The Sixth Element

Moses proclaims that the Sixth Weird Thing shall also be the 11th Commandment. So sayeth the Pug.

Hello everybody,

I realize how excruciating it's been to not only deal with my weirdness on a per post and comment basis, but also to endure THREE friggin' installments of the six weird things that I'm willing to publicly admit.

I don't think it took Moses this damned long to haul the Ten Commandments down from the UFO (Personally I have yet to encounter a burning bush. Although in my more promiscuous days I may have caused a few. But perhaps I will tonight at the New Year's Eve party. A burning bush sounds intriguing. It could negate the need for Warming K-Y Lotion. But I'd better bring condoms just in case it's the contagious kind.).

The burning bush. Once revered as the "Angel's Intercom", it is now banned in most municipalities.

I wonder if Nostradamus had to deal with pressure to churn out more of his quatrains (predictions). Come to think of it, he probably had it much easier than yours truly. He could make up all sorts of vague and crazy nonsense, and be cold in the ground before anybody accused him of being a bullshitter, or of phoning it in.

Nostradamus posing for a rare portrait, for which he accurately predicted he would receive a 25% off coupon. Though closely resembling Henry VIII, he only had ONE wife, by virtue of his ability to "see" arguments in advance and avoid them.

I don't have that luxury. My only hope is redemption after my passing, in the form of apologies from those of you who helped to expedite it.

So without further ado, I now present for (dis)pleasure and (dis)approval, the sixth and final weird thing.


6) I have issues with food.

That's it. Oh, is this one too boring? What DID you want to see? Duct-taped hamster stuffing? Masturbating to "The View"? Trenchcoated debauchery in public? Well too f*cking bad. The deal was that I only had to provide six. Those would have been numbers 7, 8 and 9.

K9's admission of his fear of buffets (thank God it wasn't "emissions into buffets", BTW) reminded me that I also have irrational behaviors when it comes to food. As I've "matured" (no snickering ... oh, and like all of YOU are SO mature! ... yeah, right ... whatEV ...), I've mellowed out somewhat in this area. And after I've "had a few", I can even be relaxed enough to eat spilled crab dip off the floor of a taxi cab.

But in general I am very cautious about my food consumption. I prefer to eat food that's either been prepared and cooked by yours truly, or by someone that I trust (hygenically). I avoid restaurants unless they are high-quality, and only eat fast-food when I'm desperate. I have no stomach for buffets (including Jimmy and Warren), due to the swells of unwashed masses that tend to hover over them.

I worked with a guy who was even worse. If anyone even touched his plate, he wouldn't finish it. Of course, the second he stepped away for a moment, we would take advantage of a "loophole" and use his utensils to scratch ourselves inappropriately under our clothing. Yet, amazingly, the dude never got sick. I guess we collectively provided him with a wide range of immunities that made him immortal. This is why I encourage you all to do the same for your friends.

And don't even get me started on "potlucks". I find that I have to constantly pick my nose until it bleeds profusely around my coworkers just to ensure that they always plan one of these office afflictions for a day that I'm out of town. On those rare occasions where I am blindsided by a potluck, my worst fears are always confirmed. These Betty Crockheads whip up the most disgusting crap. Entrees that would make the Scots retch. A homemade pizza with SALAMI as a topping? WTF were you smoking, Chef Pierre? Banana and mayo sandwiches? Do I f*cking LOOK like Elvis?

Haggis: the Scottish version of the Chimichanga.

I know that you mean well by purchasing expensive and exotic cheeses and incorporating them into a homemade dip or appetizer. But you see, the problem is that I haven't slept with you yet, so the "familiarity threshold" has not been reached. I therefore can not blindly trust that you are seeking to fondly reward my sexual prowess with FRESH ingredients and CAREFUL preparation.

For all I know, the "exotic" cheese started its life as a slice of American that unfortunately slid and hid under the refridgerator for quite some time until its miraculous discovery on "Potluck Eve".

Is it any wonder why I commiserate with Howard Hughes? The man wasn't nuts. He just had one too many potlucks imposed on him. Employees were always trying to suck up with these blasted get-togethers, and unfortunately for Howard, he had no choice but to isolate himself from germs and society. It's sad, really.

Howard Hughes goes airborne in order to avoid potlucks. Tragically, one awaited him back at the airport.

Well, that does it for me on the weirdness front. I now feel like I have exorcised six demons from my soul. No longer am I a human pinata of anguish and torment. Thanks to all of you. Happy New Year, brothers and sisters!

*** Optional homework assignment: write a quatrain and either post it or place it in my comments. ***

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Six Weird Things About Me - The Last Three

Okay everyone. I suppose it's been long enough. No longer can I bear to torment those of you who prefer frequenting my blog to having a life. While I can secretly curse and pity you, I know that it is your dependence on my bullshit that in turn nurtures me. And for that, I pity myself.

Thanks for the flurry of great comments. Well, for the most part. For some of you, the flurries indicate that shoveling is imminent.

So sorry for the delay. The truth is that I've been working so hard (almost as hard as it is for you to believe that I've been working at all), that I've had little energy for anything else. Mr. Happy is not even showing his usual signs of self-inflicted wear and tear. He's actually getting back that "new car back seat smell". THAT is just how LITTLE of an actual life I've been able to lead.

So let's get the weirdness train rollin', shall we?

4) I suffer from OCD and ADHD

(But thankfully, not VD or any other STDs, although I do use both TP and STP.)

That's right. There is a perpetual internal struggle (actually there's an awful lot of internal struggles) between these two opposing forces. Fortunately I'm only mildly afflicted. Unfortunately they don't cancel out. But fortunately they aren't dehabilitating.

