Hello people in
internet land. My name is Steven Hammond and I am about to start blogging. Aren’t
you so very lucky to live in a time where you get to read the blathering of
some random stranger; a person you have never met and likely have never desired
to meet, and will, after reading my irreverent prose, be even more
likely to go out of your way to never meet me? I mean if you saw me on a subway (which is
highly unlikely, because I live in California where people’s idea of mass
transit is sitting in a constipated line of pollution producing steel and plastic
death traps [cars], and insistently honk their horns as if that will cause the
traffic jam to suddenly dissipate like a patch of clouds facing a blazing sun or
snail v. sadistic child with a salt-shaker), [BTP=back to point], you would
without a doubt think to yourself, why,
that’s that idiot who doesn’t know when to stop writing. He’s a dick. I’m
standing over here. I couldn’t say I would blame you. But let me go on
record as saying that I am not a creeper. By creeper I mean I’m not the guy who
stands at the back of the grocery line, with a blank-faced stare watching the
cashier bag your personal items. THAT is not me. I am happily, monogamously,
married and could care less about your personal items. Whether you use quilted toilet
paper or the regular stuff; I don’t judge, regardless of what it says about
your personal life choices.
[BTP]. What I was
saying was you might not stand next to me on an imaginary California subway because
at some future point you might read something of mine and think would I want my daughter marrying somebody
like this? Or, hell, would I even want her to know him? Okay, so that is a
little extreme on your part. Sure, I may, again at some future point, refer to
my recent, and all too frequent, prostate exams, I might write about how to
piss off wasps and bees, or even write about my pasty whiteness and the
ill-effects sunlight plays upon my dermal things. But is that any reason to bar
me from marrying your daughters? Well that and, as I previously stated, I am
happily married. And being happily married means I have no desire to partake in
polygamy, nor do I want to go into an arranged marriage. What is this? 1843?
And, to be honest, who would want to be a polygamist? Could you imagine the spousal
support you would have to pay if it all went sour? Suppose one day a group of
the fathers of your brides decided they wanted to set up their daughters with
some unknown writer from California. You’d be in a pickle, that’s for sure.
Which leads me to my next straying off point; how the hell do you get in
a pickle? Okay, I understand getting in a situation where all options will lead
to a perceived disaster; but how does that pertain to a pickle? I would
understand if somebody said, “Well, you really got yourself in a tar-pit now,
didn’t ya?” That makes sense. If you get stuck in a tar pit, you are likely
going to sink and die or worse, get eaten by a saber-toothed cat that will also
sink and die after bringing vultures with it down into the black tarry abyss. (I
guess ‘tarry’ is a word or maybe my spell-check thinks its tarry, as in “to
delay”. Actually I guess it is a word as I have always been told to beware of
tarry stool by web-doctors. Tarry stool? Really? Hmm…I guess it sounds better
than ‘sticky’ or ‘gummy’ poo).
[BTP]. I am going to be
honest with you here. My one to zero readers deserve honesty. I lost my point
somewhere back in the constipated California traffic. And really, where I live,
the traffic isn’t all that bad. It is, however, hotter than the devil’s (edited
for the purpose of thinking some family somewhere in Nebraska might read this
to their children around the dinner table. Not that I have anything against Nebraska,
but when I think about morality, for some reason Nebraska comes to mind. I’m
sure Nebraska has its share of hookers and politicians, but thinking of the
plains states makes me think of upright living). [BTP] It is hotter than the devil’s
tookus where I live. My spell check is telling me that tookus isn’t a word, but
I know better. So arranged marriage polygamist, tarry-stooled, Nebraska hookers
aside, if you ever meet me in an imaginary California subway, don’t fret, I’m
safe to be in public…or so the doctor’s say.
