Word Up, Sister!

What is so horrible about promiscuity?  If proper protection is used, and no one is physically harmed by the experience… What is it about promiscuity that gets everyone’s dander up?  Please explain this to me.

Subquestion:  Why is it that I only hear women being judged on their “promiscuity”?  Are men not subjected to the same societal hysteria?

Please, teach me a thing or two.

 

This morning there was a knock at my door. When I answered the door I found a well groomed, nicely dressed couple. The man spoke first.

John: Hi! I’m John, and this is Mary.

Mary: Hi! We’re here to invite you to come kiss Hank’s ass with us.

Me: Pardon me?! What are you talking about? Who’s Hank, and why would I want to kiss his ass?

John: If you kiss Hank’s ass, he’ll give you a million dollars; and if you don’t, he’ll kick the shit out of you.

Me: What? Is this some sort of bizarre mob shake-down?

John: Hank is a billionaire philanthropist. Hank built this town. Hank owns this town. He can do whatever he wants, and what he wants is to give you a million dollars, but he can’t until you kiss his ass.

Me: That doesn’t make any sense. Why…

Mary: Who are you to question Hank’s gift? Don’t you want a million dollars? Isn’t it worth a little kiss on the ass?

Me: Well maybe, if it’s legit, but…

John: Then come kiss Hank’s ass with us!

Me: Do you kiss Hank’s ass often?

Mary: Oh yes, all the time…

Me: And has he given you a million dollars?

John: Well… no, you don’t actually get the money until you leave town.

Me: So why don’t you just leave town now?

Mary: You can’t leave until Hank tells you to, or you don’t get the money, and he kicks the shit out of you.

Me: Do you know anyone who kissed Hank’s ass, left town, and got the million dollars?

John: My mother kissed Hank’s ass for years. She left town last year, and I’m sure she got the money.

Me: Haven’t you talked to her since then?

John: Of course not! Hank doesn’t allow it.

Me: So what makes you think he’ll actually give you the money if you’ve never talked to anyone who got the money?

Mary: Well, he gives you a little bit before you leave. Maybe you’ll get a raise, maybe you’ll win a small lotto, maybe you’ll just find a twenty dollar bill on the street.

Me: What’s that got to do with Hank?

John: Hank has certain ‘connections.’

Me: I’m sorry, but this sounds like some sort of bizarre con game.

John: But it’s a million dollars, can you really take the chance? And remember, if you don’t kiss Hank’s ass he’ll kick the shit of you.

Me: Maybe if I could see Hank, talk to Him, get the details straight from him…

Mary: No one sees Hank, no one talks to Hank.

Me: Then how do you kiss his ass?

John: Sometimes we just blow Him a kiss, and think of his ass. Other times we kiss Karl’s ass, and he passes it on.

Me: Who’s Karl?

Mary: A friend of ours. He’s the one who taught us all about kissing Hank’s ass. All we had to do was take him out to dinner a few times.

Me: And you just took his word for it when he said there was a Hank, that Hank wanted you to kiss his ass, and that Hank would reward you?

John: Oh no! Do you think we’re fools? Karl has a letter he got from Hank years ago explaining the whole thing. Here’s a copy; see for yourself.

 

From The Desk of…Karl

*****

 

1. Kiss Hank’s ass and he’ll give you a million dollars when you leave town.

2. Drink alcohol only in moderation.

3. Kick the shit out of people who aren’t like you.

4.  Eat right.

5.  Hank dictated this list himself.

6. The moon is made of green cheese.

7.  Everything Hank says is right.

8.  Wash your hands after going to the bathroom.

9.  Don’t drink alcohol.

10.  Eat your wieners on buns, no condiments.

11.  Kiss Hank’s ass or he’ll kick the shit out of you.

Me: This appears to be written on Karl’s letterhead, not Hank’s.

Mary: Hank didn’t have any paper.

Me: I have a hunch that if we checked we’d find this is Karl’s handwriting too.

John: Of course! Hank dictated it.

Me: I thought you said no one gets to see Hank?

Mary: Not now, but years ago he would talk to some people.

Me: I thought you said he was a philanthropist. What sort of philanthropist kicks the shit out of people just because they’re different?

