My First Ride
My first time having sex mirrored my first time riding the Double Loop rollercoaster at Geauga Lake amusement park in Aurora, Ohio. These two events were independent of each other and happened years apart but share many comparable aspects.
I knew about the Double Loop from catching glimpses of the action during visits to the park, scrutinizing the brochures and believing the hype on television. Still, riding it seemed like a daunting task only to be attempted by adults and risk-taking kids. I fantasized about how much fun it must be but out of fear, didn’t put forth any effort in stepping up to the plate and trying. This self-imposed delay lasted to the point some acquaintances younger than me became seasoned riders. There is a deep-seated, legitimate concern that my window of opportunity will slam shut if I don’t summon enough gumption to go for it.
At the park with friends one July evening, there’s no expectation or premeditation to go on any rides. We are just killing time attempting to act cool. We aren’t inherently cool so attempting to act cool encompasses the full extent of our coolness. Then fate intervenes and I cross paths with a risk-taking girl from school who’s heading to the Double Loop. Out of the blue she asks, “Why don’t you come with me?” Caught off guard, my mouth panics and vocalizes words without my brain’s consent. “Huh? Who…me? Now? Um, yup, no, sure, I guess. I mean, okay. Why not, right? Ladies first. Haha, I’m kidding. You are.” (Brain to face: “You idiot, stop talking. Go back to acting like you’re cool while I sort out this mess.”) I oblige but overcorrect by punctuating the end of this one-sided, babbling conversation with a quick, smarmy, “How you doin’?” nod followed by an demonstrative wink. (Brain to face: “Unbelievable. What the hell, why am I even here?”) She thinks I’m cute, so the exacerbated social awkwardness is overlooked. (Face to brain: “You’re welcome.”)
Taking my hand, we stroll to the end of the Double Loop queue. This is territory I’ve never stepped in before, well beyond the main pavement I normally pound. It’s farther off the beaten path than I’ve ever ventured. Squeals from those already experiencing the ride plants a seed of doubt in my soul. Should I find an excuse to turn around and forfeit my spot to someone more deserving? Can I do this? Should I do this? Is there a better ride that I haven’t even heard of in another township or state that’s more suitable? This is a big commitment. Everyone that’s ridden it has gotten off and raved about how sensational it was. This is my chance to join that brotherhood. How hard can it be?
Arriving on the staging platform, I crush the height restriction by an inch then stand for an extended pause, ensuring the attraction comes to a full and complete stop. My experienced co-rider, already seated and flush with excitement, instructs me to “keep your arms and legs inside at all times.” My approach is timid, my movement gangly. Unsure of which foot to lead with, I just propel my body forward, crumbling into her side. “Sorry, that’s never happened before.” “You’re fine,” she offers with a comforting tone. A bar is positioned in place. “Is this enough protection?” No response. “Seriously! Is this enough protection?” “Yes, that’s more than adequate,” she counters. My thighs stick to the seat. It feels like we’ve boarded the Wonkatania. No opting out now.
The surrounding external stimuli don’t match my visceral signals from past experiences at the park. There are new, distracting sounds, the majority of which are generated by me, and a familiar but displaced odor reminiscent of funnel cakes. It’s apparent I don’t know where to put my hands. My stomach is in knots. What I’d give for a breath mint. To allay the stress, my attention focuses on how the local sports teams are doing.
With a lurching jolt, I’m whiplashed backwards then ratcheted upwards then rocketed downwards at a precipitous angle. Sweat discolors the armpits of my shirt. Any remnants of a cool demeanor are stripped away as deep cracks form in this thin façade. With closed eyes and clenched teeth, I begin mouthing an invocation, “Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Please God, don’t let me throw up.”
I’m cramping one moment but having an ethereal transcendence the next. It’s disorientating but jubilating at the same time. There’s a tingling sensation running through my groin. I’m finding out where to put my hands. I am becoming one with the ride. Then it ends.
