According
to some folks, at least, it would seem that this blog, Sand Sex, is on the cusp
of creating a new literary genre.
I get emails
from friends and foe alike saying, in essence, that they may not agree with
everything I say but they laugh their cans off at how I say it. I thank them.
Then, more recently, whence I mention my concern that I may be getting too critical,
too cynical, they almost always say something like: “Well, maybe, but that’s
what makes it hilarious. This world today
could use more, not less, cutting cynicism and acid humor. I wouldn’t change a word if I were you.”
And so,
guess I’m elected sheriff. I write the
crap that people think but for one reason or another won’t speak, won’t write. Your blogger would dearly like to scribble
funny stuff about good, positive, decent, wholesome, salubrious subjects but .
. . (sigh) . . . it seems like a tall mountain to climb. Searching for a ringer in a boat load of bummers
would involve way more searching than writing, I fear. I’ll take the easy route and leave the fuzzy
feel-good stuff to the morally and mentally superior . . .
And so, here goes; yet
another installment of a writing style that I call cynical literature for long,
and cyni-lit for short.
____________________________________
The
Cuckold--Up at Tampa late one night, 70-year-old Ralph Wald stumbled from bed
to get something, maybe a snack, maybe a shot of booze. Suddenly, the groggy man heard suspicious
sounds in his living room. Slipping
quietly back to the bedroom Ralph realized his 41-year-old wife, Johnna, was
missing. The husband grabbed his pistol and returned. When he turned the living room light on--GASP!--Ralph
saw a naked man doing Johnna in her pink nightie on the rug.
Angry
husband . . . death in hand . . . hatred in heart . . . midnight . . . naked
stranger . . . naked stranger with flag
at full staff . . . not good . . . not good at all. . . . Things happened
pretty quick from this point on. Groggy
as he may have been, Wald collected himself pretty quickly. Ralph said that he imagined his wife was
being raped, partly because, “going on midnight, I knew she was always drunk at
that point.”
As the
terrified intruder tried to hide behind the woman, Ralph patiently went about
his work. Taking careful aim, the former
army colonel and Vietnam vet stepped this way, stepped that way, determined to
make every shot count. No mention if
Ralph tried to shoot the stranger in the “groin,” aka "shooting a man’s nutz
off", but he did aim for the lower belly of the intruder since he knew that
would be not only a mortal wound, but an extremely agonizing one, as well. Next, he aimed for the chest. He got that too.
“Every
shot I took was very, very controlled,” said Wald. “Every shot I took did
exactly what I wanted it to do. . . . I was looking to inflict as much pain as
I could.”
When
Ralph was through, he called 911. There
was a trial. The jury had the good sense
to acquit. Odd. During the course of the trial it was proven
that far from being a rapist, the thirty-something would-be ravisher was
actually Johnna’s lover. Why am I not
surprised? Her excuse: Ralph just wasn’t
doing his duty. Erectile dysfunction--fancy
lingo for “limpus dickus.”
In
spite of that bombshell revelation, Ralph and Johnna seemed no worse for
wear. The couple were seen leaving the
courtroom together (above), hand-in-hand, seemingly determined to patch up their minor
differences.
“We'll
get all our business in order over the next few days,” smiled Johnna as she
kissed her hub smack on the chops. “I'm glad he's coming home. It's been very
lonely.”
Johnna
seems to have a pathological aversion to loneliness. She’s
also extremely lucky that old Ralph was a masterful good shot.
And so,
here’s a retarded story with an even more retarded ending. It’s not the original cuckolding that gets me,
nor “cant’-get-it-up” Ralph being made a stupid sap. That crap happens all the time. What is so rich—as well as vexing--is that this
senile was so senile that he allowed this dainty damsel back into his house and
his heart, thereby setting himself up for “The Cuckolding, Part 2.” Ralph’s penis ain’t the only thing not
working. Clearly, this goofy clown is
coo-coo for coco pops.
End
note: And what of the shameless cuckolder who is now 30-something forever, one Walter
Lee Conley, what of he whose midnight merry-making was cut short when he was
gunned down with his pants down while getting it down in another man’s living room? Well, Walt will not now, nor will Walt ever,
be returning to his old crib in nearby Brandon, at his aptly-named apartment address
at 13108 Lovers Lane.
Truly, some
justice is amazingly poetic.
____________________________________
Sweet Sweat--Just back from a 20-miler. Michelle hates my sweat. So, I always make sure to threaten Miss Priss
with a hug while I am all sweaty. She
recoils. She even hates my
spoofing. I tell her that since I ate a
whole fifteen pound watermelon in the past 24, my sweat ain’t like other men;
my sweat is sweet sweat. Prudence ain’t
buying; still won’t hug me. So, I
threaten to sweat rape her and take my hug by force. Chastity grabs a knife. Odd. I
guess most ladies love sweat on a man ONLY when he is digging, sawing,
chopping, or hammering something for her benefit.