Mary: It’s what Hank wants, and Hank’s always right.

Me: How do you figure that?

Mary: Item 7 says ‘Everything Hank says is right.’ That’s good enough for me!

Me: Maybe your friend Karl just made the whole thing up.

John: No way! Item 5 says ‘Hank dictated this list himself.’ Besides, item 2 says ‘Use alcohol in moderation,’ Item 4 says ‘Eat right,’ and item 8 says ‘Wash your hands after going to the bathroom.’ Everyone knows those things are right, so the rest must be true, too.

Me: But 9 says ‘Don’t use alcohol.’ which doesn’t quite go with item 2, and 6 says ‘The moon is made of green cheese,’ which is just plain wrong.

John: There’s no contradiction between 9 and 2, 9 just clarifies 2. As far as 6 goes, you’ve never been to the moon, so you can’t say for sure.

Me: Scientists have pretty firmly established that the moon is made of rock…

Mary: But they don’t know if the rock came from the Earth, or from outer space, so it could just as easily be green cheese.

Me: Not knowing where the rock came from doesn’t make it cheese. And I’m not an expert, but I think the scientific theory that the Moon came from the Earth has been discounted.

John: Aha! You just admitted that scientists make mistakes, but we know Hank is always right!

Me: We do?

Mary: Of course we do, Item 5 says so.

Me: You’re saying Hank’s always right because in the list that Hank dictated Hank says Hank is always right. That’s circular reasoning!

John: Now you’re getting it! It’s so rewarding to see someone come around to Hank’s way of thinking.

Me: But…oh, never mind. What’s the deal with wieners?

(Mary blushes)

John: Wieners go in buns, with no condiments. It’s Hank’s way. Anything else is immoral.

Me: What if I don’t have a bun?

John: No bun, no wiener. A wiener without a bun is wrong.

Me: No relish? No Mustard?

(Mary looks positively stricken.)

John: (shouting) There’s no need for such language! Condiments of any kind are wrong!

Me: So a big pile of sauerkraut with some wieners chopped up in it would be out of the question?

Mary: (Sticking her fingers in her ears.) I am not listening to this. La la la la la la la la.

John: That’s disgusting. Only some sort of evil deviant would eat…

Me: It’s good! I eat it all the time.

(Mary faints.)

John: (Catching Mary.) Well, if I’d known you were one of those I wouldn’t have wasted my time. When Hank kicks the shit out of you I’ll be there, counting my money and laughing. I’ll kiss Hank’s ass for you, you bunless cut-wienered kraut-eater.

(With this, John drags Mary to their waiting car, and speeds off.)

 

 

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**************

Kissing Hank’s Ass: A parable by Rev. Jim Huber

Copyright © 1997 Jim Huber.

Email Jim at: james@jhuger.com

All rights reserved. Used with permission.

For more heresy, visit the good reverend’s web site:

http://jhuger.com/

The breeding fad has been around for too long, and it needs to stop.  You people are doing this for the wrong reasons.  You don’t have children due solely to the urge to love, take care of, and raise a child with dignity and respect.  You are having children for the worst reasons imaginable, and none of you have the presence of mind to think about why you want this baby so badly. (I have found it is usually along the lines of “Gee, honey what would a child of ours look like?  Let’s find out.”)   

Accidental babies.  “Oops, I’m pregnant.  Abortion is murder.  So, I’ll just keep it.”  First of all abortion is NOT murder.  Consider it a man-made tier of natural selection.  It is healthy and necessary.  Think of it as removing a tumor, only with a fetus you don’t have to undergo chemo therapy afterward.  Yes, it is hard to do, but so is raising a child if you aren’t ready or prepared to do so.   Speaking personally here… I am one of the accidental children and it was horrifying.  My mother had me at the tender age of 16.  On several occasions thru life, my mother would get very drunk, and sternly informed me that I was an accident, and that my life was the utter ruin of hers.  She married my drunken father, due to her pregnancy and hasn’t forgiven me since.  I know damn good and well that it isn’t my fault… now.  But these things are traumatizing to hear at age 7 and 9 and 14 and 15.  She’s a good woman, but she was never suited to be a parent.  Women who are not prepared for pregnancy are not prepared for motherhood. Simple fact.  Maternal instincts are a myth.  If you are “suited” to motherhood then you are suited for it.  But don’t hold your breath and hope for the love of poopie diapers and high pitched screaming to overtake you in a wave of ecstacy.  It will never happen.   

