here’s another snippet:
“Even as we rejoice in the increasing quantity and availability of Christian reading matter, we must be vigilant to ensure that we teach our children to obey and honor God, and protect their impressionable minds from pervasive and perverse influences. Threats to their spiritual well-being exist in many quarters, even public libraries, on public television and yes, even on Fox News.”
Fox News: corrupter of our youth. I like this woman.
Not.
Next up: How many is too many?
D.
Lame Reasons to Have Sex #1
Karen: Not tonight.
Me: I hope your conscience doesn’t bother you too much, what with the shrinking rainforests and all.
Karen: Huh?
Me: Well, you’re wasting perfectly good wood. Heh heh. I just thought that one up.
Karen: I figured.
D.
So you want to be a Prairie Muffin . . .
Modern world got you down? Tired of having to shelter your daughters from media images of harlots like Hillary Clinton, or unfeminine hippy rebels like Cindy Sheehan? Thinking how nice it would be go back in time to the early 1800s, a time before abortion, birth control, and pornography were the scourge of a good, decent, Godfearing woman like yourself?
Not to fear, milady. Submit to the will of a manly Godfearing man NOW. Become a Prairie Muffin.
What’s a Prairie Muffin? You’ll be hard pressed to find a definition on their website, so let me help you out. Here’s a crash course in becoming a Praying Muff. Um, Prairie Muffin.
Step 1. Do not lose your sense of humor.
On the Muffin site, you’ll find nuggets like this:
Note: It was decided in a hotly-contested election, that the husbands of Prairie Muffins would henceforth be known as “Prairie Dawgs.” An official Prairie Dawg greeting was also proposed. Single women aspiring to be Prairie Muffins will be known as “Muffin Mixes” and young children of Prairie Muffins are “Mini Muffins.”
Thus, lesson one is, you are not a woman. You’re not even a Prairie Muffin yet. You, my dear, are a muffin mix, eagerly awaiting a man to leaven your fertile, ah, flour and sugar mixture.
Step 2. Study and commit to heart the Prairie Muffin Manifesto.
Since the Manifesto has 39 steps, I’ll simplify it for you. Here are some of the bitter pills, erm, blessings of the Lord you’ll have to swallow.
In case you were wondering about your proper place in your all new Muffin-friendly home,
11) Prairie Muffins own aprons and they know how to use them.
Just so you know it’s not all about tater tot casseroles and Scrambled Egg Surprise,
9) Prairie Muffins do not reflect badly on their husbands by neglecting their appearance; they work with the clay God has given, molding it into an attractive package for the pleasure of their husbands.
You need never trouble your head again with unpleasant thoughts:
18) Prairie Muffins are fiercely submissive to God and to their husbands.
“You will be my master, hubs, or I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp!”
Now that you have your priorities straight,
Step 3. Get ready to spread your legs and keep ’em spread.
From the Manifesto,
3) Prairie Muffins are aware that God is in control of their ability to conceive and bear children, and they are content to allow Him to bless them as He chooses in this area.
Translation: get used to this . . .
cuz families of 10 to 15 children or more are not unusual. This, by the way, is a core Muffin belief: God meant you to have as many children as your womb can possibly bear.
Hope you like morning sickness. Here’s some Muffin reassurance for you from QuiverFull contributor Elizabeth, “mother of ten”:
“Yes, my children all know that I highly prize each one of them, and they know that I would welcome as many more as God would choose to give me. I am also honest enough to tell them that I have never been too crazy about being pregnant. However, I sure am crazy about those sweet little babies when they finally arrive.”
Yup, she sure is.
I’ll save the shining star of the Prairie Muffin movement, the Duggar Family — fourteen children, one more on the way — for some other day. For now, you had better . . .
Step 4: Get used to the world’s fugliest dresses.
Nuff said. Finally,
Step 5: Never take your eyes off the prize.
Back to El Manifesto:
2) Prairie Muffins are helpmeets to their husbands, seeking creative and practical ways to further their husbands’ callings and aid them in their dominion responsibilities.