That was phenomenal. Those 90 seconds altered my DNA. Is a minute thirty the norm? Anyway, while regaining my bearings, a grin stretches ear to ear because of the endorphins flooding my blood stream. (Brain to face: “No, you’re welcome.”) My hair is disheveled, my heartbeat is arrhythmic. I need a change of underwear. Although not a smoker, I crave a cigarette. I could use a nap, too. I’m instructed to “Exit to your left.” Unclear of the protocol for disembarking, I high-five my partner before delivering a generic, “Wow, thanks a lot,” then hop out. Can’t wait to relive then embellish then re-relive what just happened.
Contemplating getting back in line for another round is squashed since I gotta get home. Mom’s waiting for me by the front gate, no doubt ready with questions on how things went. She’d freak if she knew what transpired so I’ll be vague with certain details and gloss over the rest.
Carrying the confidence gained from riding the Double Loop that wonderful evening, I tried my luck on other rides in the following years. Some were memorable, others not so much. Some were ridden multiple times. One I thought I’d faithfully ride the rest of my life only to have it stay behind when I moved out of town. There were regretful ones that left me disappointed or in pain and swearing off riding rollercoasters forever. But those feelings subsided. I picked myself up for more tries. It didn’t matter if they were familiar ones at Geauga Lake or new ones at county fairs, Cedar Point or Disney World, I approached each with confidence knowing what to expect and where exactly to put my hands. I owe all this to my inaugural time on the Double Loop. You never forget your first ride.
Shoes.
i tell you this tale,
how shoes became known to us,
not what you have heard.
Long ago a king,
court in iron fist, had a
secret obsession
He was an odd man,
who was lonely and quite sad
in search of a queen
So began the search
a reverse Cinderella:
Find the fairest feet
His subjects hiding
Young women were the victims
No one’s feet were safe
His harem much too full,
The king ordered to search the
Neighboring kingdom
The neighboring king
Heard this news, wanted no war
“Protect all the feet.”
So the neighbor king
A kind man of great riches
Sent out this decree
His men got to work
Crafting all shapes and sizes
New thing called “footwear”
The strategy worked
All his kingdom’s feet were spared
Weird king’s troops retreat
People slept in peace
Maidens’ feet were now free.
Shoes worn ever since
She Plucked my Eyebrows
Imagine the early 2000s. Low-rise jeans, whale tails, and sperm eyebrows. I was only eight years old and was being watched at a friend's house while my parents were-- well, I don't know, somewhere away from me.
My friend's older sister was in her 20s and decided my eyebrows were too bushy. Too big for my tiny, little eight-year-old face. So, you know what that bitch did? She plucked my eyebrows. Thankfully she did not deem me a good candidate for the sperm brow. But, she changed my appearance enough that even my dad noticed. "What happened to your face!?" he asked when I arrived home. Well, while I was out an unhinged young adult unleashed a pair of tweezer on me.
I guess she did fine. I've been plucking my eyebrows in the same shape decided on by my friend's twenty-something-year-old sister for the past twenty one years.
The First Commandment
Moses came down from Mt. Sinai with a single tablet, containing just one Commandment. It was an all-inclusive Commandment, yet it was open to interpretation in the minds of human beings with a history of misinterpretation. As such, self-appointed prelates began to clarify it, subdividing it into corollaries:
The first prelate said, "Well, this commandment certainly means we should never--never!--worship any other god, seeing as our God brought us out of Egypt."
"Ain't dat de trufe," shouted a man without teeth and with only one eye, matching his former friend without teeth and missing an eye of his own.
"Yes," agreed the first prelate, clarifying thusly: "That means no graven images of anything from the air, earth, or water."
"Even mermaids?" asked a man who gnashed his teeth while he still had them.
"Even mermaids!" answered the first prelate. "Are you daft? Our God is a jealous God and won't take kindly to you exalting scaly people. You know how He is--He'll punish us for generations."
"Unless we keep His Commandment...then it'll be sweet!" shouted a woman who hid her "unclean" nature very well.
A second prelate added, "And certainly this one Commandment means no yippin' about the Lord for no good reason."
"God, yeah!" agreed one of the crowd, who forthwith was righteously--and legally--stoned.
"He didn't say that--he said 'Yeah.'"