Worse yet, some kids are born to women who can’t find stability in any other relationship.  If they are pregnant, they’ll often rationalize it with “at least a baby will love me forever.”  That is an incredible and unfair weight to put upon the shoulders of a newborn baby.  Shame on you!  Get a hamster!  A baby is completely controllable and has no opinions of its own… temporarily.  What will you do when they get older, you have to learn enough social skills to keep up with them?  When you want to live a life, wide in variety and freedom, what will you tell your child?  Remember your parents?  So, do you recall the unfair expectations that they laid upon you during your tender years?  Or perhaps you fondly remember their exceptional neglect due to an interest in other things?  They were put under the same pressures as you, learn from their mistakes.  

Here’s a good one.  “My mother wants me to have kids.”  “My mother wants me to get married… to a man.”  I was raised to have the utmost respect for mothers.  Particularly those who are old enough to be my mother.  However, your mother had her shot at breeding.  She can’t tell you what to wear anymore (and if she can, seek help).  She shouldn’t be telling you when to breed, nor that you even have to in the first place.  That is your decision!  Stand up for yourself.  Be an adult.  You don’t have to have children if you don’t want to.

 Let me break things down for you: Babies are cute sometimes.  This a defense mechanism provided by nature, nothing more.  One baby is just like another.  It is not a precious and individual snowflake.  It’s a yowling larvae sack!   

Giving birth is not a “miracle”.  Pregnancy is a chemical reaction and should be treated as such.  A + B = Fetus.  It was perhaps referred to as a miracle back in the days when people did not realize that sex and pregnancy had anything to do with each other.  Women just brought forth life in those days without obvious cause or warning.  But now a days we are well aware of the cause and effects, yet the “miracle” is spreading like the plague.   Producing offspring will not… I repeat… WILL NOT make your life “all better”.  It won’t make your life “complete”.  It won’t heal your marriage.  It won’t stop your husband from screwing around.  It won’t make you more attractive nor cure your menstrual issues.  And that “passing down the family name crap” lost any meaning centuries ago, and it only ever had meaning to men (the selfish bastards)! It won’t provide you with someone who’ll care for you when you’re old.   It won’t even provide you with a guaranteed Mother’s Day gift every year.  These are lies and myths that you have been spoon fed from birth.  The moment your mother had you she started training you for making babies! Children have been reduced to vanity projects.  Happy to break it to ya, but you can get more love and fulfillment from pet store!  Get a cat or a hobby!  Volunteer at a Woman’s shelter.  Help raise money for Cancer survivors without insurance.  Take some pride in yourself instead of expecting a spit-gargling meat sack to fulfill all of your hopes and dreams with their mere existence.   

Adoption.  Now that is a time worthy endeavor.  There are millions of children that have no one to care for them, with the exception of a government clerk that isn’t really required to “care”.   I have asked people time and time again why they have given birth to children instead of adopting.  I am often given half hearted excuses about there being couples out there that can’t have children and blah blah blah. This is utter bullshit.  There aren’t enough non-breeding couples to house these helpless children.  If there were, enough childless couples, foster care wouldn’t be such a nightmare.  But it is. 

Others who favor childbirth, do so because they feel that a child won’t mean anything to them unless it shares their bloodline.  This line of thinking makes no sense to me.  If this is such a problem, then perhaps you shouldn’t strive for children at all…just a suggestion.  

  My reasoning for advocating adoption is that if you adopt you have to really want it. You have to jump through hoops of fire and fill out paperwork and be completely committed to the pursuit of a child. Instead of, just realizing you’re pregnant one day and hoping that it turns out for the best. Therefore, using a baby as a vain attempt to permanently commemorate a beautiful loving and magical relationship that “mysteriously” breaks up once the child is born and reality officially sets in. No relationships are permanent. Only the effects are. I personally would rather tattoo my boyfriends name on my forehead then have a child with him. The former destroys fewer lives than the latter.

