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.
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.
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).
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
Enquire Within Upon Everything ...
On my last day in Geneva I’m visiting the Mecca of Science, CERN. I book the ride via Uber app, from the hotel, and make a quick video call to my family. On the move, I doom scroll the news feed, catch up on email, and then back to doom scrolling.
After admission to the visitor’s centre, I plunge into the exhibits of the Large Hadron Collider, the Antimatter, and the Higgs boson for a couple of enlightened hours.
Then, a small black computer catches my eye. A keyboard leans against it and a mouse hangs at the front. A note, partially obscured at the edges as if someone had tried ripping it off but didn’t succeed, reads: ‘This machine is a server. DO NOT POWER DOWN!!’ Next to it, is a project proposal with a note scrawled in its top margin: ‘Vague but exciting …’
On a reflex, I reach out and touch the glass enclosure expecting an alarm to go off. What happens, instead, like a strong eddy, the room swirls, causing me to grab the exhibit’s pedestal.
Unknown many moments later, the churning stops. There are voices in the room, which itself has turned antiquated. I steady myself and look around to notice two men in conversation, unaware of my presence even as I approach and greet them. Spread on a circular table between them, among coffee cups, is the same document from the exhibit while the computer is on a desk behind one of them who has his back towards me. He is speaking with a British accent. The computer, a perfect cube, is brand new and I recognize it as NeXT, one of Jobs’ creations after he was fired from Apple.
“All I need, Mike” the Brit says, “are four software engineers and a programmer-”
“And fifty thousand dollars!” interrupts the other.
“Well, yes … but this will change everything. You wouldn’t have to ask where the documents for a project are, or chase who wrote this piece of code-”
“So, you do see why I scribbled ‘vague but exciting’ on your proposal, don’t you?”
“I’m glad you found it exciting” the British one jokes, “as for the vague part, let’s imagine every piece of information around the world, linked to each other like a mesh”
He locks his fingers in demonstration. His opponent crosses his arms instead:
“Understood! I hope that shiny new computer will suffice” Mike points to NeXT.
“That will do, thanks!”
“Excellent. Send a requisition for the team you need for my approval. By the way, I hear you’re calling it ‘Enquire Within Upon Everything’? Isn’t that a book?”
The Englishman laughs. “Yes, the title evokes magic. For me, as a child, the book was a portal to a world of information-”
“Not catchy enough!” declares Mike.
“How about WorldWideWeb then?”
“Cheerio mate!”
Gobsmacked, I notice the calendar on the wall. It’s November 12th, 1990 and there’s no mistaking the creation of the internet by its father, Sir Timothy John Berners-Lee.
We All Need to Work
Anubis watched as his father, Osiris, watered the fields with a simple wave of his finger. Seated on his golden throne, cushioned by a blue linen pillow, he glanced across where Isis scribbled her magical enchantments on papyrus. Nature sprouted through the window in front of her overlooking the fields of Aaru, while Seth patrolled the sandy terrain with his staff.
“Dear, shouldn’t you find a hobby too?” Isis inquired, noticing his gaze.
“I don’t want a hobby, I want a profession like all of you,” Anubis replied.
“Well, son, one must remember to be responsible and consistent in their work. Once you’ve chosen a job, you can’t back out, and you’ll have to wake up early. You know your brother Horus’s watchful gaze won’t forgive you if you break your word,” said Isis.
“I know, I know, but I want to feel useful. I’ll come up with something, you’ll see,” Anubis said, glancing at the screen displaying humans on Earth, particularly Pharaoh Horus Scorpion savoring baklava, honey slowly flowing from his lips, eager to explore the outside world.
“I’ve had an idea! What if we pretend they cease to exist? Just to make the experience more exciting. They can return as if they’ve been revived, after a purifying process, with new identities and all that stuff, of course,” Anubis suggested.
“But Anubis, death doesn’t exist. Souls are eternal,” said Osiris.
“I know, but let’s simulate it. I could manage that process, you know? Oh, and we could even make up a story about ourselves to add more drama—say, my uncle Seth kills my father for the throne, and we revive him. Something like that,” Anubis continued.
It was a sunny morning in the Field of Reeds, and river lilies crackled with light when Horus approached Anubis, whose jackal ears twitched as he slept.
“You slacker, what’s happening with your job?!” Horus said, not even trying to whisper.
“W-What are you talking about? Nothing’s wrong, everything’s up to date,” Anubis said, rubbing his large, slanted eyes.