"We know he said 'Yeah'--not Yahweh. It was when he said, 'God.'"
A second stoning, in rapid succession, ensued in adoration of the Lord.
"See?" pointed out the second prelate. "Happy now?"
"The Sabbath!" shouted a third prelate. "Better not mess with that. No servile work. No fishing. No nothin'. Don't even make your animals do nothin'."
"Agreed," replied the second prelate.
"What about my mother and father?" asked a man with stunted growth. "Look what their sins did to me? Can I skip honoring them, the reprobates?"
A fourth prelate chimed in. "You have to honor them, the scum bags that they are."
"Hey!" shouted three men and one woman defensively, whereupon the three men eyed each other suspiciously and the woman cash her gaze guiltily to the ground.
"What about killing them? I can still honor them if I kill them."
"An honor killing!" agreed another man.
"No!" declared a fifth prelate. "In fact, you can't kill anyone. That would certainly violate the One Commandment."
"I guess if there's no honor killing..."
"Any killing, imbecile!" the fifth prelate reiterated.
"Yes," added another, "no honor killin', then you have to say no adultery."
"Yes," a sixth prelate jumped in. "That would certainly be a dick move." The crowd laughed, even though the prelate didn't get it.
"Can we steal?" asked a young boy, holding the reins of a very fine donkey.
"No. You can't take anything that belongs to a neighbor," said the seventh prelate.
"I guess blaming it on someone else doesn't get you off, then?" asked an old man.
"Not in the eyes of the Lord. Can't lie about that. Did you even read the One Commandment?" an eighth prelate challenged him.
"That's a fine donkey you got there," said a man to the young boy.
"Don't you dare covet my ass," the boy sneered.
"But you stole it!" the man answered.
"Just like you wanna steal my mama," he said.
"Whoa!" shouted a ninth prelate. "Heads up--we're getting smite-worthy by the Lord."
"He bears false witness," the boy accused the man.
"You coveted my donkey, then you stole it," ya l'il connivin' urchin."
"Speaking of asses, what about that female servant of yours. You don't need anyone's donkey with an ass like hers!" The crowd roared.
Moses, the tenth prelate, the most self-appointed one of them all, quited the mob with just the right stern look.
"Fools! All of you!" shouted Moses pontifically. "This One Commandment includes all of that. You're all over-bureaucratizing it. We'd have ten commandments if we collated all of these issues. We just need the One Commandment. OK? It says it all. Shee."
"Read it again!" urged the first prelate.
And Moses did just that:
"Hear me and hear the word of the Lord. Our Lord is not only a jealous God, but a laconic one. One Commandment--terse and succinct; all-encompassing..."
"THOU SHALT NOT BE A DICK."
"Yeah," agreed one of the other prelates. "That really covers it all."
"It really does," agreed another.
"Now everyone go on home now. Break it up. And remember always..."
"Remember what?" asked Joshua.
"For God's sake!" shouted an exasperated man. Then more stones flew.
Mysterious History Of The Earl Of Sandwich...
It was back in the year 1762, in all its decadent glory, that there lived a glorious man known as John Montagu. One day, dearest John encountered an incident in his life, that would change the course of History altogether.
He happened to be enjoying an adventurous game of cards with his friends, and he was a bit too lazy to get up and have dinner. Also, he was too busy enjoying his precious card game with his friends. They were busy laughing, playing and doing things the way guys are likely to at a game of cards.
Given that he did not want to leave the table to go and get something to eat, John Montagu, the 4th Earl Of Sandwich came up with a brilliant idea. Now many of us love a good Deli Sandwich, and this idea of his changed the way we dine forever.
So as things would have it, he did not actually get up from his seat. Instead, he asked someone there, to put a slice of meat between two pieces of bread. Hence, the bread-enclosed treat known as the Sandwich!
The men all got back to their vivacious game, after the Earl finished with his treat!
ASTROLOGY 2.0 (ASSHŌLOGY)
PRESS RELEASE FROM THE INTERNATIONAL ASTROLOGICAL UNION
In response to the scientific community which has successfully propagated the idea that astrology is bullshit, we of the IAU have proposed implementation of a new astrological classification based--not on the Zodiac--but the Blowbac system. That is, what people are, based on how they act and the names given them by others.
