Democrats: the Randy Hickeys of politics?

I love My Name Is Earl.  It’s well written, the characters are unique and play well against each other, it’s humorous, and it has a good message.  Earl is the get-things-done brother.  Picks something to do, finds a way to do it, gets it done.  His brother Randy is a big lovable guy that’s still figuring things out when Earl is already off to the races.

For the last several months Clinton and Obama have been wasting loyalist’s dollars fighting each other.  McCain has been quietly ensuring people vote republican.  It’s the same damn thing every year, isn’t it?  There were three major democratic candidates in 2004 and two in 2000.  Maybe I’m being revisionist but I only remember one republican candidate from that time: GWB.

By fighting each other they are only strengthening McCain’s position.  They’re wasting money, reducing voter confidence in the democrats, and killing time when they could be out campaigning.

Think about it this way:  while Obama and Clinton are out courting the delegates, McCain is out courting the voters. I wonder which one will matter more, on election day?

If I were american I’d still vote for Randy but, god bless him, he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Baby Love

I call my old phone company to tell them I want out.  The message says that I’ve called their Customer Loyalty and Rentention Line.  Then I’m put on hold.

Diana Ross sings “Baby Love”.

If the irony is lost on you, look up the lyrics.

Trouble sleeping

Through the open bedroom window, warm breeze carries the soft sound of music and women chatting on a balcony.  Moonlight streams in across your back and over your smooth, raised buttocks.  Your legs are spread and bound.  Your hands are pinned under your hips.  I amost feel bad about blindfolding you.

Almost.

A gasp as I draw the tails down your spine.  “Do you like it?  I bought an old leather coat at the sally anne and cut it into strips to make this flogger.  Son-of-a-bitch is heavy, know what I mean?  Just the weight in my hand is… real.  It’s got gravitas.  If I let it fall, or I bring it down -” I flog the left cheek once “- you’d agree with me that it would make a real thud, yes?”  Another strike, this time on the right.  “Well, yes or no?!”

“Yessir.”

Damn, she didn’t screw up there.

“Good!  I’m glad you agree.  I could have bought this off the internet -” strike “- but instead I went through a lot of trouble -” strike “- and I’m going to make sure -” strike “- you appreciate -” strike “- this gift.”

The other hand comes into play now, gently rubbing with the rabbit fur mitt.  All too soon, it stops.  Another strike.

“Well?” Strike again.  “I’m not hearing any ‘thank yous’!”  Strike.  “Maybe you don’t like the fur.”  Rub.  “Maybe you only like the flogger.”  Strike.  “Fur?”  Rub.  “Flogger?”  Strike.

As your hips start to move I increase the ratio of strikes to rubs, Slowly building that mental bridge between being wet and being flogged.  Soon you are whimpering, then you’re crying out.  On and on it goes, and what feels like 5 minutes for me must feel like an eternity for your sore ass.  Crying suddenly gives way to begging and pleading – but not to stop.  No, you’re begging to cum, just like the horny little slut you are.

“No.”

You beg some more.

“No.  You better call your safeword if you cum because if you don’t I’m going to be so angry…”

More begging.  Louder begging.

“That’s it.  Sing for me, little bird.  Sing me your safeword and then you can cum.”

You sing, and explode, and the heavens rush down at you and the ground falls away in every direction and this is what babies in the womb must feel like, floating in and endless expanse.

I stand over you, rubbing you with the fur.  I hear a faint sound, almost like rain.  The sky is cloudless.  When you come back to earth twenty minutes later, we share a quiet laugh about our accidental fan club.

Calvin’s dad had the right idea

What good are kids if you can’t mind fuck them once in a while?  Hoping they’ll grow up and be responsible and carry on your name is a big gamble – the odds are bad, man.  I say hedge your bets and get some fun in while you can, before they stop listening completely.

I had this friend and, well, let’s just say she was a little naive.  I could tell her pretty much anything and it would take a day, sometimes a week before she would call me an asshole for leading her along for so long and the longer it took, the harder I would laugh.  Oh, sometimes I forgot I told her something and it would come back months later in the wierdest situations…

…but kids?  Wow.  If you love waiting for the other shoe to drop then you, me, and Calvin’s dad should form a club.  I love screwing with my nephew’s head and sending him home to my sister.  God, I can barely breath when I think of the tales I’ve told him.  I just hope he appreciates my creativity in five or six years when he realizes I knew better and deliberately made shit up.