‘Dominion’ is a code word for Dominionism. Read what Wikipedia has to say about Dominionism, or be content with my nutshell definition:
Reactionary evangelical Christian philosophy that encourages adherents to impose their moral code on the rest of us.
You know, like Alberto Gonzalez going after pornographers. That sort of thing.
Yes, I know I’ve been ignoring the guys out there. I don’t know about you, but this Muffin movement creeps me out. Maybe some guys like their women all covered in flour from 9 to 5 and screaming for fertilization from 6 to 8, practicing their sperm-retaining yoga a la Julianne Moore in The Big Lebowski, quilting and crafting and diapering and shit, but as for me, I like a woman with teeth.
Tomorrow:
D.
A Birthday Wish List: Part 3
This is it, folks. The home stretch. Soon, you will be privy to my most intimate hopes and dreams.
It’s still not too late to click over to Boing Boing, where you can treat your eyes to Flying Spaghetti Monsterotica. Hey, there’s a reason why Boing Boing is number one: they give you guys just what you want to see. In this case, a naked woman (I think) clothed only in Saran Wrap and spaghetti.
On the other hand, all I have to offer is the warped Woody Allen-meets-John Waters schtick that runs through my head. Here ya go.
#4: I want my body back!
A couple years ago, I decided that a man really ought to be able to see his penis when he goes pee. Is that so much to ask? At the urging of a doctor-friend, I plunged into the Atkin’s induction diet and discovered the wonders of bacon, eggs, cheese, and more bacon, with a few more eggs for good measure.
The weight came off, I had to buy a new wardrobe, but I still felt crappy. I had no energy. I felt like I had Crisco for blood. When I tried a more reasonable diet (South Beach), the weight came back, a pound a day. I realized there was nothing for it: I needed to add some carbs back to my diet, but the only way I could do that was to exercise.
I used to laugh at my hospital colleagues whenever they’d been injured biking or doing something else vaguely athletic. “No one ever broke or sprained anything sitting on their couch,” I’d say. That’s how much I hated exercise — I made lame jokes to excuse my torpor. But a year ago, desperate to feel like a normal human being again, I joined a gym.
I surprised myself by sticking with it. And, you know, I found out something surprising: I’m a mesomorph. I put on muscle with relative ease.
I began to look pretty damned buff.
Then, about a month ago, my gym closed. Just for a few days, the manager said. We have to bring the plumbing up to code. Four weeks later, they’re still closed.
And now, damn it, I can’t pass the pinch test.
What I dream of:
Looking like this again.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
Avoiding a return to my fat clothes’ drawer.
#3: I am such a whore for brains, beauty, and fame.
It’s true. If a woman has all three, I’m lost. There was a time, a very brief time, oh, for maybe a few months after I saw Beetlejuice, when Winona Ryder did it for me. The fact that she was tribe, well, that only added spice (Winona Laura Horowitz — you figure it out). But then she got all klepto for Dolce & Gabbana black leather purses and Gucci dresses, and, you know, I’ve never looked at her the same way. (Click the link to find out what else Winona had in her trench coat!)
I mean, she might be able to play smart women for the movies, but how smart is she really?
Y’all know about my jones for Olivia Hussey and Jacqueline Kim, but honestly, I don’t know much about either woman. Not in the brains department, anyway. On the other hand, 10,000 Maniacs’ Natalie Merchant has it all, and damned if she doesn’t choke me up whenever I see her on TV. Now, if only she would jam with Trent Reznor, I’d be in heaven.
Ah, well. I can only pick one perfect dame for this particular birthday wish, so I’m gonna choose Cintra Wilson.
If any of you aren’t familiar with Ms. Wilson, you might begin by checking out Bookslut’s interview with her. Karen and I own both of Ms. Wilson’s books, and we read her weekly column in the Bay Area’s Freep, The Wave. (Note: to read Cintra’s column, The Dregulator, online, you’ll need to download the pdf — see link in upper lefthand corner of The Wave’s home page. It’s worth it. You’ll get to see Cintra’s newest photo, Cintra in dark lipstick, gggrrrahghglllrlll.)