This is felt to be more accurate than describing individual Zodiac signs, which label persons as bold, competitive, energetic,...loyal but stubborn...versatile but impatient...passionate but uncommunicative, and the like.
Such vagueness is the very reason for science calling Astrology bogus! Imagine people--not as how they act being predicted (vague and wrong), but how they act, in daily predictions. The accuracy's already there on the front end. Science can go fuck itself.
Thus, Astrology reimagined as Asshōlogy, will again re-establish accuracy to personalities and more aptly predict how people's days will go according to horoscopes (now called "fluoroscopes").
Dates of birth will no longer differentiate person types, but how they act. Herein are the NEW SIGNS, to be used immediately:
Dicks: rude and inconsiderate, but just don't care.
Assholes: usually men--rude, but derive entertainment out of it. Fuck you over just because they can. Two steps above "Dipshits" (see NEXT); one step above "Dicks" (see ABOVE).
Dipshits: always men--rude but clueless; stupidly inconsiderate. Fuck you over and don't even know it.
Losers: not rude, not crude, just clueless. Just fuck themselves over. Over and over.
Shitheads: rude and crude, bringing whole otherwise upstanding families down.
Scumbags: males who are rude, crude, and lewd. Two steps below "Losers."
Skanks: females who are rude, crude, and lewd. Two steps above "Bitches" (see BELOW).
Douchebags: females or males who insist you should act just like they do.
Fucktards: "Assholes" (see ABOVE) who try to fuck you over but can't because they are too fucking feckless to actually be "Assholes" (see ABOVE).
Numbnuts: (singular and plural) — "Fucktards" (see ABOVE) who wouldn't even think of fucking over those who deserve it.
Assclowns: "Scumbags" (see ABOVE) and "Skanks" (see ABOVE) who have ambitions; also, politicians.
Bitches: female "Assholes" (not anatomically, but Asshōlogically). Usually, successful women mislabeled by "Losers" (see ABOVE).
Math can't hurt
you, it's not real.
Imaginary numbers
are literally not real!
I asked my math teacher,
what's a fish without eyes?
I then gave the answer:
"an imaginary fish!" I cried.
Everyone watched her
as her face turned blue.
She woke up and saw an eye doctor,
And then she screamed out, "ICU"!
Life can often be a blur,
clearing mess, so delirious.
So please take a break from work,
because seriously, why so serious?
All the Rage
On Feb. 1rst our young friend Rubric received his ration of sugar for the month. He regretted momentarily that it was not a leap year. Then he dropped one piece into weak tea they were also portioning out amid the family.
Ida spied his sugar, along with their brother, just a year younger than her, Kuba who everyone called Kubby, in short because he was short, stout, and in a word chunky.
This would not do.
The sweet would soon be the source of bitter irritation and argument. The eldest could already hear the surfacing of high pitched, infantile whimpering: I wannnnt somme...
That very night, removing the sugar cubes from the cool dark hiding spot with utmost stealth and precaution, he worked alone in a dim lit corner. With a sharp tannery needle and slender thread, he strung his sugar together, one at a time, 3 x 3. Three times, and he made the sign of the cross each time, for fear of breakage, or of his siblings waking, but mercifully the sugar did not crumble, and everyone slept.
Soon he had three squares of nine. These he ingeniously strung to each other, so that every row rotated left/right and forward/back. The children had, most fortuitously, some salvaged colored papers in a box under the bed. This he swiftly extracted, and soundlessly cut into small squares sized to cover each exposed side of the sugar plane.
He moistened the thin paper with lukewarm water and adhered it by the stickiness of the slightly melted sugar. Red on one side, green on another, then blue, yellow and white would have to suffice for the remaining side.
He set it to dry behind him on the floor and dozed.
In the early hours, with everyone else still turned with their back to him in bed, he was delighted to see that the little papers had stuck, and everything still twisted as intended on the little nylon thread he had strung through with the long piercing needle and knotted off.
