After I got the results from a blood-work physical, my wife read it, said, "I'm jealous! For someone as overweight as you are, your lipids are great!"
"Um...thanks."
Talk about a back-handed compliment.
Of course I had no idea what a "lipid" was.Willy Wonka's assistant or something.
A little research told me lipids are "fatty acids."
Does that sound healthy to you? Only acid I know is LSD or stuff that burns your face off in crappy horror movies.
I suppose there're worse things.
Recently, I turned 56. How--when--did that happen? For Gawd's sake, I still feel youthful. Sort of. I mean, there're the knee aches, multiple trips to the john at night, screaming at kids to stay outta' my yard. Strange spots showing up on my skin. I prefer not to think about those.
I suppose I'm no longer considered "hip," and frankly, anyone who uses that term (as pointed out by my daughter) is decidedly un-hip. Only "hip" here is gonna be thrown out when I fall down.
Bah.
Damn kids, what do they know?
Recently, my awesome mother-in-law sent us a post-holiday card. Within it was a personalized message to me.
"Stuart," it read, "you better start practicing your Sex--will expect entertainment in the nursing home."
Huh.
After I rolled my tongue up off the floor and tucked it back into my mouth, I reread the card. Yep. Same thing.
What the...
The ramifications of her note were mind-boggling. And not even a bit cryptic. Kinda an order from her.
Which begs the question: what in the world have my wife and her mom been talking about? Furthermore, what does my mother-in-law mean by "practice?" Surely, she can't be advocating more masturbation, right? I mean, I don't want to go blind or grow lycanthropically hairy palms.
I suppose I could use a little boning up on my sex technique. But honestly, I'd rather not hear it from my mother-in-law.
And what kind of nursing home are we talking about here where sex is used to entertain the crowd? I imagine the facility has quite a long waiting list. (I'd better get signed up now.)
After the fireworks in my head died out, I took a closer look at the note. "Stuart," it read a bit differently this time, "you better start practicing your Sax..."
Ooooooohhhhhhh...... Okay. That's a bit better.
Speaking of things better not thought about for the sake of humanity, have you heard the one about the male stripper and his detective sister? No? Well, you're late to the party! Click here already!
So, over the holidays, I'm sitting with my wife's family in Oklahoma. Around the dinner table where all the best conversations take place.
This wasn't one of them...
We're talking about our various scars and childhood mishaps.
My wife asks where I got the scar on my forehead.
"What?" I protest. "I don't have a scar on my forehead!"
"Yes, you do," she insists.
Everyone's now studying my forehead as I bubble into a red ball of scrutiny. "Um, no I don't. Man, it sure is cold outside, isn't--"
"Then what caused that dent in your forehead?"
Again all eyes turn to me. "Oh for... I don't have a dent in my forehead!"
"It's there...right in the middle." She taps her forehead. The ball has been lobbed back to me. As in a tennis match, the rest of the family members swing their heads back and forth, anticipating the outcome. Probably won't be a score of "love."
"No it's not! I don't have a--"
"Then why is your forehead dented? I thought you told me you had a childhood accident."
Flustered, I start babbling. "Okay, I did have a couple childhood accidents. One on my knee, another on my chin. But I don't have a dented forehead. I don't have, nor have I ever had a scar on my forehead. And there wasn't some traumatic childhood accident that my parents covered up in a conspiracy to keep me from turning into a serial killer or anything like--"
"There it is!" My wife leans across the table, squinting now. "If you didn't have an accident, what's that dent from?"
"I don't know," I scream, hands up. "Intensity, I guess!"
And I think it's dinners like this that put the dent in my forehead (which I still don't believe I have).
For even more intensity (the non-denting kind, natch), check out my suspense thriller, Dread and Breakfast.
Not too long ago my wife and I went to the new Star Wars movie. (Okay, let's get this outta the way... I know the Star Wars fanboys are up in arms over the movie and for the life of me, I can't figure out why. It's a Star Wars movie! You get lots and lots of The Force, good guys, bad guys, explosions, chases, laser fights, battles, betrayals, heroic stuff, aliens, silly haircuts, even sillier sets... You know... Star Wars! I was neither thrilled by nor angry at the movie. It is what it is and it is perfectly mediocre.)
What did thrill me, however, was the prospect of seeing The Last Jedi in super-amazo MX4D!
"Bonus! What in God's name is MX4D?" I ask the ticketeer.
"It's the newest evolution in the 4D cinema experience where you actually “feel” the movie," the Ticket Master recites in a bland voice. "Enjoy the magic of the movies."
(At the B&B theater chain, I believe employees are required by law to say that last bit about the magic of the movies. Too bad they never conjure any magic in their tone. But I suppose magic is sorely lacking in minimum wage jobs.)
However, the magic-loving Ticket Holder still hadn't answered my question. "So...we 'feel' the movie?" I reiterate.
"That's right, sir."
I sorely want to ask the Ticket Fairy how this MX4D process works for a porn movie, but I know my wife won't approve.
Regardless, we roll the dice, take a chance. My wife shrugs, says, "Let's do it. Something different."
"Okay! Two tickets, please."
"Alright..." the ticket girl intones. "Two senior tickets."
"Um, not yet," I say. "We still have several years before--"
"That'll be $34.00," she responds. "Enjoy the magic of the--"
"What theater?"
We pay the outrageous price. I figure even if we're not senior citizens yet, I can't imagine how much the "regular citizens" tickets cost. Some damn movie magic at work there.
We settle into our strange, hard, uncomfortably plastic seats. Put our feet onto the raised platform. I look for a seat-belt, but can't find one, and resign myself to sitting in this awful bucket for three hours.
The usual pre-advertisements (bah! You whippersnappers remember when they didn't show commercials at the movies? Maybe I deserve my senior citizen discount.) run their course as do the endless trailers. Then the screen hits us with more warnings than a Viagra ad.
"Warning," a solemn voice admonishes, "if you're pregnant, sick, old, or near death; if you have a bad back, neck, or any open sores; if you haven't been to the restroom in over an hour; if you're prone to fainting, psychadelically freaking out, or screaming at vicious strobe lights; if you're the litigious sort, than the MX4D experience is not for you. We'd advise you to leave right now and the theatre staff will try not to shame you. Now, sit back and enjoy the magic of the movies."
I whisper to my wife, "What strange magic have we fallen prey to?"
The movie starts. So far, so good as the friendly and familiar Star Wars scrawl trawls off into space. Then...BOOM!
Over the next three hours, we're tipped and dipped, battered by mechanical punches to the butt and back, and have water and cold wind blasted at our faces. With all the smoke on hand in the movie, we're subjected to a smoke scent that smells more like plastic. Snow is dropped. Fog rolls out. And we experience what a small, drunken alien's breath is like.
It truly is the magic of the movies! Yet, oddly enough, all of the movement seems just a beat late for the on-screen action to the point of distraction.
One good thing? If you're ever constipated, the MX4D experience will loosen those bowels. Kinda like being strapped onto an industrial-sized paint-shaker for three hours.
Magic!
For even more magic, check out Peculiar County...