Bottom line.  There is no reason to give birth.  Pure and simple. If you want a baby so badly, you should pursue an avenue that has some dignity.  Adopt a child, they are the ones that really need your love and care.    

  Abortion.  Along with popular belief I am all for it!  I saw a bumper sticker a few days ago (inspiring this little rant) and it said “How can you say there are too many children? That’s like saying there are too many flowers.”  Honetly!  I followed this woman until she parked and then asked her if she pulled dandelions and other weeds from her garden!  What are dandelions?  Unwanted flowers!     So, morale of the rant boils down to; be an adult and don’t breed.  Adopt a child or get a pet.  Educate our young women on the “miracle” with a lot more facts and less biased toward breeding.  Make birth control and condoms available for anyone who is physically able to use it!  Make abortion legal in all 50 states and keep it that way until we actually have some reason to give birth again.  Stop reducing our gender to the role of “baby factory” and have some self respect.  Thank you!

If I were a stripper, I would limit my song selection to that of Ani DiFranco and Joan Jett (maybe a little Voltaire on the nights that I am feeling goofy). If I am going to dance around like a half-naked fool on stage, I’ll do it to music that I like, Dammit!

If I were a stripper, I’d fart during lap-dances on purpose. Any man insistent upon getting close enough to smell my knickers deserves the full tour.

If I were a stripper, I’d use a pair of ancient, malicious-looking scissors to remove my clothing. And if anyone tried to touch me I’d stab them with those same scissors then promptly return to what I was doing.

If I were a stripper, I’d morph my hair into a rainbow colored Mohawk, because I think that style would really suite my personality. Plus, I am of the opinion that I could have boogers hanging out of my nose and I’d still be sexy. Therefore, my appearance is merely an identifying characteristic and has no real bearing on how appealing I am. (Any who disagree with this theory can have a round with my blowtorch, because I DIDN’T ASK YOU.) Moving on…

If I were a stripper, all over my body I would apply messages with glow in the dark body paint like…

“Sharpen Your Daughters.”

“My Body, My Rules”

“Unless”

“Fuck War”

“If you lived here, you’d be home now.”

“Don’t drop the soap for anyone, but me.”

…and other stuff. Maybe once in a while I’d use Mud or fake blood instead. (For dramatic effect.)

If I were a stripper, I would work out all of the time! I would lift weights, and take kickboxing classes! Not to lose weight though. I just want to be a bouncer part time. I’d love a job that gives me an excuse to kick some ass on a regular basis. That would make my fucking day!

And this is because I like being naked. And I don’t see a problem with getting paid to be naked, or even flirting. Elsewhere, I do it for free. But I would never actually be a stripper because of the middle-aged greasy fucks that I would have to strip for. Eww…or worse yet…The fucking frat boys. (Advice: Polo shirts look great on lesbians, but not so much on you guys.) Personally speaking, I think that all frat boys should have to wear a sign that says, “Beware of date rape.” There is no way I am taking my clothes off in front of a whole pack of ‘em. I am smarter than that!

I have a spider in my bathroom, an English House spider to be exact. I sometimes imagine her breaking out the tea set with sugar and honey, inviting her friends to join her in polite conversation about the weather and the latest fashions.  I never seem to make it to these parties. Very delicate and long legged is this type of spider, much like daddy-long-legs, but more streamlined, more graceful. The thought of killing her has occurred to me.  Goddess knows she isn’t the only spider in the house, and certainly wouldn’t be the first spider to see the underside of my shoe.  But for some reason, I just can’t do it.  She built her web in relation to the wall and the bathtub, directly in front of the toilet.  She built it such a way that during my morning bathroom rituals I don’t bother her and she doesn’t bother me, but she is in full view of everything.  I wonder if she considers my bathroom to be her kingdom, and then my commonsense kicks in, of course she does. I suppose that I can’t just kill a female that is so brazen, such a rare breed.  Besides, she eats flies.  Bonus!