The twist of the cubes made a little shuffling noise in the dim light as the sugar crystals scrapped slightly against each other. Ida's eyelashes flittered and a sleepy arm reached out from the mattress, almost touching his sleeve: "Whaaattt is itt?"
"Our new toy," he said and gave the 3 x 3 panels a good twisting left/right, back/ forward, till all the colors were very well mixed up and very visible now in the dawn that was creeping in through the window over their bed, with Kubby still asleep in a clump to her far side. In truth, he wasn't old enough to play. He could, by himself only sleep, eat, and waddle about, and do what two-year old's do terribly best: get into everything.
Ida sat up and took the toy, a flushed look of amazement and joy across her face. She could not remember when they had a new plaything, having been hunkered down here for reasons she could not understand. She did not know what a bomb threat was, except that it was Bad.
They could hear their parents getting readied in the small room adjacent. Mother leaned a head in and gave a wayward smile, thin and hopeful, and went to set out some rations for breakfast. Then Father stood in the door, in his work clothes, and immediately picked up on the novel object. He put out a coarse hand and Ida placed the toy in it without hesitation.
"Well done, son," he said gruffly, and behind the flash in his eyes a calculation. Father knew the value of an idea. "I'll hold on to this."
A mixture of pride and dismay filled the twelve-year-old. He did well, but he'd lost his treasure. And now, as Father walked out with it, Ida wailed inconsolably in tantrum, toddler as she was, even if soon going on four.
It was Kubby who quickly found it.
And Father who found him: sucking on the cube, the colored papers stuck to his cheek and teeth. His fingers a sticky sweet guiltless mess.
Somebody got a whooping.
Father spent the next nights with Rubric reconstructing the toy from wood and paint.
The family made a fortune after the war, and Rubric somewhat made a name for himself, with a little help from Kuba.
06.29.2024
Mysterious History challenge @AJAY9979
Heaven
King Mesfin woke up with red eyes and a sore neck. Out of habit, the first thing he did was, walk to the window and open it. His kingdom slept below...
Wait.
This wasn't his kingdom. Every house and farm was covered with white stuff. It was too fluffy to be snow. Something white floated past his eyes. Mesfin caught it. It felt like cotton. Soapy, wet cotton.
Clouds, he realized.
There was another thing that was bothering him though. Among the mass of clouds, there were new colorful houses and strange people with wings.
The third bothering thing was this. It was morning. The sun was there. But the sky was still dark.
He heard the door to his bedchamber flung open behind him. He turned to find Sir Bahran, Knight of the Sun, and commander of his Imperial Guards, bow low.
"Your majesty," Sir Bahran said. "The sky has fallen."
"Heave on!" King Mesfin shouted. They all followed his words, heaving the clouds—even the angels. King Mesfin liked to think of himself as a man of the people. That was why he was down here, working with everyone.
"Are you sure this will work?" Angel Razrael asked him.
Razrael was scary. He had expected their kind to be beautiful, especially the women. (Yes, angels had sex. He was a witness to this fact.) The Angels' Queen—if he could call her so— however, was really old and had ten horns. At different places on her body. He had asked earlier, and she had said it was a natural phenomenon. Men grow a beard as they grow up; Angels grow horns.
"I bloody hope so," he said, trying to take his eyes off the red horn on Razrael's nose. "Has anyone told you that you could be descended from a rhinoceros?"
"Excuse me."
"Never mind. Heave!" And they heaved.
Everyone in Lapita, Mesfin's capital city, including the angels, was trying to lift the clouds a few inches up from the ground. Mesfin's theory was that once a little way up, as clouds are lighter than wind, they would be easier to push. So would all the angel's houses on top of them.
"Master musician!" he called. "Sing us something, please. Something to aid our work."
The one-eyed royal musician—whose name Mesfin tried to memorize a lot of times, but always failed—bowed, cleared his throat, and began to sing. Soon the king was clapping with his subjects.
This is why they love me, he thought. I am one of them.
Now that he noticed, none of the angels were joining them. They had also stopped working.
"What is this shit?" Razrael asked.
