Longer Penis (not spam)

Size

Do you ever find yourself, for whatever reason, wishing you had a longer penis?

I found myself thinking this the other day while standing at a urinal in a sports bar.

You see, as I’ve gotten older, I have found myself becoming increasingly hard-of-seeing. Although I have accepted reading glasses as an everyday thing in my life, I still find that I have to play trombone somewhat when trying to read a book or the newspaper, particularly in poorly lit areas.

So, what does this have to do with a longer penis, you may ask.

For the uninitiated, over the urinals in many if not most sports bars in Canada, the bar posts a section of the newspaper (most often the sports section), which gives gentlemen something to look at while in the bathroom. I’d like to tell you it is for the betterment of our understanding of the human condition, but am more apt to say it is to keep us from inadvertently gawking at our neighbours.

Well, of late, I have found it increasingly difficult to read this newspaper because I am standing too close to the wall. Even with my reading glasses on, I cannot make out the print of the story. And let’s face it, if you have to put your reading glasses on to pee, you are either blind as a bat or have a really short penis.

With a longer penis, I believe, I would have the opportunity to stand further back from the urinal and potentially bring the newspaper into focus. Standing further back with a shorter penis just leads to a mess no one wants and would keep me from accurately hitting the little soccer ball (some of you know what I’m talking about).

As it is, my only alternative is to try to read the paper over the next urinal, which has its own risks.

If I am alone in the bathroom, no problem. But the minute another fellow stands at the next urinal…

Well, let’s just say no one likes to have a stranger read over your shoulder, so you can imagine how you’d feel having a stranger read over your penis.

So, yes, sometimes I wish I had a longer penis.

Oh, and unless you have a third hand, don’t try turning the page over…trust me, it’s better for everyone if you just read the rest of the story later.

urinal-journal

The subway ride

I don’t actually know what the following is, other than: the beginning.

subway-1

The subway was crowded that morning. It was always crowded when it rained.

It was like no matter how far people had to travel, they were terrified of getting wet. It’s probably closer to the truth to say that most of them had lost several umbrellas in the windy corridors created by the city’s office towers. And yet, to a person, every man and woman carried a neatly folded umbrella, their multiple layers showing nary a single bead of dampness.

By the second station on my route to work, I had lapsed into my typical fog of who cares. At this stage in my life, work was just something I had to do to make money. I had long ago given up on any hope of finding fulfillment or happiness on the job, if only because the company had a strict no-dating policy. Without interoffice sex, my desk was just another place to sort papers.

It didn’t take long before the fog in my head was matched by a fog on the windows of the subway car. The body heat of the mingled strangers turned damp coats and hats into instant humidifiers, rain water mingling with sweat and post-shower damp to coat the walls and windows of the subway with rivulets of diluted deodorant, cologne and perfume. All we needed were a few handprints on the window and the subway car would have looked like the back seat of a sedan parked at a drive-in where the kids inside were doing everything but watching the movie.

I had managed to grab a seat that morning, an unexpected bonus for getting up a little earlier. Even living at the end of the line was no guarantee of finding any comfort in local transit. Too often, I spent my time staring down the tops of flat-chested teens too self-absorbed to give up a seat or leather-skinned grandmothers so desiccated they made your tear ducts hurt. That morning, however, I had managed a forward-facing seat. So people could look down my top and I got to stare right into their crotches.

It was a rough ride into town that morning. The constant start and stop of the train as it waited for the guy up ahead to get his shit together, and the tropical humidity that was slowly growing in my shorts made the decorated plywood seat under my ass that much more uncomfortable. Within 20 minutes, I found myself chafing like a newborn in a day-old diaper.

Tugging at my trouser legs to try and unbunch the material from my crotch, I felt something soft and dry against the back of my left hand. Looking over, I realized it was a leg.

A gorgeous leg. A leg that begged to be touched, but could just as easily crush your balls with the slightest twitch. A leg that worked out regularly, but had never seen a gym in its life. And standing right next to it was another leg, which also shimmered in the grey opalescence of flawless stockings.

Recognizing my transgression and not wanting to be rude, I moved up from the legs. Past the immaculate tweed skirt, the crisp peach blouse, the mottled brown scarf and up to the reddest smile I have ever seen in my life.

This red, I was certain, existed nowhere else in the world. This was a red created for one woman and set aside, the formula for this colour being instantly destroyed as it would appear flawed on anyone else.

I smiled at that red, those lips, and nodded slightly. It was an apology for the unintended intimacy. Words seemed out of place for some reason. The slight rise of her right cheek told me I had been forgiven.

Summoning everything I had in me, I tore my eyes away from that mouth and back to the zoo I called my ride into work.

The fog had definitely lifted from my morning, but it had been replaced with an equally numbing intoxication that I couldn’t handle. Although numbing probably wasn’t the right word, because there was damned little I wasn’t feeling at this moment.

I don’t know if it was 10 seconds or 10 minutes later when the subway jostled around a bend, but what I do know is that the leg found my hand this time. And as the curve of the tracks lingered, so too did the leg, sliding its silken fibers up and down the back of my hand until it began to pull the hairs out one by one.

As the train pulled back onto a straighter course, however, the leg stayed exactly where it had landed, determined to either erase every hair off the back of my hand or gain my attention. It was about to complete the first, but it was mission accomplished on the second.

(Image is property of owner and is used here without permission but a lot of inner dialogue.)

