#   22 Sep 2021 // 386Y  

They say that when you've got antsy pants
that to keep an open mind can really help
to break the ice . . . . . .

It was a dark and stormy night — whazzat? Spanky I know that dark and stormy nights are a phrase that got said so much that now people start to roll their eyes when they hear it sidling into their earholes, but the facts of the case here are that when I'm talking about it was dark, it was night, and there was a storm rolling blue thunder with lightning bolts zapping the sh*t out of everything. Would you rather I lie like an exhausted old dog enjoying a fire and say, "It was a sunny and clear blue skies with fluffy white clouds day"? If that helps you calm down even just a little, well then you're most welcome because I just typed that for ya! 🙄

Anyway . . . what I'm talking about is that me, my gyna-owning genitor [hereafter GoG], and my peener-owning guardian [hereafter PoG] by sexual contracts were all cooling our feet at a laundry store, allowing the washing contraptions to sterilize our sundry grundies and waiting for the storm to pass, when my GoG leaned over to the PoG and said, "I think we need to go."

What with all the sloshing and whirring and grinding the laundry machines were bombinating on our heads, the PoG didn't hear very good and replied, "The excrement hole is right over there." And he even pointed it out for the GoG, though only by shucking his skull in the general direction of the door to the poop-and-pee facility.

"No,no; I don't need to eliminate the urine from my body just now, but it's that guy^* —

^*Now Spanky, I know that "guy"^* up there is just right there on the edge of decency. And I know that person's physique and rampant body hairs (hirsutism would not be an excessive observation) and booming vocalizations and (speaking like a Frank, if I may) absurd laryngeal prominence did neither singly nor as a confection give cause for any body to start assuming genders all over the place like a g-damned Deutsch national socialist trooper of the storms. Because it didn't. And it still doesn't. But Spanky, this was like half of a hundred years ago, and though that is absolutely no defense it does help explain the sloppy gender-handling speech of my GoG. — Whuzzat? Spanky, though basically gentle that GoG was ignorant as a turnip, genderedly speaking, and all I can say is that it was what it was. That gender ignorant GoG is dead as a hammer, if it makes ya feel any better. — Huh? Well, thank you, Spanky. I do try to try like that little steam locomotive that kept trying long past bedtime.
— SS —

over there. Just look and you shall see because you can't miss him^*."

Well, the GoG was right as the rain slashing down the world the other side of the laundry store's plate glass windows because this guy^* looked like a real handful. It was about as hairy as a Big Foot and its hair was the opposite of what people mean when they say "well-groomed". It was what you might call anti-groomed. Crazy guy^* contra Grooming. To say it the short way, he^* looked a mess. Spanky, I already addressed all that "guy"^* stuff already; and, yes, I do expect all those letters to cover the "he"^* stuff, too. 😒 Well, Spanky, if you have a diet soda to hand then maybe you should cry in it. — what didja say? Well, then I'm sorry and no I don't want you to cry in any beverage. 🙏 Good, good, that's fine and dandy like ribbon candy, then.

But it wasn't just or even only the overwhelming nature of this guy's^* hairs and general ignorance of hygiene that was the problem, it was also that he^* was skipping around in place like a hero runner gearing up to tear off on a world records sprint. He^* was unmistakably keyed up. But the PoG was a live-and-let-die kinda person and only turned to us and said, "Just ignore him^*."

Now, I can't say with certainty whether that crazy-azz** Big Foot was hopped up on dope, fresh from some kind of occult ceremony that had sharpened its sensorium like a razor edge, or just had an unusually lush pineal body — though that would be an interesting thing to know — but even though the PoG had said its advice in an undertone amidst the g_dawful racket of the place, that nut bag whipped around at us like a bear that had just sensed something it could brutalize for no reason, and fixed us with a stare that Old Bogey would be proud to glare. (And who can say whether or not that madman^* maybe was possessed by a malign spirit? Not me! Ain't touching that even if my pole was ten feet long. Nopers. 😉)

That creep of a lunatic stared at us fixedly, meaning for much, much longer than was required or polite. Not even close to polite. So the PoG checked its wristwatch like it was reading an IRS letter and the GoG considered its fingernails, but I, being a child and silly sometimes, stared right back at it, though my stare was really more of a oscar-worthy gawping. And what do you think that heinous creature did? Well, it scrambled up on the Speed Queen nearest to it and stuck out its chest and threw back its head and extended forth its arm to point straight at us and screeched, "you . . . YOU!"

My GoG twisted her head down and to the side so that the mental defective couldn't see my GoG's own personal mouth and hissed to me, "Stop staring at him^*!" And you know, that kinda went up my nose a little bit because I wasn't the source of the trouble just then. But as exhorted on, I bowed my head to stare at my shoes like some kind of damned idiot in a fugue state. It was exhausting.

Please Note: I've posted an explanation for people who think that calling myself a damned idiot is somehow offensive to other people (not me) with certain conditions.
{ Go there }

Needless to say, all the averted glances we made didn't appease the seedy monster and instead it stomped and hopped from machine to machine until it towered over us from the autowasher just a couple of feet across from the plastic furniture upon which we just about cowered and placed its hands on its hips in a classic pose of authority and bellowed: "My Momma always said I'd end working in a whorehouse!"

Well! We never!

Then as we all gave it the instinctive "What!?" look, it jumped down, grimaced up at us from the squat in which it had landed, then bolted upright and ran away straight into the toilet place mentioned early and slammed the door. Even over the general din, we could hear it in there yelling to the Sweet Lord and occasionally causing the door to shudder in its frame from the repeated violent and hairy blows.

We kinda gave each other looks for just a second and then the PoG said in its not-open-for-discussion voice, "Get the clothes; we're going." The GoG tried to belay the order by pointing out that our stuff was not just wet but sopping wet, but the PoG merely set its jaw and said, "We're going." So we bear-hugged our soggy grundies outta the machines and made tracks to the Buick RoadMaster that stood waiting ready to take us anywhere that didn't have deranged basket cases wandering around free to harrass the G_d-fearing citizenry. And it didn't really matter that the wet clothes were making us wet because it was pouring rain anyway. The whole damned world was wet.

To console ourselves and kinda decompress from the recent incident, we stopped at a hotdog store and nibbled contentedly on chilidogs and french fries and onion rings and malted shakes that were rich and cool and creamy. When we had ingested enough food to convince our nervous systems to be less nervous, I opened the commentary upon our recent encounter by saying, "What was that igmo's deal?"

"I think it's safe to say he^* had some ants in his^* pants," said the PoG with a wink. And that wink cheered me right up because when I was a kid I couldn't wink for love nor money and so was intrigued by them.

"Well, I think it's best to keep an open mind, because you know what they say: minds are like parachutes — they work better when they're open." said my GoG, who had seen that on a t-shirt or something and filed it away for times just like now.

The points here, Spanky, are that it isn't just individuals that get those ants in their pants. What I need you to understand is that entire civilizations some times get ants in their pants. Hunky red ones, too. And that is why you gotta remember to use your mind like a parachute. But if you do, you must listen to the wisdom of the ages which is that minds, like parachutes, work not just better but at all if you pack them up carefully, make damned sure they're strapped on good with heavy-duty straps, and remember to yank blue hell on the ripcord when the time comes. You gotta yank like ya want it. It's just science. — What's that? Yeah, the open part . . . I dunno …
I mean just from watching the world go by, don't ya kinda think that if you keep your mind wide-open some joker might happen along and use it for a toilet? Of course parachutes (at least in the sky) don't have the potential toilet problem and should remain open to prevent your crunch and splatter. Now you feel happy & safe and for that: You're Welcome, I guess . . .

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