The Things We Do For Love

The Things We Do For Love

Sorry about last months bungle, the title "where the hell is purgatory" was a reference to a bit that I cut out at the last minute because my piece was too long (story of my life). As a result of some serious snafuage with the office computer network, not only did the wrong title run, but so did a rough, ill-edited version of the article. I always go in to the office and add "italics" - maybe give it one last polish, which is rarely necessary thanks to the peerless eye of Jen Jackson our editor. I'm guessing, however, that both her edit and my italicized version of "it" fell victim to some Phantom of the Operating System, because, due I'm sure to dwindling options, they ran an old version that they grabbed off my website.

I suppose it was good enough to get the ideas across, "but" along with the absence of italics and several other glitches, I think I started back to back sentences with the word "but" – a sure-fire example of prosaic sloth that rightfully places one beside Beavis in the Grammar-Rock Hall of Fame. Unfortunately, in the same issue the best writer in town, Bruce Bennett, penned a thoughtful and wonderfully articulate editorial piece, thus serving up a generous piece of humble pie for yours truly to snack on throughout the month. Mmm mm. Sticks to your ribs. Bruce wrote of Rock and Roll royalty and speculated about who might ascend to the throne as U2 eventually relinquishes the honor to take their place in the pantheon of Rock and Roll deity (personally I believe Jason Beeber is a no-braner). I really feel that for those recent and unfortunate generations who missed out on the Beatles, this fresh-faced phenome is almost, almost as good as the Beating of a lifetime with a tube sock full of dog turds.

The fact that I didn't completely freak out over last months foul up says a lot about the changes brought about by a struggling economy. There was a time when I might have flown into a rage over such a seemingly minor faux pas. Yea verily, I'd have tossed around a few empty threats, then driven away like some self-deluded Diva in a state that Freud might have dubbed Cornholiosis. "Without me - this paper would be T.P. for my bunghole." [insert Beavis braying] "Are you threatening me?" Happily, I've gotten over myself for the most part and have put this column in a more eternal perspective. A perspective that lends it about the relative importance as say a petrified french fry under the seat of my truck. Which brings it right into line with the perspective of the publications owner.

Ever since the economy went bung, the Indee has turned into a business period. End of sentence. Nostalgia, friendship, one's perceived value to the enterprise - past, present or future is almost worth the price of a copy. The mood around the office, once light-hearted and given to creative collaboration has changed to a more conventional environment. Steps are minced and taken on tiptoes so as not to incur the displeasure of the boss who's given, as of late, to mood swings not unlike Kim Jong-il with a kidney stone. "Write your story walkin' pal and if it ain't in on time you can read it where you wrote it. We're being grown ups now. Sorry for the inconvenience." This year you'll a hear a CD that the publisher is in the process of recording and wonder why he ever wasted his time worrying about this rag to begin with. You'll just have to trust me on that for now.

As far as the whole hell and Purgatory business, I had just mentioned how ridiculously hard the place is to find. It's like finding your way through one of those mazes they put on the kiddie menu - without the benefit of the birds eye view. You can see it all right, plain as doomsday, but I'll be damned if you can find your way in. I was about to look for the road paved with good intentions, when for the third time, I pulled up to the Sheriff's office. I worked up the nerve to ask directions from a couple hard-boiled looking Sheriffy old dudes who'd just come out of the building. They just stared at me like I was wearing a Barney Fife t-shirt over a pink, polka dot skirt, "Hey Flynt, aint this the puke we been after?" Flynt just gave me a baleful glare, spit through his teeth and slowly pointed towards Nevada. Thanks fellas. Before you bust open from curiosity, I had to go out there to get fingerprinted because the State deemed my last article to be so sexual and offensive that I have to register as a sex-offender. I'm just kidding, only a joke - put the cell phone down, everyone who applies for their Massage Therapy license is required by the state to get some inky on their pinky. So if life is rubbing you the wrong way, I'm street legal and at your service. Watch for my ad in the July issue.

