Shy Johnny

  When I got to go and I want to go alone. Lets just say, it doesn't always work out the way I want.

 

I have a shy Johnny. I call it Johnny because it's no Johnson. Whenever I go take leak I have to time it. Before entering the restroom, I have to look over my shoulder. Like I'm being followed by the urinal police. I have to give Johnny a little pep talk. Okay an average pep talk. Okay, maybe I'm stretching a bit.  I'm like the pitching coach on the mound and Johnny is the relief pitcher. Okay the count is two balls and no strikes. You got this! You got a one minute window. Now get busy! No one is coming in. No one is looking at you junior. Besides you're walled up at the thighs with porcelain. 

Then it happens, someone walks in and he stands right next to me. It's not like he didn't have any other options. He did. There was at least four other available urinals. Right next to me and the shy guy. Now the shy guy becomes the dry guy. It's not like he going to break the ice. Heck, he can hardly break the urinal ice. There I am focusing on a speck on the wall, eye level, right in front of me. Engaging in a silent conversation with Johnny. Come on, it's just some guy who obviously has confidence and a big bat. He's having no problem. You can plainly hear that. It's not like you have talk to him. Hello sir. Yes, you say Sir, because you got to respect a guy who can stand tall and let it flow. What would say anyway? You'd never say, "How's it hanging?" unless of course, you wanted to find out. 

Some guys want to see how far away they can get from urinal and still make it in. Working on their arc, like practising free throws on the basketball court. So it's not hard  to see how it is hanging. Heck, Some guys are dribbling on their way up to the urinal. Some guys clear their throats at the precise time the flow starts, so you don't hear the initial lack lustre surge. 

Sometimes, I have resort to the stall because of urinal overcrowding. I stand there and flush just for encouragement but you got to time that too. One flush is acceptable. Continuously flushing, brings up red flags. Then the dialog continues come on Johnny beat the flush. You can do it.  Back to my urinal Johnny.....

I am now looking down in disgust. I think, awe zip it. I really think f it but the sound of zipper drowns it out. Now I have two choices.  Walk to the stall and let the guy know that yup, I'm a freak, or wash up so he can see that I'm a clean freak. I walk out the conversation continues. Really, I can't believe you. It's just a natural bodily function.  Like a dog getting caught doing a bad thing. My Johnny just hangs there like a tail between my legs. This is why I never shop. Its usually one of two things. Literally. It's like I'm the bathroom inspector everywhere I go. And everywhere I go, I have to go. And some places I really don't want to go.

I'm so glad it doesn't cost a quarter to spend a penny. I'd have keep a roll in my pocket at all times. I don't need that kind of attention.

To shrink or not to shrink

 I don't like talking about my crazy shit stuff. I've spent the better half of sixty years hiding, fearing and shaming. Gee, that sounds like a new Journey song. Na na na na na na na. Anyway and yes I know, you should never start a sentence with anyway but I'm doing it, anyway. Hey! this is all about comedy, errors are expected. Sue me! Anyway (there, I did it) I went to see a therapist for a couple reasons. One, to debunk my then wife's' diagnosis. To prove that I wasn't a passive aggressive ass-hole.   Moron? Maybe.  But I'm not an oxymoron, moron. I mean, can you be passive and aggressive at the same time? The second reason was obvious, to rearrange the therapists office, starting with her unused coasters. They were definitely placed haphazardly. Then it happened. She started asking questions. Imagine that, a social worker asking questions. I thought I was there as interior designer not a client. Question one. Why did your wife call you passive aggressive? At that I stood up, passively walked over and gently fixed the picture that was noticeably slanted. I answered,  I don't know! she's the one who needs a therapist! Making sure my tone was neither passive nor aggressive.  I sat down and didn't realize that while I was answering the question, I was aggressively fixing the throw pillows.  In my mind I was thinking. What kind of therapist is she? Look at her desk! Books and papers everywhere! I thought I was messed up. If this is a reflection of how good she is well... She interrupted mental meltdown. Then she said the following ( I had two options. One, move the furniture or two, move my ass out the door) She continued, I find that most people who are passive aggressive are neither passive nor aggressive. I tried not look surprised. Really? Was the only audible sound I could muster. My inside smart ass voice barked out. Sounds familiar. My finely tuned smart ass mind thought, like I didn't know that. Hello! Then she added something. Yes, most people are just hiding something. That phrase caused my back hair to rise up and yell "WTF"