Have you seen "Monk" yet? It's a show about a Private Investigator type (masterfully played by Tony Shalhoub), who suffers from an extreme case of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). He can't function or move on if something appears amiss. This makes him a pain-in-the-ass, but his attention to the smallest details makes him an expert case cracker.

*** Additional weirdness bonus! For some bizarre reason, I want to "boink" Natalie (Monk's Assistant). Can I write "boink"? Why sure! One, because it's my damned blog and I can do what I want. Two, because Blogger cannot afford to lose a single blogger (what, with their ineptness and all). Three, because I really enjoy using the word "boink", and for some weird reason, haven't done so in all of my posts until now. Anyhoo, I find myself strangely enthralled with her blonde hair and tushie* (* another favorite word of late). ***

While I am not as gifted as Monk, nor do I have his extreme attention to detail, I also frequently have to stop what I'm doing to correct something that's out of place. Luckily, the OCD cannot keep my cajones in its sinister grip for long, because - not unlike "The Lone Ranger" - on cue ADHD comes riding in to my rescue.

5) As it turns out, I am quite the butt pug.

Not so quick on the trigger with those comments, mon amigos! I did NOT write "butt PLUG". I meant that only recently have I realized that women's tushies* (* See how I smoothly used "tushie" as a convenient segue device from "Weird Thing #4"? Take note, avid blogger wannabees) are what I truly notice when I'm evaluating women for the purpose for imagined sexual encounters. No longer do I simply settle for brief eye contact, or a sultry "excuse me", as the female is brushing past me toward a certain oblivion of souless sexual entanglement with someone who only appears more attractive than yours truly. I want more. I want to leave bite marks in patterns that crop circle hoaxers would envy on her heiny. I want to add to the tattoo on her lower back such that it traces my "Journey to the Center of HER Earth" in grandious fashion.

Sure, boobs are nice. For you can take solace in the knowledge that no matter how soft of a man you truly are, they are even softer. Provided that they are real. More real than you, perhaps.

There is great comfort in that. Also, boobs are the safe haven of mashed potatoes amidst the uncertain piece of rump roast that it intended to be your main entree. Will the flesh be tough? Or will it be as supple as a baby's bottom? Is Mad Cow disease no longer a threat? Or did this one slip past them (and you)?

And don't get me wrong. A nice set of legs (see EOTR's blog for a fine example) is a sweet sight indeed. But the strident nature of seeing them rapidly walking toward you can serve as an omen of bad tidings. Similar to the "Red skies at morrning, sailor take warning" adage, little buddies. Did you leave the toilet seat up? Did she spot you with a mermaid / barmaid last night? Of course, seeing them walking away is equally forboding (unless she's getting you a beer).

But in the end (get it?), I'll cling onto the female ass as my favorite body part. Even though it's not the most convenient one to store in the freezer.

***

Okay, I lied to you once again. I'm one short* (boy, if only I had a nickel for every time I've heard that one). Call this a cliffhanger. Call me a bastard. Just call me.

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Six Weird Things About Me

Okay, first off, let's get the rules straight. I only have to mention six things. And they don't even have to be the six weirdest ones. For instance, I don't have to mention the necrophilia or even the quadrophenia.

Just six weird things where you may come to the realization that - in the cold, frigid hands of the "right woman" - I am salvageable for parts.

That's right. Perhaps the sum IS lesser than the raw components. Maybe you need my rectum because it still plays your Black Sabbath and Blood*, Sweat & Tears 8-tracks (* the blood is authethic). And - icing on the proverbial urinal cake - it doesn't require you jamming a matchbook up there, because the matchbook is already in place. Come on baby, light my fire.

So let's break me down, and distill my essence* (* My apologies to my Afro-American friends, since - due to my inability to dance - the fact that I'm totally Caucasian and therefore unqualified to use this word is readily apparent) into a tantalizing first installment (and hopefully, the last installment) of six weird things.

1) I love to Karaoke!

That's right. I'm that creepy f*cker in the corner booth, carefully weighing his auditory battleplan over a bottle of Heineken. More interested in my next assault on public (and ... if I play my cards right ... PUBIC!) sensibilities, than in the people socially interacting around me. Dare I opt for Billy Idol? Or has "White Wedding" already been sufficiently butchered? Oh, the possibilities are endless. Except for the inevitable end, with my fate being my own hand around a "microphone" of a pathetically different sort.

2) I am disappointed when I comment on other people's(?) blogs, and they don't acknowledge my comment.

That's right. I require closure. Was my comment pretty and witty? Or just gay? I need to know. Hey, I acknowledge YOU when you squirt a trail on MY blog. Is it too much to expect the same? What, is your life too chock full of important "to-do's" where I pale in comparison? Is some weenie-assed advisor whispering in your ear, "This time North Korea is dead serious. They claim that they just visited LensCrafters for better optics. They may now actually be able to hit land with their WMDs! You need to get on the Red Phone and take action. Forgive me, but SCREW responding to the Pug!"?

3) I am HIGHLY attracted to women.

That's right. I've been known to follow curvy gal through an entire Walmart. Mr. Happy is my GPS: "Turn left into lingerie. Parallel park into attractive mannequin. ". To hell with dropping prices, when there's trou to drop! At least it's winter now. I'm a basket* case (* more nimble than carts) in summer, when the clothes get skimpier. So some of you neophytes are likely wondering, "What's weird about that?". Longtime sufferers of my blog know the answer to that question: "We didn't know he had a sexual attraction to humans. The constant surprises keep us coming back for more.".

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Okay, I'm a lying sack of shit. As a "teaser", I'm withholding the last three until 2 or 3 days from now, depending upon how aggressively and creatively you comment. I'm now in your hands. Make a diamond!

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