Not only is she beautiful, but she looks like a different beautiful woman in every photo she takes. Don’t you see? She’s a one-woman harem! And oooh, is she ever smart. I especially loved her snark on the Bush Campaign in the last election, saying that Bush’s only plank was “the strengthiness of strengthy strength.”
Arguably, Cintra’s master work is her collection of essays (A Massive Swelling: Celebrity Re-examined as a Grotesque Crippling Disease, and other cultural revelations). Here’s a quote from her rant on Los Angeles, which is sort of a latter day nonfiction version of what Nathanael West had percolating in his brain when he wrote The Day of the Locust:
“L.A. is the place where Satan squats with an enormous ladle and dips deeply into his black cavity to extract huge soiled wads of cash, which he then pitches at the heads of the inhabitants below with such speed and force that they are rendered first unconscious, then punchy and depressed. This affliction causes them to overfeed the Dark Lord a-more with their incessant compromises in the workplace, and He devours and digests their creepy and self-negating decisions by day, and befouls them anew with the sooty issue of their moral failures each evening.”
Karen and I chortled when, in the middle of Terminator II, the Wrath of Schwarzenegger, Linda Hamilton‘s character dreamed of a Los Angeles devastated by nuclear holocaust. (And, yeah, a lot of folks in the theater just sorta stared at us.) So you know where we stand with respect to Cintra Wilson’s take on L.A.
(Hmm. I wonder, though, if there’s a neutron bomb which would leave Sahag’s Basturma Sandwich Shop and all the great Chinese restaurants and sushi bars untouched.)
What I dream of:
An evening of dinner, dancing, and sparkling conversation with Ms. Wilson. We have one of those nights where we are both on, you know what I mean? We play off each other, our comic riffs building to feverishly trenchant heights.
Afterwards, she touches me on the hand — a light touch, but a lingering one — and says, “Call me, any time,” and with her lusciously dark mouth gives me a chaste but emotion-packed kiss full on the lips.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
I bought Karen some Max Factor “Black Cherry Truffle” lipstick. I have a well developed imagination.
#2: A night of male bonding.
Just so you know I’m not a total cooch hound, there are some guys out there I’d like to know better. I suspect Dr. Otter is a great guy, and probably has a few stories to tell, and if DHH doesn’t want me, I might as well experience things vicariously through Doc Ott. I’m also intrigued by guys that seem quick-witted and brainy, like MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann, and it would be a blast if I could pal around with some of my favorite directors, like John Carpenter, Sam Raimi, Tim Burton, or David Cronenberg.
But if I had to pick one all-around great guy to bar-hop with, it would have to be Bruce Campbell.
I know him and love him from the Evil Dead movies, especially Army of Darkness, but Bruce has also had great bit rolls (from The Hudsucker Proxy to both Spiderman movies) and, hey, I happened to like him as an obese, elderly Elvis in Bubba Ho-tep. But there are two things you need to know about Bruce: he answers emails from his fans, and he has a heckuva writer’s brain, too.
We’ve bought both of Bruce Campbell’s books, Make Love the Bruce Campbell Way and If Chins Could Kill. The first is sort of a blustering guy version of Carrie Fisher’s Postcards from the Edge, in style, if not in content. The second is Bruce’s memoir. Karen and I just got it from Barnes & Noble, and it’s a fine read.
What I dream of:
Carousing Hollywood with Bruce Campbell, getting only drunk enough to enjoy myself, but not so drunk that I can’t remember every moment until I’m too old to care.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
Watching Army of Darkness for the umpteenth time.
And . . . drumroll . . . my number one birthday wish (you knew it had to be about sex, didn’t you?) . . .
#1: An evening of exquisite torment at the hands (and whips) of Lydia McLane.
She’s bad. She’s beautiful. Performance artist and model Lydia McLane has been my wicked dreamgirl ever since her centerfold for City Slab (Volume 1, Issue 4: buy it!), wherein she wore nothing but a pair of devilish horns. Subscribe to The Slab and you’ll be treated with loads of Lydia, frequently in nasty vicious mean dominatrix garb, and not much of it.
