Irrelevant Cheetah

A permanent fixture in American life in general and public restrooms in particular seems to be the graffiti. For as long as I can remember, I have been privy to information – while relieving myself - about not only certain individuals, but also about whole social and racial groups in their entirety. I have also, during the course of my reading, developed enough forensic abilities in deciphering the oft-cryptic scripts to enable me to get a job at CSI: Miami.

I can read all about Mary Jo and Sarah, if I choose. (It seems the former is very good at some things, but not at others, while the latter will do certain things if you call her.) On another sector of the stall I can learn that those of the Hebrew persuasion are all of questionable parentage, while the “Crips” and the “Bloods” are obviously going to have a battle of some kind, since both are reputed to “rule forever.” It also seems that each particular stall is frequented by homosexual males, many of whom offer to meet with the reader at a certain time on a certain day – a questionable tactic, it seems to me, in this age of sexually transmitted diseases.

I have always wondered as I sit there perusing these endless streams of information: is the women’s restroom as interesting a read? I think it must be so, but a part of me has always held that women are infinitely more ‘classy’ than men (especially hormone-drenched teenage boys) and thus women would tend to keep their bathrooms clean and graffiti-free.

So rather than investigate for myself and risk arrest or bodily injury, I did what any sensible person would do: I asked my wife. Her answer? Women are most definitely not more classy than men. Graffiti also covers the women’s restroom. Next, I asked her about the subject matter, to which she replied that women can also read about certain individuals. A certain boy may be “cute,” while another may resemble certain anatomical parts, perhaps because said boy was unfaithful to the writer of the missive. Other messages concern eternal pairings, such as in “X and Y forever.” I didn’t ask about social or economic groups, but I assume that there are messages about them as well.

I’m not sure what I learned here. I do know that the reading helps pass the time, and I have often wondered what the reaction would be were I to print the whole of Moby Dick or Jabberwocky on the wall.

I would probably learn that Ahab was gay, and the Jabberwocky will meet you here at 7 PM Saturday.

Well, Christmas is out of the way. Now if I can just get through New Year’s Eve. This should be fairly easy, since I plan to stay home, perhaps have a few adult beverages, and then go to bed long before the Baby New Year makes its inevitable arrival. I have long passed the stage where I felt it was necessary to stay up until midnight, imbibe heavily and then pass out and sleep New Year’s Day away.

I am thinking of suggesting to somebody (I don’t know who, just somebody) that we have Christmas in June. The reason for this is selfish, yet simple: I am always broke in December, and fairly solvent in June. Therefore, so nobody feels slighted because I can’t afford gifts, I would like to hold Christmas at a more economically convenient time.

I realize this may inconvenience some others, but after all, I’m not worried about them. Or, actually, I am worried about them, which is the reason I am requesting the change in the first place. I also feel Santa would more fully enjoy having Christmas in June, since the North Pole is warm and light that time of year, and nobody likes getting ready in the dark.

Perhaps I should start a petition.

“Yes? May I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m here about the ad.”
“Oh, yes. The ad. So, you want to be a cobbler, eh?”
“Well, I was wondering…”
“Yes?”
“What the $@^% is a cobbler, anyway?”
“Shoes. We make shoes.”
“Shoes?”
“Shoes.”
“But there’s a crane in the yard. If you make shoes, why do you need a crane?”
“Well, we’ve got some big clients.”
“Really.”
“Yup. The Jolly Green Giant? Goes nowhere else.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And now our latest client…”
“Do tell.”
“Well, she’s a devout Catholic.”
“And?”
“Well, she’s got a lot of kids, and quite frankly, she’s outgrown her loafer.”
“She lives in a loafer?”
“Well, that’s just it. It’s a big loafer, but she has so many kids, she doesn’t know what to do, so she’s looking to get into something bigger.”
“So, obviously, she calls the local shoemaker.”
“You’ve got it! And we’re a little swamped right now, what with Humpty Dumpty breaking his foot in that fall, and Jack Sprat’s wife outgrowing her latest pair of slippers again, so we thought we’d look for some extra help. And here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“So does it sound like something you’d be interested in? It’s good pay and benefits, and the hours are good.”
“Well, I’m not sure I’m ready to be making shoes with heavy equipment. I saw another ad for pie-baker for Jack Horner, Inc. I think I’ll try them out.”
“Suit yourself. Do you like plums?”
“Plums? Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Good luck!”

