If a zombie can do it

Why do people walk on the road when there’s a perfectly good sidewalk three yards away? Their eyes droop as they stumble forward. Their lips drool. Perhaps they’re zombies. I once had a zombie nibble my brain. She was a former girlfriend who mistook the act for foreplay. I gently told her I had a headache, which I did by that point with half my frontal lobe devoured. The point is, not even she walked on the road. She kept to the sidewalks like a respectful citizen. A neighbor dog bit off her foot and she shattered an arm while playing hopscotch on a chalky board, which was avoidable, but a little mindlessness is expected; she’s a zombie.

Minnesota stinks

We are entering the asshole of winter here in Minnesota. Nothing beats Minnesota for pure, depressing cold. The sun is supposed to be gaining strength but it’s still whipped, hiding behind his Mommy’s skirts. Son of a bitch, what do we pay him for? And there’s no more Santa Claus and bright lights to brighten our mood. Kringle’s getting a well deserved snooze and that’s good for him but it doesn’t do jack for us.

 

I’m going to Florida next week and it’s about time, because I hate winter, have no use for it. The cold hands and frozen feet. The strange knocking in my car when the temperature dips below zero, like the windshield is about to explode. Driving on ice and taking corners like an old woman using her walker. And all the melting sludge and grit I track inside, even into my blessed home.

 

Winter is ugly. Intimacy with this chick is out of the question. You dump her and move in with Florida, lovely Florida. Leave Minnesota to the assholes.

Finding My Online Lover, or How a Pipe Is Not Rammed Up My Ass

About ten years ago I attended a going away party for a co-worker’s husband. He was moving east to be with his new girlfriend who he met on a Lego fan website. There was no conceivable way a female Lego fan could be attractive, I reasoned before attending the party. Face it: you would have agreed with me.

 

We were wrong. She was a knockout: slim, pretty face, knew how to wear a sweater. My co-worker and I were astounded. My co-worker was already hooked up so she could laugh about it, otherwise a sticky green pool of jealousy would have oozed around her feet.

 

I mention this story because, after five months of writing these posts, not one eligible woman has commented on this blog. Not one. This other guy shouted “I like Legos!” across the Internet and hooked a hottie. I spill my guts out each week and get nary a peep. Not even an echo of a peep.

 

Now I like the people who comment on my blog. They are some of my favorite people. But they are not, by and large, female people, at least not single ones who want me ever so badly. Not one single woman has acknowledged my intelligence and wit with a comment. That I do possess these qualities there is no doubt. My Mom told me so, and my Mom was smart.

 

And let’s face it: getting the opposite sex into the sack is the basis of all creativity. We’re featherless bowerbirds building elaborate displays using folk tunes, poems and watercolor paintings, all in an effort to find fowl love. At least that’s what a psychologist said on PBS, and if you disagree with her assessment, just ask yourself: Have you been featured on PBS?

 

No you haven’t.

 

So it’s all about coupling, and recently my game of love has been a stalemate. I wish I could blame you, dear reader, it would be my God-given right, but I think the problem lies with me.

 

One friend blames a phenomenon whose existence I have noted for decades: for some reason I ooze straight arrowedness. I don’t know what it is, but people who first meet me take for granted I have a steel pipe rammed up my ass. The basis for this impression is one of life’s great mysteries. I liberally sprinkle my speech with fucks, shits and damns; my social views are progressive; and yes, I’ve done the nasty. But, time and again, people note their surprise when they first realize I am not Ned Flanders.

 

Well, I’m not going to become a bad boy. I won’t get a tattoo, start selling crack or slur a slimy “Hey baby” to every girl I meet. But I won’t play with Legos, either. I’ll just continue writing these stupid posts until Miss Right browses along. And if she passes me up it’s her loss; just ask my Mom.