(By the way: those of you who follow my Tangent Reviews know I loves my City Slab. Urban horror at its finest.)
Lest you think I’m some sort of shallow, testosterone-hypercharged vehicle for balls, I’ll have you know that Lydia is one smart cookie. From her website bio:
“Lydia is currently a student working towards her Masters of Clinical Psychology and is employed part-time with an agency that specializes in chronically mentally ill individuals. She is a trained Hospice volunteer. Lydia enjoys literature, Opera, all animals, live music, dancing, and other life enriching activities.”
See? She likes chronically mentally ill individuals and all animals. Lydia, I’m yours.
What I dream of:
Lydia, make me your bitch!
What I’ll be satisfied with:
How do you like the new outfit I bought Karen?
Don’t forget the spiked heels, Karen.
D.
A Birthday Wish List: Part 2
#7: A wish-fulfillment fantasy.
Sometimes, bad things happen to bad people, and the spirit of Schadenfreude takes hold. Like the feeling you get when that jerk in the Trans Am who cut you off three minutes ago gets pulled over for speeding, you know?
When we were kids, my brother and sister had this odd habit. If my brother got punished, my sister would rub her hand over her breastbone and say, “Aaaaaah.” She pronounced it with a guttural flare, as if the sound came from deep within her viscera. If my sister got punished, my brother would return the favor. Since I had a cast iron ass, they got little satisfaction in seeing me punished, and any “Aaaahing” from them would be met by my laughter.
It seems to me that as adults, we get to say “Aaaaaah” far too infrequently. What better birthday present could there be than to see a rich and powerful hypocrite brought low?
What I dream of:
George Bush caught on tape telling us what he really thinks about the displaced poor of New Orleans.
Pat Robertson indicted on child pornography charges.
One day, at a press conference, White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan says, “You know, folks? This is all bullshit — I mean, I could tell you stories that would knock your socks off. Aw, hell. No time like the present.”
Rush Limbaugh . . . wait. He’s already shot himself in the foot so many times, what else could happen to the guy?
What I’ll be satisfied with:
Photoshopping rude images of Ann Coulter.
#6: The perfect father for just one day.
Remember the sitcoms of the 1960s? In Father Knows Best, Jim Anderson was, like a modern day Odysseus, never at a loss. No matter what you threw at the guy, he handled it with sensitivity and style. Princess having boy trouble with those creeps from the local frat? Jim would bust a cap in their ass and dance a jig on their graves. Kitten having menstrual cramps? Jim would give her a few tokes from his pipe and teach her the secrets of Far Eastern meditation. Bud busted for having the neighborhood’s first methamphetamine lab? Jim would post bail and buy his son a trampoline so that the boy can channel his energy more constructively.
I want to be that kind of dad, if only for a day.
You know. The kind that never raises his voice, solves every problem, and finds himself at the center of every group hug.
What I dream of:
A day wherein I’m the perfect father to my son.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
Not raising my voice above 80 decibels, and not making the kid cry.
#5: The great discovery!
As a kid, I used to fantasize about black ops agents coming to my school and spiriting me away from my classmates. “You’re far too important to our nation’s security to waste your time here,” one would say. Then the other would chime in: “We need a four-foot-tall boy genius to man our special space ship. This craft will make you the master of space and time. Do you think you can handle it?”
And I’d think: Can I handle it? Fuck yeah!
Only I wouldn’t have used the F-bomb back in elementary school. I’d heard it once or twice, soon learned it wasn’t in the dictionary, and was the only word guaranteed to put my mother in shock. Oddly enough, the word “frig” seemed to have the same effect, even though I was certain I’d made it up. Guess not.
Nowadays, I don’t particularly care to be the master of all time and space. As I learned in high school from watching the movie Laserblast, absolute power corrupts absolutely. I’m already a corrupt son of a bitch.
No, I’d be content if someone else discovered me.
What I dream of:
Some big agent, say Neil Gaiman‘s agent Merrilee Heifetz, finds my blog and sends me an email dripping with praise and wishful solicitations. Then comes The Phone Call (cue Scarlet O’Hara’s vocal inflections): “Oh, Dr. Hoffman, Ah am evah so hopeful that you are unrepresented, because it would be mah honah and privilege to be your agent.”