Me hide? But I didn't respond. Me hide was all in my head. So was me not hiding. All in my head. Oh, I was hiding.  In fact, I've been hiding forever but that was another story (I'll leave that for future blogs)and I wasn't going to get into it at this session. I left the office out of sorts. The office was sorted and even though I went out,  I wasn't out. I could never disclose what was really going on in my mind. Her office wasn't big enough for the changes I would have made. 

What did I learn?

            Relationships are two way street, sooner or later someone has to be the frog

I guess she stayed on the sidewalk, while I dodged traffic.  I was dodging more than traffic. Let's just say that this frog needed to get real and get his legs before he lost them under a semi. It was either going to be splat or I was going to have to jump into  the first orange convertible VW bug, that just happened to be driving by. Luckily, I didn't have to wait too long. I jumped into that bug. It's in my driveway.  Driven by the best friend a guy could ask for, my partner John. Were are just two frogs playing in traffic, going where the road leads us.  Life is good. Gribit!

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One Foot Out

 I was born with one foot out. I think it was my left. Well, I wasn't quite born yet. I couldn't see where I was going or when I was going to get there but I did see a little light shining up through well, I'd rather not say. So there I was hanging out of the, rather not say, when my Mother's water broke. She didn't even know it. How did she not know, you might ask? Well, I'll just assume you did. She was in the shower. It wasn't her first rodeo. I was just another small clown trying to get to the circus. She prepared like all the previous births. At the first sign of contractions, she thought might as well get cleaned up. I don't know why, things are going to get messed up, in the hospital. You could say I was born a son of a breach. But that would mean my mom was too. Never mind. I came out alright and being a breach never gave me a big head. Okay, maybe a little bit.

Fishing Bug

I like nature. I really do. Nature doesn’t like me. Okay just the bugs. I think God knows about this and whenever he or she and his angels need a laugh they just dial up f bombs and tantrums. Apparently, my channel in heaven.

 Fishing in near north Ontario.

 I don't know why they call it the near north. It’s like north had a meeting and decided you can’t call yourself north, we will give you near north, because you are just up to it. Near is all we have left. Take it or leave it. Somewhere on a lake in the Canadian shields in the near north, is a man on a boat wondering about such things. Is there a near south? What happened to near center. F it, near north. We the north. We from Toronto. We the center. WE don't know!

The Near North Buzz.

The near north have black flies. Hey, I didn’t name them. They should have been called them ass flies, because they are a pain the ass and have no problem taking a chunk out of your ass. Oh, and their dear cousin, the deer fly, not so dear. The common Deer fly have only one mission. To piss you off. To fly in circles around your head singing a high pitched na, na, na, na, na, na, until, like the lunatic, you start swinging frantically yelling f off or bite me already.

