Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

The clearest description I have managed so far about my blog is that it is not about cats. In general, I find predators pretty predictable while prey on the other-hand, because they live in universes of anxiety, develop more textured personalities. I also have as a writer a deft hand when it comes to making matters worse, so of course , the already panicky are ready made for me. I will try to grow this blog into an assortment of laughs, because that is what my life has mostly taught me to do. I will use the famous people I have known to get your attention and then tell you small but many times wonderful things about them. I will never name the ones I say ugly things about but I hope you will guess who they are.

Month: October, 2019

My Pig Joke

Pigs are convincing evidence that humans do not care about the feelings of food if it tastes good.
What follows is a joke that is more than it seems. I first heard it when I was maybe nine or ten years old. I have never heard it told again by anyone but me for sixty years. I memorized it and have used it at dinner parties to woo bright women who occasionally possessed a sense of humor. When I was young, it did not matter so much that they did. That took time.
The joke.
A guy is walking on a country road and comes to a farmhouse. On the porch sits a farmer, and next to him, relaxed a pig. The farmer was reading to it from a book. The pig snuggled tightly into him.
The pig had a wooden leg.
Curious, with reason, the traveler asked the farmer how this pig came by such a leg.
The tenant recounted to him that this pig had saved his life twice, pointing while he spoke to a burned section of the home.
“My wife and I got trapped while asleep in our bedroom as flames from the kitchen headed upstairs. This pig, ( he hugs the creature as he speaks), rushed through the fire and led us out.
The traveler​, let it be reliably​ said, was astonished and wanted to understand more clearly, of course, so he asked, “How was this pig able to run to you on such a mangled leg?”
“No, no,” the farmer insisted​, “he didn’t hurt his leg at all.”
The storyteller now warmed to his tale, “ But you know the damnedest thing happened after that. I was fishing in my boat, and this terrible rain and wind knocked me right off and into the water. Now I ain’t never been much a swimmer, and I was making a ruckus, when this pig arrived at the shore, jumped into the water, and swam back with me, my collar in his mouth. He saved my life once again.”
The farmer sat silently for an emotional minute like country people are often moved to do.
Respecting his country contemplation for as long as he could, the traveler finally could not restrain his prying. He said, maybe louder than he should have, “You know you never told me how this pig got that wooden leg.”
The farmer looked at him with an odd and amused condescension. He answered,
“Son, you just can’t eat a pig like this all at once.”

Sexually explosive

The two most sexually charged atmospheres I ever experienced were grades 3 through 6 in grammar school, and backstage after any show with The Who.

My FaceBook friends

I wandered through my friends’ list on Facebook this afternoon. I found seven dead rock stars, John Entwistle and Moon, were still both begging for money. John was claiming the deep sea fishing in Heaven was expensive, and Keith needed to buy his way into the hooker section of hell.
There was a load of Italian Genesis fans from some show in Turin in 1974. They all wanted backstage passes.
I noticed six girls from grade school who I had given dirty Valentine Day’s cards to in the early fifties.
There were eight rock promoters, including Harvey Weinstein and Bill Graham, all of whom claimed I stole money from them.
There were 12 dogs and two cats.
And one girl who keeps asking me to send money to her so she can get a flight out of Turkey.
The rest are people I have no recollection of at all.

The persecution of prejudice

Nations thrive only when the most exciting people, the sexual deviants, are free to sin without anxiety or worry of reprisals.
Ancient Greece and Rome, the Roaring Twenties and every day in France are examples of this. History will show that this decade in America will outdo them all.
Our fantastically liberated commonwealth is so diverse right now that we need to employ the alphabet to identify our gender and sexual federations. Say no more. Oh, happy days!
But I sense dark clouds forming on our open-source bi-coastal orgy.
In my experience, sex does not long remain pleasant unless others hold that what you are doing is lewd, immoral, or scandalous.
I fear we are draining our population unduly of prejudice. We are persecuting anyone not engaged in the study of elegance based solely on sex.
I dread that Oscar Wilde may have been describing us when he said,
“Only the great masters of style ever succeed in being obscure.”

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