Don’t know if Ms. Heifetz has a Southern accent — actually, I kind of doubt it — but that’s part of the fantasy. I’m sure she’d oblige.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
Getting my damned sitemeter to top 100 for the day. Where the hell do you people go on the weekend? Don’t tell me you have lives.
D.
A Birthday Wish List: Part 1
Whenever my birthday draws near, I get contemplative. I like to think about what I’ve done with my life and what I still want to do. At the risk of being a downer, what if this next year is my last? What can I do in the next few months that will make my life more complete — or, for that matter, make a difference in the lives of the folks around me?
In some respects, this comes down to a list of wishes and unfulfilled dreams. While I believe we should all strive to fulfill our dreams, I’m also a realist. Sometimes our dreams are self-destructive or hurtful to the ones we love. Sometimes they’re damned expensive. Thus, we must temper our dreams with a dose of good old-fashioned common sense and practicality.
It is in this spirit that I tender for your consideration the first installment of my 44th Birthday Wish List.
#10: A Good Massage.
I hope you’re paying attention, Michelle, cuz I bet you give a damned good massage. And, no, I am not talking about ‘sensual massage.’ Once, when we were visiting Karen’s parents in Los Altos, I went to a local masseuse whose name I pulled from a phone book. I’m a shiatsu fan, so I picked a Japanese name out of The Book and crossed my fingers.
So, what do I get? Some old gal whose idea of massage is running her fingernails up and down the insides of my thighs. I wanted to tell her, Lady, if you’re trying to give me wood, get your granddaughter in here to take over, ‘kay? Instead, I suffered in silence and payed my $$, because I’m still self-hating enough to figure a woman deserves that kind of money just for touching my naked body.
As for my wife, any day now I expect her to kill me for the insurance money. And you know? She’ll deserve it, too.
What I dream of: a half hour in a hot tub followed by a skillful two hour massage.
What I’ll be satisfied with: if I rub my back with chicken fat, our cats will walk all over me and give me a good licking.
#9: Dinner at Hoppe’s.
Picture this: it’s 1996. Jake is eight months old and he has already hit the terrible twos. I’ve just finished my remedial year *cough cough* my year as faculty at USC, and I have some down time before San Antonio expects me to show up and, um, be a doctor or something.
Karen and I decide to have one last fling on the California Coast (thank heavens we were wrong about that!) so we drive up north with our screaming, why can’t you understand I am the alpha and the omega, eight-month-old son. We have clams and lobster at a superb seafood joint on the Ventura Pier — which, sadly, has since washed away — and great grub at The Palace Cafe in Santa Barbara. Onward up the coast, until at last we come to Cambria, Morro Bay, and Cayucos.
We have a price fixe dinner at Hoppe’s in Morro Bay. Jake is in fine form; the only thing that will quiet him is constant stroller-strolling. Karen and I take turns eating and pram-pushing, and we both manage to eat a dinner that’s not quite hot and not quite cold.
Guess what? Even given those less than ideal circumstances, we agree to this day that our dinner at Hoppe’s was the best eats we’ve ever had, ever. Perfect food, from the salad to the vegetable garnish.
What I dream of: a quiet, romantic dinner with Karen at Hoppe’s. Jake can eat a burrito.
What I’ll be satisfied with: we had not-half-bad sushi tonight at the NWTEC Internet Cafe.
#8: The best birthday cake in the whole, wide world.
Which requires, natch, a Tahitian virgin.
What I’ll be satisfied with: a forkful of Bailey’s Irish Cream cheesecake from the NWTEC Internet Cafe.
D.
The things I’ll do fer love
A Pirate’s Dilemma: Part the Last
This here tale be poorly suited for young ‘uns and Puritans. Ye’ve been warned!
The beauties hoisted yer ill-fated Cap’n upstairs like a sack o’ bullion. I could scarcely credit me fortune, but me self-congratulations were a mite premature. And that warn’t the only thing premature. When they dunked me in a claw-footed tub o’ suds and washed me proper, I made a right fool o’ meself, I did.