Last night I had a rare honor.  I went to the restroom, and as I sat down to do my business I noticed that her web had two spiders.  They were like mirror images of each other. They made slow gestures that seemed aggressive in their placement.  As I noticed this I pondered whether or not spiders were territorial creatures.  What I mean to say is, do spiders try to take over another’s hunting grounds?  Was I watching a spider duel?  I was intrigued.  This went on for a minute or so, and suddenly the mirror image stretched out his fangs and then lurched his body forward.  They connected and got sort of tangled. It looked like quite a struggle.  Ihad expected one of them to stop moving, but when that didn’t happen an idea occurred to me…Spider Sex! Her majesty had a guest. I suddenly felt awkward for gawking at the entire arrangement without recognizing what it was. Am I jaded?  I felt dirty.  I felt so dirty, that I ran to the other room to grab my recorder.  I already feel guilty, why not go to the next level.   As I recorded the “last leg” of their entanglement, something occurred to me.  How many spiders have watched me make mad passionate monkey lovings?  I would imagine that there are quite a few considering my “passion” for the out-of-doors.  With that in mind I felt justified in recording the exchange.   

It must have been what spiders consider the missionary position.  Do spiders have different positions? Is there a “spider style”?  You know, your body doesn’t move all that much but you flail your arms and legs around wildly like you just won the fucking lottery.  What about spider foreplay?  Do they “play around” a bit first or do they just greet and go in dry?  Can spiders speak to each other?  If so, would they talk dirty?

And what should I do with the video?  I’ve got it. It’s spider porn that I can sell to lonely spider singles all over the planet via (are you ready?  This is a bad one.  Brace yourself.) the world…wide…web.

 

One of my few certainties is that I will die.  It is a fact.  But how will it happen?  I feel cheated by death already, because I know that I won’t get to see the last scene of the movie that I am such a part of.  The packing up and moving on scene that wraps everything up and gives the viewer a sense of completion and closure.  I want my money back! Or at least a hand in the writing process. 

The idea of death has brought me to the thought of my funeral. Ugh!  That could go badly!  So badly.  You cannot fathom the bad.  First of all, the prep for the funeral. This is where my relatives go thru my house to “clean up” and fight over my meager possessions.  And they inevitably find instead my staggering collection of dildos and other sex related paraphernalia.   Whips and chains and candlewax, Oh MY!  ***If any of my dear friends are reading this … take note.  Should I kick the bucket.  Break into my house and grab my sex toys.  Distribute them amongst  yourselves, first cum first served rules apply.  Consider it a keepsake that could only come from the likes of me.  *smirk. 
But keep the naked pictures of me and post them on the bulletin board at the funeral when no one is looking.  I would really enjoy that!  Especially the ones of me spinning fire topless.  I am quite proud of those. If you can’t find them, I am sure that Brandon still has copies. 
Things I would like to see happen at my funeral…A bar fight…Should my family insist on a christian style funeral…I want the preacher to leave with a limp and a bloody lip, my friends and family exchanging blows and howling at the moon. “Where is the cooler?  I need a beer and some ice before I go back in there to kick some more ass.”  People are angry in general and never have the opportunity to express it!  Let this be that opportunity.  Take all the anger that you acquire on a daily basis, take that fuel, beat someone over the head with a hymnal and light a fucking match!
 I want people to show up naked.  I want my friends to get arrested at my funeral for indecent exposure and plead guilty proudly.  Cover yourselves in mud and wrestle, winner gets all of my worldly possessions (with the exception of the sex toys.  See above).  And some tricky bastard should tumble the coffin.  It’s just an empty, freshly embalmed shell with no further use anyway.  Give the folks in the back row a laugh, for Goddess sake. 
I want a drum circle at my grave, and some Irish bastard to holler drinking songs about booze and tits and blue ribbons, thru a keg.  And bagpipes!  I want some fucking bagpipes, played badly! 
I want blunt honesty…I was a shithead so don’t paint your face with regret and talk about how much of an “angel” I was.  The most flattery I could expect is for everyone at the “party” to share a moment when I made them laugh. That is something consistent about me.  I have made everyone I know laugh at some point or another. Sometimes it is laughter thru frustration, but it still counts as laughter, right?