Monkey see, monkey write
Dahlings, you never fail to delight me with your responsiveness. And indeed the response has been so great, I must warn you that today’s entry might prove like those counts-as-2-choices items in the BMG catalog: I might not blog till Wednesday. That said, it gives me great pride to announce that Wedding Date was the first to accept the food-for-words challenge today:
And the lucky man is ...
But enough about the contest. You want to meet my date! I have to say, Poster Boy did quite well by me. He even found a military man! And that makes Wedding Date — what? (counts on fingers: Sgt. Ex-sessories, Invisible Ma(ri)n(e) ... the one whose friend sang “Poop in a Jar” ... the one I knit slippers for during Gulf War I, Geezer #2, Global Crossings Guy, the Captain, the Politician) ... The ninth military man to enter my “love life”! And as the faithful reader he is, Poster Boy’s really got my taste in men figured out: the boy is even blond!*
But yes, really: boy (don’t hate me, Wedding Date). It’s not that I discriminate with men I date (considering Geriatric Gent’s impressive age), but perusing the list at right reveals the average age difference is usually 6-7 years older. There has been one exception, though: Monkey Toes, the Hand-Holder.
Enter Monkey Toes
Monkey Toes (incidentally, his self-description for them) dates to the fall of 2001, when I was still pining over the O-zone King. In fact, one night when I ran into Monkey Toes, I’d just bought myself consolation: an Urban Outfitters sock monkey (now stationed on Vitamin Guard duty). Monkey Toes was working, in those days, at the local Starbucks (gasp: Wedding Date, didn’t you once also work there?!!). But I swear that had nothing to do with my crush.
For (slight) feelings of liking there were indeed, age difference or not (he was 21 to my then-23). Monkey Toes was that rare thing, the alt-Christian — and a homeschooled alt-Christian at that.** I’m not one to make too much of such things, but it’s pretty cool when someone actually shares your admittedly-obscure educational background. For all the ground it’s gained lately, homeschooling was still pretty radical when my mom started in back in, um, ’83 (?!!). State testing boards didn’t know what to do with us; even my grandparents had their doubts. So to be one of those “first wave” homeschool kids ... gives a guy a little something extra — or at least with Monkey Toes it did.
A Christian one-night stand?
And Monkey Toes I (sort of) liked. Remarkably, he proved to share this uncertain amor. One night he and Guy Friend #3 ended up at my place, watching What About Bob? In a What about Guy Friend? development, midway through the viewing Monkey Toes and I began to cuddle. For readers unsavvy to Christian-dating-weirdness, this was pretty major stuff. Two fairly conservative people who barely know each other, who date to see if the other person is marriage material, and who haven’t even had a DTR*** yet ... cuddling. Sometime after Guy Friend #3 left, this even progressed to hand-holding.
But part way through, I started to get bored. Not that I wanted to go further — if any thing, I was starting to reach the end of the liking needed to justify such intimacies. But it was so nice to be sitting there with a guy my parents wouldn’t shake their heads over, and so nice to be holding hands with someone like that — in fact, the only time I’ve ever done that with a Christian guy — that I pushed all niggling thoughts aside.
After the whole business (though not technically the “whole” business, of course ;)), we did something Hippie the Groper and I jumped right over: asked each other, “What does this mean for our friendship?” That’s probably putting it too soberly, but basically we expressed the hope that none of this would change things, affect our budding friendship ... blah, blah, blah.
But of course it did. I think I barely talked to him after that, and he has now been married at least a couple years; he might even have a kid! I later concluded the hand-holding was like a bridge stretched out on insufficient supports (i.e., the uncertain liking). Because the supports were too weak, they were ultimately destroyed beneath the weight of the ill-considered bridge. In fact, for a long time afterward, I felt more regret about that fairly innocent night than I did over far more “Code Red” dates later on.
More poetry
But I have digressed. And yet, in the interest of making this a truly marathon blog entry, I cannot conclude without including a most-hilarious missive from Reader Frasier (truly in rare form after a recent date; what did you do this weekend, honey? ;) ;)) Don’t be confused, though: while the first part of the letter is from his, erm, solicitor, I think Frasier commands the typewriter by the end — or maybe he dictated.
**Perhaps one is linked to the other but my data is yet insufficient to determine whether homeschooling, in Christians, is conclusively linked to hipness in general and serious-but-free faith, in particular.