Sun

morning-in-the-desert--rano-v-pousti

Torpid lizard

Sun-bathed rock

Frost clinging to shadows

Life in limbo

Chains unleashed

Motion where silence reigned

Clawed toe flicks

Tongue pierces sky

Lazy eye greets a desert dawn

(Image is property of owner and is used here without permission because it’s too early)

I Hear You

anguish

“I hear you,” she screams,

Her voice echoing in the silence

Of a disquieted mind.

Fists pound temples

As temptation reigns

In paper-wrapped glass.

The sins of a thousand years

Await release, gnawing

At the bars built

To keep the world out

And the furies within.

Breath rasps, the belly of the snake

Drawing sinewy strength

From the still-warm sands

Of memory and desire.

Head sags, body slumps,

Blood slows, anguish grows.

Write, Sisyphus, write.

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(Images are property of owners, and are used here without permission…I heard you.)

Real

2_istock_000012358529xsmall

Am I as lifeless as the image

That dances before me,

Within its two-dimensional bonds

Of height and width?

Or does it ask the same questions

As it stares through this portal of glass,

Breathing and thinking in a world

That also offers depth and duration?

Which of us is the corpus

And which the reflection?

Both? Neither?

When we part company,

Who moves first?

And if I smash the glass,

Which of us ceases to exist,

Except in the multitude of shards

That fall to Earth?

girlbrokenmirror

(Images are property of owners and upon reflection, are used here without permission.)

Writing for puppets

Monty meets Muppets!

Monty meets Muppets!

As some of you may know, I am one of the comedy writers for a sketch show called SomeTV!, which is currently in production in Toronto. As our godhead Nic likes to describe it, the show takes the no-sacred-cows approach of Monty Python’s Flying Circus and combines it with the playful anarchy of The Muppet Show (no hubris here, eh?).

Now, for some, that may sound like the greatest writing gig ever. Those some have clearly never written for puppets.

Human actors—or as we call them, Fleshies—can be tricky enough to deal with. Prone to completely misunderstanding the point of a scene or sketch, they tend to have difficulty learning lines that make no sense to them.

Luckily, their natural insecurity, despite the outward facing ego, means that they can be molded into subservience, if only in two- to five-minute chunks, the longest most are willing to go without checking their make-up or cell phones for calls from their managers.

At their core, Fleshies are the rhesus monkeys of the performance world, clinging to each other for some semblance of affection but ultimately willing to give that up for warmth and sustenance.

Not so puppet actors, aka the Felts or Felties.

Flesh v Felt

These are the apex predators of the performance world and should always be treated as such. Sure, they look cute and cuddly, with their giant heads, bulging eyes and disarming colours, but that’s exactly what they want you to think.

You don’t write for Felties so much as start a sentence that is perpetually interrupted with ideas or lines the bastards think are smarter, funnier, crazier.

Fleshies forget their lines because they’re not too bright…Felties “forget” because they are malicious egotists.

Adding to the challenge is the near-impossibility of figuring out a Feltie. He, she or it is the poster-child for multiple personality disorder.

You think you’re writing a scene for a young Spanish girl, when out of nowhere a tall Jovian Codswadder shows up to take the scene in an entirely new direction. (To this day, the only thing I know about Codswadders is they come from Jupiter, where given the crushing gravity, their height makes no sense.)

Not the home of young Spanish girls

NOT the home of young Spanish girls

It’s like dealing with someone with hyperactive comedic Tourettes, and trust me, I’ve taken enough improv classes in Toronto to know what that looks like.

Felties are also astoundingly lazy creatures. Sure, they look frenetic on the television screens, but in reality, these buggers will literally not lift a finger without someone doing it for them. Our show has an entire team of Feltie fluffers whose entire job is to see to the every-last needs of these freaks. We’re talking major OCD: obsessive-compulsive demands.

Trust me, the dictionary writers of the world have the concept of “puppet master” completely backwards.

Masterclass

To be fair, the Felties do sometimes come up with lines that are funnier than the stuff I wrote. But on the flip side, they get away with lines that no intelligent Fleshie could ever hope to pull off.

This has two impacts: 1) the Feltie doesn’t have to try very hard to get a laugh, and 2) they can be as crude, rude and insulting as they want, knowing everyone just thinks “awwww, how cute”.

There’s a reason you don’t hear a lot of puppet radio programs…the shit they come up with is repugnant.

NPR = Nasty Puppet Radio

NPR = Nasty Puppet Radio

So, why do I stay? Why do I continue to write for these self-glorified hand-warmers?

Most days, I don’t know.

But then the rent comes due and I realize that my best chances at succeeding as a “comedy writer” is to have my words (or some semblance thereof) come out of a Feltie’s mouth…and those lint-sucking leeches know it, too.

 

SomeTV! is being produced by Lemon Productions Inc.

Like us on Facebook: SomeTV!Lemon Productions Inc.

Follow us on Twitter: @SomeTVNews

Toronto Marlies hockey game

Took my camera to the hockey game the other day…which means I never really saw the game as it was being played.

Below are some of the better shots I managed to take, just part of a much larger set on my Facebook page.

890+ images taken, 180+ images imported into Lightroom, 93 photos worked up.

Looks like I missed a hell of a game.

SPOILER ALERT: The Toronto Marlies defeated the Hamilton Bulldogs 4-1.

10K views and 1 year later

Hey all,

Just surpassed the 10,000 view mark on the blog (as well as my 1-year anniversary), so I wanted to thank you for looking at the blog, reading the blog, commenting on the blog and recommending the blog.

I am grateful to all of you, but particularly want to thank those who take a moment to post and exchange your thoughts on what I write or photograph. For you to put out that effort means the world to me.

Here’s to the next 10,000 views!

Thank you…Randy

My blog universe as of March 17, 2014

My blog universe as of March 17, 2014