As I was sitting here writing away, I overheard that little mini-infomercial for the Pos-T-Vac – the revolutionary "new" device that will, once and for all, put an end to the condition that strikes fear into the hearts of good men the world over – that's right the big E.D. Erectile Dysfunction is a lovelife-threatening affliction that's gone by dozens of names since our ancestors wiped off the primordial ooze and began walking erect (on two legs, with fairly decent posture, I mean – come on, get your mind out of the primordial gutter). Before the recent spate of pharmaceutical remedies and the flood of advertisements for them, E.D. was mostly known as "Impotence" or L.D.S. (no it's not "Lucy Dissatisfied by Simon" a common phallasy that arose in the 60s when everybody was dropping flacid) As for the meaning of this acronym you'll have to google it, because my newfound self-righteous nature prevents me from saying offensive, off-color things like Limp Dick Syndrome, I'm sorry.

Even more perplexing and ridiculous than the previous paragraph is the fact that this newest miracle cure for E.D. has been around forever. There have been permutations of this "newest scientific breakthrough" available via mail order since "I" was coming up through the minors. You could find products virtually identical to the Pos-T-Vac in the backmost pages of such scientific journals as National Lampoon and Mad Magazine - right alongside other wondrous inventions such as X-Ray Glasses, Sea Monkeys, Hovercrafts (build your own!!!), Throw Your Voice, and, of course, Throw Your Back Out (while building your own Hovercraft). This notion of using a pump-operated vacuum tube in order to draw blood into that certain part of a mans body has been with us since P.T. Barnum declared that "there's a "sucker" sold every minute." It's still hard for me to believe that they're marketing the "Pos-T-Vac" like some kind of marvel of the digital age. Do they really expect us to go from Viagra and Cialus back to the Pump? Isn't that like going from cell phones back to two tin cans tied together with a string?

I mean not that I would know about these things, after all I'm the Boneman. Still, I think with all of this stiff competition for the boner buck, someone needs to do a good parody of this Pos-T-Vac deal. Just the name they chose for the product is weird enough: "Let me ask you a personal question my friend, Are you having a hard time having a hard . . . time? Is your Tom Dooley hanging down its head? Let's put it this way - has your member become inactive? Or should I just come right out and say it – Do you have a Limp Noodle? Because you no longer have to worry - Pas-Ta-Vac will straighten out "your" noodle, Quick, Fast and in a Hurry."

That was a little broad I suppose, it's just that resorting to all that bulky block and tackle is just silly to me. I've always thought condoms were a mood-killer, turning intimacy and passion into a surgical procedure. But goodness - how on earth do you make any kind of smooth segue into the pump? I'm sorry but when you reach the point where foreplay involves rolling out the medieval hardware, maybe it's time to park it on the porch with a tall glass of Country Time and let the kids use the playground. There's too much of a creepy Frankenstein undertone there, I can't help but picture little bolts by the neck area, Boris Karloff all sweaty and butt-naked, hovering over a car battery and an Erecter Set. "Alright it's now or never, throw the switch – pump ya bastard pump – gzzt gzzt "Okay stand back, I can't, is it, really - Mother of Popeye – It's Alive, It's Alive. Yes . . . yes – it is alihi-hive – for the love of Pete get your knickers off and get yer ass in here Gretel, it ain't gonna live forever – What? Are you crazy? "Screw" Desperate Housewives, y'think I'm jokin' around? It's Alive I tell you . . . HURRY?" I noticed there are no disclaimers or anything with the Pos-T-Vac, that should tell you something. "If an erection lasts longer than 4 hours . . . stop pumping!" I've always found the "4 Hour" thing odd – as if a 3 hour erection is not particularly unusual, but "4" hours "Gadzooks - that's one hazardous hard on." Pack that sucker in ice and keep an eye on it. Try thinking about Rosey O' Donnell or I dunno - Dog the Bounty Hunter?

The things we do for love. Yesiree. Which, in case it all goes south, was supposed to be the title of this one.