One day I was fishing with my brother. I had a brand-new Shakespeare 010 sigma reel and an ugly stick rod combo. I covered myself in musk-oil and I was standing at the edge of a boat dock, ready to catch whatever fish liked the smell of musk-oil infused lures. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shinning. The birds were singing. That's when it happened.  Deer fly at one o'clock. It came in hot, smelt the musk-oil and laughed. He he. It started circling my head. It was operation, piss Dennis off. Buzzing around playing that annoying game your brother plays with you. I'm not touching you. I yell back I'm not just going to touch you, I'm going to kill you! I tried to swat it Zorro style with my fishing rod. No dice. Tennis style with my hat. Whiff. Then I thought just spit at it. Well I spit at it. Missed the fly and hit my brother right between the eyes. The water was cold that day. The spit to response reflex was unexpected but deserved. The thrust of his two hands to the chest knocked me off balance just enough to send me off the dock. Oddly enough, in that moment I planned for the submergence. I Landed feet first while raising my fishing rod above my head. It was the only thing not wet when I emerged from the lake. My day was done.  But it had just started for my little winged friends. I walked back to the trailer with even more friends black and deer flies. They were having a party. Circling my head, biting my ass. Hey, look its Dennis. Want to have fun? Who’s the wet stinky guy? na na na na na na.....

The Rest Stop

 

I am getting older. I don't want to admit it, but I am. If you are older, you need to plan rest stops. Especially, if you drive for a very long period of time. Don't worry though, your old body will tell you when it is time and listening to your old body is a good thing. Not listening, well let just say, a bad thing. However, you can listen to your body but urge to purge could be stuck between the bladder and your little friend. Okay your big friend. Your average friend? Your friend in low places. Sometimes the flow don't want to go. You want to sing oh what a beautiful morning but the song is different when the flow don't wanna go. Maybe sometime this morning would be better choice. A very long old American standard sung by a very old urinal crooner. Really, sometimes it's like pushing an avocado pit through a straw. Luckily, I still have a good flow. You didn't need to hear or care about that but wait, something good is going to come out of this or that, hopefully.

When I was a young man I could put out a campfire with you know, pee. Now I wonder if I can put out a match. Oh, the youthful days by the stream, splashing, making ripples, waves and pulverizing the urinal puck. Oh it's was fun being young competing in the porcelain games. However, it is a fierce competition. It's for this reason, I don't use the urinals. The whole pre-race ritual of breathing and positive self talk, goes down the drain (the only thing that goes down the drain) if someone stands beside me. It goes from I got this to I got nothing, real fast. It's not that I'm afraid some guy beside me is going to see my stuff. That wouldn't happen. Because my stuff is hidden by a wall of porcelain. Dejected by my own stupid insecurity, I zip it and go to the stall.

I'm in the stall and I know there's some young punk in the next stall because I hear, Niagara Falls. I got to compete. I'm not washed up. I got this. I muster enough force but it's too late my penis knows I can't compete. So I get two toilet paper rolls and put them under both knees. Kneeling, I think. I got this. This kids going down. The closer you get to the surface the bigger the splash, I thought. Think again. And then there is the sounds of silence. Not the song the kid next door is done and he is on to me. There's  knock on the stall door. The kid says Hey are you okay man. Now any hope is shriveled up and dry. 

My response. Just praying. 

 

Baby Boomers

 I am a late blooming baby boomer. That just means I didn't get busy until I almost couldn't get busy. 

What a weird name. Baby boomers. What if they all instead of dying from cancer and heart attacks, they just one day died of natural causes. You know. Exploding. Just random people walking down street. Just exploding. Zombies you can outrun but that overweight bald guy walking beside you. A ticking time bomb. 

Nothing but booming boomers everywhere. No mask is going to save you. Better pack a slicker. The hell with the weather, you got bigger unnatural natural disasters waiting for you.

And walking down the street is no walk in the park either. Hey look! there's my old pal George. You shake George's hand and he explodes. The only thing left of George, is in your hand, his hand.

Texting while driving suddenly doesn't seem like a big deal. Waiting a red light, a bit bigger deal. Especially, if the windows are down. Suddenly, the punk with the boom box is tolerable. That old lady beside you driving with her nose and two hands at ten and two. The ultimate boom box. Well lets hope you see green before an over abundance of red.

And going to the show is no picnic. Now you have a roomful. There you are on a date. The movie is a thriller and so is ever seat in the place. Suddenly, you hear a boom. You think its on the screen and it is. It's on the screen, on the chairs, on the floor, everywhere. Honey, can you pass me the bloody popcorn, is literally, bloody popcorn. Never mind.

