Too Close For Comfort

I wish Memorial Day weekend had inspired me to reflect on the service so many of our fellow citizens have given to this great country. When I was growing up (and out), I wanted to be a soldier. I had visions of performing heroics on the battlefield, winning medals and then re-entering life as a private dick solving nutty cases.

But that isn't how I spent the holiday. I spent it fuming. Ron went out of town for a family event. He flew coach, which, as everyone knows, is second only to slave ship hard pack for traveling comfort. But at least that was Ron's choice. What neither of us had any control over was the guy in front of us. When the rows are that squeezed together, who but someone with the thoughtfulness of a Nazi would lean their seat back? I don't know why airplanes even allow for this, since whatever comfort experienced by the recliner is more than lost by the schmuck sitting behind him. I've done my time living in tight spaces, but only because society says people have to wear clothes. Society doesn't say anything about airplane comfort. It does, however, call for human decency, which is why I don't believe in putting my seat back unless the one behind me is unoccupied.

If the rows were spaced further apart so that the seat could drop back a whole foot, I could see the value in that. But I know a little something about what a couple of inches can mean, and they don't mean shit until you're talking eight or nine. When some asshole leans back, his head practically in my face, I have fantasies of releasing flesh-eating insects into his hair or dispensing an eyedropper full of HIV into his ear. It's not like they don't know they're encroaching into your personal space because sometimes they get it from the guy in front of them! It's this "share the misery" attitude that deflates my respect for people, even on a day that commemorates their sacrifice. Happy fucking Memorial Day and thanks for killing my dreams!

Come on, have a little consideration for the passengers behind you and leave the seats alone. After all, I'm living proof that being in an upright position is a joy! After two minutes on an airplane, I'm reminded just how much this cock prefers to drive.

Good Wood & Bad Wood

Living in LA as I do--and I mean Los Angeles, not "Los Angeles of Anaheim"--my baseball team is the Dodgers. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health. I mean that...for the team, though; not for any individual players, who are as transient these days as the people who come to see them play. So my vows do not extend to Manny Ramirez, who, as every follower of the game knows now, was recently suspended for 50 games after having violated MLB doping rules.

I know I have a tendency in these blogs to make extended comparisons, but I really did see in Manny a kindred spirit. Here was a kid, like me, whose legend grew as his bat got heavier and heavier. We'd stop at first, second and third base only long enough to move on--going all the way was our mission, and millions of people have watched us do it over the years. Where the comparison breaks down (aside from the fact that he's switched teams and I never have) is, sadly, in his use of banned substances to enhance his performance. Ron has always been proud to claim that he's never used Viagra or any substance to artificially enhance my stamina and power. Remember when Albert Belle, Manny's former teammate on the Indians, was accused of using a corked bat by the White Sox? He responded to the camera by pointing to his flexed bicep. Well, Ron could do--and does--the same thing with me. I'm known primarily for my size, but lots of guys have big dicks. Shit, Captain Kangaroo's pipe looked like the drain under my front yard, I'll bet you didn't know that. And in the majors, lots of guys can hit homeruns. But can these people score as consistently and with as much raw power and entertainment value as Manny and I can? It's called talent! Manny, you schmuck! You doping dope! I saw you as a fellow destroyer. Yes, the Yankees have a rod (or A-Rod, as it calls itself), but to me it was in you that I really saw myself. Not any more. Know why? Because I'm a cock. You? You're a pussy. Thanks a lot. Calling Major League Baseball! Is there anyone out there still swinging for the fences with honest wood?