“Up to date?! What do you have to say about this almost thousand-year-old Methuselah, eh?” Horus inquired.
“Oops,” Anubis swallowed nervously, realizing that the business of death was more convoluted than he initially thought.
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!
The Pencil
“Hey, can I borrow a pencil?”
I’m sitting in my 10th-grade Chemistry class when I speak those fated words. We’re about to take a test, one of those scantron things that have to be filled out in No. 2 pencil only, and I can’t find my pencil anywhere. I lean over to the kid sitting next to me. Tom Peli-something. He’s a bit weird, and I’ve never really spoken to him much before, but I’m desperate, and this kid’s always prepared.
“Sure.” Tom pulls another pencil out of his backpack. Before he hands it to me, he holds it up between us. “Just so you know, it’s haunted.”
“What?” Did I just hear what I think I heard? I knew the kid was weird, but what the hell?
Mrs. Conway’s sharp voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “Put everything away except for your pencils and erasers. I will not pass out the test until everything is away and the room is quiet. And you will need the entire class period for this test.”
After a few more whispers and shuffles of books and other materials, the class grows quiet. Tom is still holding the pencil between us.
“Whatever, I’ll take it,” I say, grabbing the pencil out of his hand.
Tom just shrugs. “Okay. I warned you.”
Mrs. Conway hands out the test, and I get to work filling in the little bubbles for what I hope are the right answers.
C. Hydrochloric Acid
A. Carbon Dioxide
B. 18 Electrons
C. Hydro—
“Of all the things you could do with a pencil, and you’re just filling in those little bubbles?”
I look up at the sound of the small voice. It sounds like the speaker is right in front of me, but there’s no one there. I look around, but no one else seems to have heard the voice. Confused, I return to reading the next question.
If a sample of matter is uniform throughout and cannot be separated into other substances by physical means—
“I’m not complaining, really. It’s just that there are so many other things you could use me for.”
Again, I look up, but there’s no one there. I glance over at Tom, but he is focusing on his test. I scan the room, looking for any sign that someone else heard the voice, but all of my classmates have their eyes on their test.
“Do you need something, Mr. Speero?” Mrs. Conway is at her desk, glaring a warning at me over her glasses.
“No, Mrs. Conway,” I answer quickly and try to get back to my test.
But when I pick up my pencil to fill in the next bubble, I notice something on the eraser. Something sitting on the eraser.
“I mean, you could doodle, or even sketch a masterpiece!” the thing says. “You could write a story or a letter. Even an essay would be better than this!”
I gasp and drop the pencil on my desk, drawing the attention of several of my classmates and my teacher.
“Mr. Speero! Is there a problem?”
“Um, can I go to the bathroom?”
Mrs. Conway looks at me sternly and then rolls her eyes. “Fine. But don’t dawdle, or I might suspect you are up to something.”
I just nod at her, stealthily grab the pencil, stuff it in my pocket, and walk out of the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see Tom smirking at me as I leave.
When I make it to the bathroom, I pull the pencil out of my pocket and stare at it. It looks like an ordinary pencil – yellow except for the black lettering spelling out the brand name and a number 2, with a dull, lead point on one end and a pink eraser held in place by its metal holder.
Suddenly, the eraser begins to morph. Two little arms stick out and grab the edge of the eraser, and soon a head appears. The little thing pulls itself all the way out as if he were pulling himself out of a hole. When his entire body emerges, he sits down on the edge of the eraser and looks at me thoughtfully.
I stare back at him in fascination. He looks like a fully grown man, but he can’t be more than half an inch tall, and he’s entirely white, though slightly transparent. He’s wearing an equally white, equally transparent outfit consisting of khakis, a collared shirt, and a sweater vest, and on his nose sits a pair of wire-framed glasses.
“What are you?”
The little man shrugged. “Ghost, ghoul, poltergeist. Call me whatever you like; I’m not picky.”
“Tom was telling the truth?”
“He usually does. One of the reasons most people think he’s kind of weird.”
“So, do you, like, belong to him?”
The ghost looks indignant. “I don’t belong to anyone! Tom just happens to be the current keeper of the pencil that I haunt. Or, at least he was. Now, that honor has been passed to you!”
“What? Because I borrowed the pencil?”
“Yes!” the little ghost says excitedly. “And now you get the benefit of my great wisdom!”