So Pinhole inspired me
To try out my hand
At writing a poem
(I know it’s not grand)

But this is the season
When poems are hot
‘Twas the Night Before Christmas
And all of that rot

So maybe if I
Can write something with flair
People might sit up,
Take notice and stare

But a story’s what’s missing
I don’t have a plot
(Which is the case with my writing
More often than not)

I won’t write about fat guys
Or reindeer that fly
Those things have been done
Their time has gone by

I could write about Christmas
Or oboes or Brie
I could write about penguins
Who yearn to be free

But none of those things
Get my juices to flowing
The page remains blank
My boredom plateauing

So what, you may ask,
Are my plans? What to write?
I do have a goal
To have words to recite

But it seems that I’ve managed
To do it again
There’s no story in sight
Much to my chagrin

If you’ve read this far
Than for you I have pity
There’s about as much thrill here
As a finance committee

But read it you have
And for that I give thanks
That means more to me
Than a handful of francs

So please leave a comment
If you like what you’ve read
Or even if you didn’t
(I don’t need a swelled head)

I was sitting around the other night, pondering death, mortality and other cheery subjects, when I realized: I don’t want to die on the crapper.

I mean, it’s a damned embarrassing way to be found, isn’t it? There you are, straining, when you strain too hard and burst a blood vessel in your head. Two hours later, somebody finds you with your pants around your ankles and a wad of toilet paper in your hand. I’m sure it happens more often than you think, but I wouldn’t want it to be me. Me? If I had my druthers, I’d want to be found sitting peacefully, a beer in one hand and a book in the other. That is, if I don’t buy the farm rescuing fifteen helpless orphans from the burning wreckage of a school bus.

And then there comes the disposal question. How do you want your remains to spend eternity? In a pine box? In an urn on somebody’s mantel? I feel I have to defer to George Carlin here – I want to be blown up. Just stuff ten pounds of TNT into my gut, light the fuse and drop me over a stretch of uncharted wilderness somewhere. From dust, to dust, or something like that. Bear chow – that’s me.

I know, it’s not particularly cheery, especially around this time of year. But these thoughts do arise, don’t they? It doesn’t mean they’re any less valid, does it? What do you think?

I think it’s time to end our little affair. At the risk of sounding cliché: It’s not you, it’s me. Really. I have tried and tried to understand why it is that you continue to contact me when I have repeatedly made it clear that I no longer wish to spend time with you.

Since I don’t understand why you persist, let me tell you this and get the guilt off of my chest. You see, you’re not the only utility person in my life. There are not one, not two, but three others that I spend time with. And every month, I can only correspond with one or two of you, and not all three. So do you know what I do?

I flip a coin. Cruel as it is, it is the only way I can divvy up my resources. And the problem is that someone always gets neglected, and someone always gets hurt. And that someone ends up sending me a nasty letter, and then I scramble to make up for the neglect.

Well, I can’t put myself through that any longer. The guilt has been too much for me to bear. You deserve someone better – someone who will never ignore you, someone who will give you the attention you deserve, each and every month.

I understand if this upsets you. Hell, it’s tearing me apart, and I’m the one breaking up with you. So in order to let bygones be bygones, and to ensure that we part as friends, I’ll let you leave your goods and services here, where I promise to take care of them and make them useful. It’s the least I can do.

So go, be free. I hope you find true happiness, I really do. Remember me with fondness, dear one.

With love,

wolf