***Define-the-relationship talk.
One, that broke my heart.Ah, but what’s that, you say? How did I manage to get a wedding date? Yes, I spose I have been holding out on that particular story. It all happened last week, when Poster Boy concluded he couldn’t be one-upped by Frasier in everything. Fair enough that Frasier won the first-contest round. But who’s to say he should also take the lead in match-making? Poster Boy being the well-connected chap he is, he parlayed a certain friend-not-far-from-DC into a dating coup that produces dead-heat in the Blog Reader World Series. With his successful man — erm, handbagger — procurement (P.B. stringently denies any “pimping” has transpired), the score now stands: Frasier 1, Poster Boy 0 (September contest) and Frasier 0, Poster Boy 1 (in matchmaking), hence 1-1 overall.
That’s the one that got away.
Two, that was insane.
I just wanted her to go away.
Three, she was sweet.
But not the one forever.
Four, haven’t met her yet.
Maybe that is for the better...
And the lucky man is ...
But enough about the contest. You want to meet my date! I have to say, Poster Boy did quite well by me. He even found a military man! And that makes Wedding Date — what? (counts on fingers: Sgt. Ex-sessories, Invisible Ma(ri)n(e) ... the one whose friend sang “Poop in a Jar” ... the one I knit slippers for during Gulf War I, Geezer #2, Global Crossings Guy, the Captain, the Politician) ... The ninth military man to enter my “love life”! And as the faithful reader he is, Poster Boy’s really got my taste in men figured out: the boy is even blond!*
But yes, really: boy (don’t hate me, Wedding Date). It’s not that I discriminate with men I date (considering Geriatric Gent’s impressive age), but perusing the list at right reveals the average age difference is usually 6-7 years older. There has been one exception, though: Monkey Toes, the Hand-Holder.
Enter Monkey Toes
Monkey Toes (incidentally, his self-description for them) dates to the fall of 2001, when I was still pining over the O-zone King. In fact, one night when I ran into Monkey Toes, I’d just bought myself consolation: an Urban Outfitters sock monkey (now stationed on Vitamin Guard duty). Monkey Toes was working, in those days, at the local Starbucks (gasp: Wedding Date, didn’t you once also work there?!!). But I swear that had nothing to do with my crush.
For (slight) feelings of liking there were indeed, age difference or not (he was 21 to my then-23). Monkey Toes was that rare thing, the alt-Christian — and a homeschooled alt-Christian at that.** I’m not one to make too much of such things, but it’s pretty cool when someone actually shares your admittedly-obscure educational background. For all the ground it’s gained lately, homeschooling was still pretty radical when my mom started in back in, um, ’83 (?!!). State testing boards didn’t know what to do with us; even my grandparents had their doubts. So to be one of those “first wave” homeschool kids ... gives a guy a little something extra — or at least with Monkey Toes it did.
A Christian one-night stand?
And Monkey Toes I (sort of) liked. Remarkably, he proved to share this uncertain amor. One night he and Guy Friend #3 ended up at my place, watching What About Bob? In a What about Guy Friend? development, midway through the viewing Monkey Toes and I began to cuddle. For readers unsavvy to Christian-dating-weirdness, this was pretty major stuff. Two fairly conservative people who barely know each other, who date to see if the other person is marriage material, and who haven’t even had a DTR*** yet ... cuddling. Sometime after Guy Friend #3 left, this even progressed to hand-holding.
But part way through, I started to get bored. Not that I wanted to go further — if any thing, I was starting to reach the end of the liking needed to justify such intimacies. But it was so nice to be sitting there with a guy my parents wouldn’t shake their heads over, and so nice to be holding hands with someone like that — in fact, the only time I’ve ever done that with a Christian guy — that I pushed all niggling thoughts aside.
After the whole business (though not technically the “whole” business, of course ;)), we did something Hippie the Groper and I jumped right over: asked each other, “What does this mean for our friendship?” That’s probably putting it too soberly, but basically we expressed the hope that none of this would change things, affect our budding friendship ... blah, blah, blah.
But of course it did. I think I barely talked to him after that, and he has now been married at least a couple years; he might even have a kid! I later concluded the hand-holding was like a bridge stretched out on insufficient supports (i.e., the uncertain liking). Because the supports were too weak, they were ultimately destroyed beneath the weight of the ill-considered bridge. In fact, for a long time afterward, I felt more regret about that fairly innocent night than I did over far more “Code Red” dates later on.