“Look, I just needed a pencil to take this stupid Chem test.” Then an idea hit me. “Wait, the benefit of your wisdom? Does that mean you can help me on my test?”
He sighs. “I suppose I can. But I wouldn’t be much help. The sciences are all well and good, but they don’t hold the pure passion and depth of literature or art. If you really want to put me to work, set me loose on an analysis of Shakespeare or a short story about the futile pursuit of love. I was a writer, painter, and professor of art and literature in a past life, you see.”
“Of course you were,” I mutter. “Look, I gotta get back to finish the test or Mrs. Conway will fail me for suspected cheating. Sorry, but I don’t have any use for a haunted pencil. Tom can have you back.”
“Wait!” the little man shouts at me as I exit the bathroom. “I can make myself useful! I can! I’m intelligent and ambitious. Together, we can really go places!”
“Not interested.”
“Please, don’t give me back to that idiotic boy!” the ghost begs. “I cannot stand that imbecile!”
Getting tired of the little ghost’s whining, I shove the pencil into the pocket of my jeans, but that doesn’t shut him up. His muffled voice stays with me all the way down the hall from the bathroom to my chemistry class.
“You don’t know what it’s like! He’s had my pencil for four years, and I don’t think I can take it a day longer. Please! Don’t give it back to him!”
His pleas are starting to wear on me, and I consider giving in and just keeping the pencil for the sake of the little whiny ghost professor, but when I enter my classroom, I come face to face with Mrs. Conway.
“Are you ready to take your test now, Mr. Speero?”
“Um, actually, I need a pencil.” Her raised eyebrow tells me that she doesn’t quite believe me, but she still leads me to her desk, pulls a sharpened pencil from her drawer, and hands it to me.
“Anything else?”
“No, Mrs. Conway. Thank you.”
I walk silently to my desk as Mrs. Conway sits down at hers. The little professor is still yammering away in my pocket, making my next decision easier. I pull the haunted pencil from my pocket and hold it out to Tom.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I whisper.
Tom looks up from his desk and glances at me and then the pencil. The little professor is now on his knees on top of the eraser, his hands clasped as he pleads with me. “Don’t do it! I’m begging you! I’ll do anything! I’ll—”
Tom shrugs and reaches for the pencil. The instant Tom takes the pencil from my hand, the ghost disappears, and I can no longer hear him.
Tom smiles down at the pencil. “Hello again,” he whispers to it before sliding it back into his backpack. Then, he goes back to his test without another word.
Trying to shake the memory of the tiny ghost from my mind, I do the same.
Which element below has the highest electronegativity?
A Tale of Tails and Tailing
When I was a young boy, about four years old, I was quite the precocious little bugger and a budding ladies man to boot. My mom had a couple of friends with daughters my age. Occasionally one of them would come over with their daughter, and I had a playmate for the afternoon. It's funny, but the only game I remember playing was I'll show you my tail if you show me yours. Lack of vocabulary was the reason I called my thing a tail. Lack of experience was the reason I thought girls had some kind of tail too. But I learned fast. The strange thing was, even after learning, it was still fun to play. One time, one of the girls showed me how she could stand and pee like a boy from her non-tail. Boy was I impressed! In any event, somehow, all of our moms found out about our secret game. After that, whenever I played with one of the girls, my older brother was tasked with keeping an eye on us and letting our moms know if we played the tail game. That's why they now call what my brother did tailing. It's also the start of the modern surveillance state.
In Touch With Your Feminine Side?
I take my historical accounts seriously. But that doesn't mean the mysterious--but true--one I tell here isn't funny. Is it the funniest? Hmm...
...maybe to half the world's population!
The male gender has been enamored by the penis since anti-Müllerian hormone (AMH) caused his(?) Müllerian ducts, fallopian tubes, and uterus to regress, allowing the male fetus to progress, instead of the otherwise default, female.
Thus, the default--our steady state--is female. Left alone, the fetal human would always end up female. It takes extra effort--actual meddling--to chisel a male out of it. ("If it ain't broke...?)
Yet, in the real world--for too long, and finally changing--it was a Man's world. Women were second-class citizens. So is it any wonder that, as the proud males of our species thought of their penises as "mighty swords," that they would think of the act of copulation as placing such mighty swords where they belonged--sheathed for safekeeping?
Thus, the word, "vagina," comes from the Latin, for "sheath."
But no matter how masculine that makes a man feel, he should never forget that all men start out as women. Just sayin'.