“Damnation,” said I. “I suppose that’s what ye get fer years of abstinence.”
Arumba, the Nubian, pressed some vile grog to me lips and bid me drink. “For strength, Cap’n. We have plans for you.”
That they did, I tell ye. Once that bitter brew passed, I swooned, and felt meself borne up again by their fine strong arms. And then I felt no more.
When I came to, Maria of Cordoba and Mai Poon, me Cathay princess, were ministering to me rusty equipment. Oui Oui the Parisian was doing unspeakable things to me teak leg, and Arumba was pressing her ample bosom to me parched lips. Me head swam like some dark leviathan twenty-thousand leagues deep, yet I had the sense of others in the room, scurrying to and fro like hungry bilge rats.
Above me moans, I heard Stella’s voice. “Where is it?”
And another voice, a masculine voice, but not terribly so. “Damn it, woman, search again.”
Blast! I knew that voice. One of Her Majesty’s finest, an agent of the Crown. And a right ponce, too. I recalled that this one had a long history of consorting with beauties of the evening.
It all made sense. The malt vinegar bottles on the tables downstairs weren’t for feminine hygeine — they were for fish and chips. And the ferns and calla lilies weren’t for me rival, Jack Sparrow. Oh, no, me bucko.
The Jolliest Roger had taken to servicing Her Majesty’s fleet.
“Infernal limeys!” I cried, but with Arumba’s plump endowments in me face, it came out, “Mm, mmphms!” I struggled to rise, but the double-dealing vixens had bound me hands and foot.
“Step aside, ladies,” said that infernal Britisher, Randall Richards. I felt a cold draft of air on me nether regions as me beauties shoved off me rudder.
“Ye have me at a disadvantage, Randy Dick.”
“Indeed,” said the fop. “I would know where you keep the key to your lockbox, Captain Wood.”
“Ye’ll get it over me dead body, ye limey bastard.”
He gave me a waggish smile. “Have it your way. Stella? Waterboard him.”
Waterboard? I count meself a student of the torturing arts, yet I had not heard such a thing. But me ignorance would soon be cured.
Stella hove into view, that great glorious mountain of flesh I’d once called me own true love.
“Nothing personal, Cap’n. It’s just business.”
Buck naked, she straddled me face.
“One more time,” said Randy Dick. “You have stolen bullion from Her Majesty’s Ship The Drake. We’ve searched your ship, and haven’t found the bullion or the key to your lockbox. That leaves only one conclusion. Stella? Sit.”
The mistress of the Jolliest Roger settled herself, sealing off me grizzled mouth and nose with her plenteous booty. I struggled for air, all in vain. When I thought meself a goner, she stood.
“Well, Captain?” said Dick.
I gasped, coughed, spat. “Is that the best ye can do? That be heavenly.”
Randy Dick stroked his hairless chin, pondering me fate. “A hard case, this one,” he said. “Let’s try some softer torments, shall we?”
“Oui Oui,” said Stella. “Give him The Special.”
The Special. Something about the way she said those words shivered me timbers. But I found little to fear, at least at first. Oui Oui gave me rudder the Parisian treatment, as it were, and I figgered I could stand such torture for a year or more before I’d crack.
I spent me load of shot, but Oui Oui kept going.
“Damn it girl, stop!” said I. “I ain’t yer personal mess hall!”
“Oui Oui can suck the rind off a watermelon, Cap’n,” said Stella. “I beg you to reconsider before you lose your last coat of varnish.”
True enough, the pleasures of Paradise had given way to an infernal ache. What a way to meet me maker!
“Enough,” I cried. “Ye’ve unmanned me, ye dastardly succubus.”
“You may stop, Oui Oui,” said Randy Dick. “Where’s the key, Captain.”
“Ye’ll have to look where the sun don’t shine.”
And that be me story, mates. I lost The Drake’s hoard to these scurvy scoundrels, but at least I got them to do what no beauty had never done before. Arrr, not even Mrs. Morning Wood.