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.