More poetry
But I have digressed. And yet, in the interest of making this a truly marathon blog entry, I cannot conclude without including a most-hilarious missive from Reader Frasier (truly in rare form after a recent date; what did you do this weekend, honey? ;) ;)) Don’t be confused, though: while the first part of the letter is from his, erm, solicitor, I think Frasier commands the typewriter by the end — or maybe he dictated.
FROM: Martin Barton and Fargo*Major crushes with blond or dirty-blond hair: 8; major crushes with brown: 2; major crushes with red: 1; major crushes with purple hair: 0 (the Married Man had some gray going on, but was ultimately still blond).
TO: Anna Broadway
Ms Broadway
We lead a team of lawyers currrently drafting a protest to the World Trade Organisation and initiating action in the Courts on behalf of our client, Frasier, over your recently announced Monday incentive for domestic producers of bad poetry and worse rhyme. This clearly breaches international free trade rules, representing, as it does, a blatant subsidy for your local industry while erecting illegal trade barriers against the imported product. The fact that it inexplicably appears twice on your site will, we intend to argue, entitle our client to twice the usual damages.
Pursuant to our claim we hereby submit a number of doggerel ditties which, we shall argue, comprise a clear prima facie case that our client is able to produce verse that is at least as bad as any produced in the US -- indeed we shall produce expert witnesses to testify his output is far more appalling than any American efforts. Read them and acknowledge our argument must triumph. The Courts are sure to uphold the inferior quality of the imported product..
We additionally note that your inability to transport edible foodstuffs to our client will also fail as legal argument. We will submit irrefutable documentary evidence that, on the basis there is at least a 50% chance our client will visit your city some time in the next 25 years, there is a pre-existing contractual arrangement for delivery of a cinnamon roll to a specified Starbucks establishment. This clearly provides a structure within which your scandalous US-only cookies incentive could be extended to our client. (Our client is now reserving his rights as regards his part of that contract - viz. his offer to stand for coffee (small cup) - until this latest matter is litigated to his satisfaction.)
We now require you to accept service of the following bad poetry and worse rhyme. (Indeed we are exceptionally pleased to have it off our hands.)
Roses are red
We’re all through
She’s got someone else
And I’m feeling blue
Roses are red
Her eyes are green
I’ll gaze into them no more
Why is life so mean?
Roses are red
And blonde is her hair
I’ll not fondle it again
Life is so unfairRoses are red
I’ve sent them in the past
To the one I loved.
Alas, it didn’t last.
Roses are red
The color of love
I aint got none
Heavens above!
Roses are red
Send me some for luck
Cos I need a woman
And I need a - er - act of love.
Well, there you are: a few meagre efforts and I’ve run out of puff ... Perhaps explained by my initial misreading of your contest instructions and expending the first flush of inspiration on the theme of “Anna's doldrums.”
Upon re-reading the instructions, I was about to (deservedly) consign them to the trash bin when it occurred to me they could form the basis of “The Ballad of Anna Broadway.” Mind you, they’ll need a lot of work by a talented musician. Know one?
Frasier
xox
1.
Roses are red.
Anna’s pants are too.
Harvard Lickwit couldn’t get into ’em
And neither will you..
2.
Roses are red.
They’re also white,
The color of Anna’s dress
On her future wedding night.
3.
Roses are red
Anna’s feeling blue
She’s crushing on [corrupted mscrpt]
But he hasn’t a clue.
4.
Roses are red.
God made them that way.
What’s His plan for Anna?
We really can’t say.
5.
Roses are red.
Tulips are yellow.
Anna’s sexless in the city
But she stays mellow.
6.
Roses are red.
Well, sometimes they are.
But there’s no prospective husband
On Anna’s radar.
Stanza 77.
Roses are red.
Good men are elusive.
Which makes Anna’s love life
Inconclusive.
8.
Roses are red.
Virgins are supposedly twee.
But Anna won’t catch
An STD.
9.
Roses are red
Anna’s shoes are too
They mirror her undies
For all to view.
10.
Roses are red.
Anna’s a flirt.
But she wouldn’t let Ad Weasel
Look up her skirt.
11.
Roses are red
There’s no gift finer.
But Anna and friend
Gave a chocolate vagina
12.
Roses are red.
They’re really pretty.
Anna is too, but she’s
Sexless in the city.
13.
Roses are red
Frasier is dim
He knew zip about flashing
Til Anna clued him
**Perhaps one is linked to the other but my data is yet insufficient to determine whether homeschooling, in Christians, is conclusively linked to hipness in general and serious-but-free faith, in particular.
***Define-the-relationship talk.
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