There Can Be Only One

Insomnia

The other night I had insomnia

The other night I had insomnia. My mistress couldn’t get the dildo with the suction cup to stick on the side of the tub. Banging away at it (no pun, swear) she kept ramming it (sorry, damn adjectives) into the side of the tub. I gently instructed her that, much like the real thing, she would have to lick the end in order for it to get sticky. She made a face and adamantly told me she doesn’t like performing rusty trombones, which I know to be the contrary.

Anyway, overcome with awakenings I stumbled to the computer. Where else does one go? For several months of I have been living undercover in the town of Believe, Maine. I have recently joined the CIA, the details of my interview process of which I will outline later. Initially I worked at Subway® trying to blend in with the local culture but I believe my choice of mustache style gave me away; I haven’t mentioned it to my superiors.  Several spectacles dominate the area – some mystical, some mundane.

In the mundane arena is the Squash Speedway, dominating the region with pseudo-NASCAR entertainment. Sightings of moose, the large forbidding creatures shaggy and formidable, as well as elusive are the most sought out. This was communicated to me in the Solresol language as established by François Sudre in 1827 that nobody speaks anymore. Obscurity and national security seem to go hand in hand, yes??

the....screaming

Moving into such a small community, though I am unable to tell the reason, nay can I fathom the reason, there are inevitably some cultural norms to become accustomed. One of these is walking in the middle of the street when there are clear sidewalks. Though in my previous assignment, West Denver, the practitioners of this were gang members looking to assert their presence and position.

“Yes mutherfucker, I see you in you eyein’ me in your tricked out Dodge Neon with your baby mama walkin’ down the street neck tattoo and all.” And so forth. There is also another custom that escapes me – parking on the lawn.

So, one must get as close to the door of their domicile as possible without actually hitting the door? I see. Would it be too much to assume that the training of any children would be as an automobile mechanic. That they may go and check the vitals on the machine parked on their lawn. Stealing hub caps would be a secondary task.

Speaking of beloved offspring, they seem to have adopted a primal tradition of not only traveling in swarms but screaming. I know I am getting on in years, barely meandering in my thirties, but when they have a yard sale I need not go outside. The screaming advertisements reach my spine as I relax on the couch with my many minions. Feeling like W.C. Fields, settling in with my second martini, his hatred for children comes to mind.

Before we left my last assignment my wife, knowing we would move to Maine, sought to tell all in sundry that she would be within reach of a former lover. This reach was always to be paramount every two years and consummated regardless of relationship status. This anecdote was communicated to all her friends in front of me. At first I really didn’t care, but then I asked her of what import it held that she need tell it upon every opportunity. She informed me that these boundaries needed to be established. I have been forbidden to discuss nay speak of my previous relationships and liaisons as  such since our vows.  My maturity level seems to surpass my wife’s as I would have us become a polyamorous couple and be upfront with these whimsical delights and fanciful pursuits, rather than shelter them in the dark. Speaking of all temptations, ravishings and subscriptions of attraction there are, than to hide them away in the semblance of a obsolete propriety.

Please visit the Impropriety Society if you happen to be in California. Their website is: http://www.humboldtimps.com.

The lesson, kids, is to embrace that which brings you pleasure so that it does not hurt another. Not to hide it in the cellar, crying out for it inside your chest. No heaving the wanton desire in your breast until you burn. Do what you wish, though it should hurt no other.

Until next time.

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