Mesfin took his hands off the cloud and looked at her, confused.
"Music," he said. "It's called music. M-u-s..."
Razrael laughed. Her teeth were yellow. When she finished, she signalled an Angel a few feet to the right. This one had no horns on his body.
"Show them what music is." Razrael patted the new angel on the back. "Give them a freestyle." Then she started doing things with her mouth. Things that made Mesfin want to jump and dance.
The new angel began to speak really fast. It was so fast King Mesfin couldn't make out most of what he was saying. But it had rhythm like no other rhythm he had heard before. He realized his feet were kicking the floor. With that same rhythm.
King Mesfin tried to listen to the Angel's words.
"Heave-on..." Something. Something. "Heave-on..." Something. Something. "heavan...." Something. "heaven..."
While the angel was still singing—if that was what he was doing—King Mesfin returned his hands to the cloud.
"Heave on," he shouted. Everyone heaved.
This time the cloud moved.
It was another morning. King Mesfin was back in his bedchamber, looking out the window. The sky was back in its place.
"Where do you reckon the angles went?" Sir Bahran asked him from behind.
"I don't reckon. I know where they went." King Mesfin said. "There is this place called Heaven."
Potholder: A Love Story
Once upon Ye Olde English heath, as the door to her cottage swung open, Hildegard smelled burning. Her husband’s boot had crossed the threshold, he would expect dinner, and he would not want it to be burned.
Hildegard rushed to the hearth. She grabbed the dangling pot of stew and instantly, agonizingly, the metal seared her palms.
“Zounds!” she cried.
“Woman!” her husband remonstrated.
“Zounds, it hurts!”
“Hold thy foul tongue!” her husband roared. “Thou wilt not blaspheme in my house!” (For zounds, dear reader, derived from God’s wounds, a reference to the crucifixion of Christ, and to employ the torture of one’s Lord and Savior as an epithet was as shocking to a pious old Englishman as the lyrics of NWA would prove to his descendants' erstwhile colonists 400 years after.)
“But it hurts!” Hildegard cried. “Thy stew burneth, and the metal hath proved too hot for my tender hands!”
“Stow thy pitiful excuses!” her husband retorted. “Find thyself a godlier path, or never again look me in the face!”
Hildegard departed. She wept even after she treated her second degree burns at the home of a crone who practiced homeopathic medicine, for Hildegard loved her husband, for some reason, or at least loved having a roof over her head to escape the goddamned English rain. To keep her husband roof husband, she needed aid, so Hildegard set out to a person who could set her on a godly path.
“Woman, why dost thou weep?” the Archbishop of Canterbury asked.
“Forgive me bishop,” Hildegard answered. “I hath displeased my husband.”
“How?”
“With an ill word.”
“What ill word did thee speakest?”
Hildegard hesitated. “I said, Zounds, your bishopness.”
“Jesus,” said the Archbishop of Canterbury, “that’s fucking awful word. Why wouldst thou say such a thing?”
“I burned my hands, your bishopness. On a pot. Heaven help me, if I don’t find a safer way to hold a pot, I might blaspheme again, and my husband will disown me. Is there any hope for such a disgraced wench as me?”
“Let us pray.”
And Hildegard and the Archbishop knelt and prayed, and, i dunno, burned frankincense or something, and lo, the Holy Ghost sent them down a dove, which carried in its beak a thickly woven fabric, and they gave thanks to the Lord.
“Almighty God,” asked the Archbishop of Canterbury, “what wouldst You, in Your Infinite Wisdom, have us call this thickly woven fabric with which to hold pots?”
The candles flared, the stones of the cathedral shook, the Archbishop wet himself, and a voice from the heavens boomed, “A potholder.”
And so Hildegard carried the potholder home, and gave knowledge of it unto other women, and prepared many delicious stews without burning her hands, which meant she never again said the unforgiveable zounds, which meant her husband loved her, five times a week whether she were in the mood or not, and she bore many children and had a roof over her head to protect her from the goddamned English rain, and they all lived happilyish ever after until the plague destroyed their bodies and minds.
The End.