Going out for dinner. You can might as well comment with this place blows on yelp. It's your bloody food and the bloody wait staff.  And for once it's not there fault. It's the guy answering the phone. He left out one important question. How many in your party? Is a good question. What time? A good question. How old are you and the people coming with you? Should probably be the first question. I'm sorry sir we are full.  And don't think you can just walk in. Trust me they can see you coming. They don't mind seeing going as long as you are going outside. I'm sorry sir, we are full. You look and see an empty restaurant.  Ya, I see you're full of something, let us sit! The guy barks back I'm sorry sir, we can not seat you for insurances purposes. You yell Insurance purposes? This place blows as you walk out the door and blow up.

Going to see a comedian is an adventure. Dying laughing, which never happens, is now a possibility. After the show your fellow comedian friends are drinking at the bar. The all say the same thing Man I killed out there tonight. Oh yea what's the body count?

I am a baby boomer and suddenly watching my blood pressure don't mean shit. Eating a healthy diet same thing. Spontaneous combustion is nothing compared to this. You can't stop, drop and roll this shit out. I would really like to one day have the courage to do stand up. My biggest fear is not stage fright. It's the one night a I stand out there and really bomb.

Waiting for the lights to change

Ever get in your car, drive and forget where you're going or how you got where you are. You yell at yourself because that's normal. I mean who else is there to yell at. I'm the bone head who thought, Oh well, let's just daydream a while. I obviously have nowhere to go, do I have to get to nowhere, in a friggin hurry? You know the guy? I'm thinking,  gee, how did I get here? Looks like I made good time! 

Every sit at red light and have know idea how many cycles of changing lights you missed. You wish you had an excuse like texting or mowing down a big Mac, while searching the bottom of the bag for that surprise fry. Nope, just spaced out, waiting for the caffeine to kick in.

Ever notice how this always seems to happen on a Monday. Maybe, you just don't want to go where your going, so your mind in it's supreme intelligence decides, frig it, a little holiday would be nice right about now. Gee, where would I really like to go? Fantasy front seat, reality back seat. Little cotton candy clouds, filled with the flavor of the day just floating by windshield of.... Horn. 

The driver behind wakes from his daydream and is gesturing like he is conducting the I'm angry symphony number one. The brass section is a little off, the percussion sounds like someone trapped in the back seat banging on the window trying to get out but the violin was right on cue. You conduct your own version of the I'm sorry overture number two, in buzz off major. The driver in back has two goals. One, is to flip you the bird. Two, to get to the red light or nowhere, faster than you. He pulls around you with his middle finger outro the window o. You realize the reason why he is angry. If the f the PM sticker and huge red and white flag wasn't enough. He is driving a pickup and he is mad for a good reason.  The poor guy has no hair under his turned back cap, a small penis and if that wasn't enough, in the race to the red light, there is only one thing he can't pass. The gas station. I think,  I should give this guy a break but no. Right is right and I'm sure he owes me an apology. The race is on. 

I meet the clown at the red light, he rolls down his window or he pushes the button before he pushes my buttons. Out of kindness, I lower mine for ease of conversation. I can hear him but I can't see him. A voice barks. What's your problem? To be truthful the was an f between what's and yours but I'm trying to keep this clean.  I'm trying to see the right winged, red neck, man hatter. Suddenly, a face emerges from a vape cloud. He repeats. What's your problem? Me using the verbal combat skills I learned in grade school,  shout back What's my problem? You know, just to clarify that I heard him and before he could bark back, I add a zinger, What's your problem? No f was used. The f you, always leads to making something out it. I didn't want to get my ass kicked. The light is longer than usual and the awkward lull is met with just glaring eyes, weird come at me hand gestures and head bobs. Then it happens. We both realize two things. We are Canadians and real Canadians don't behave like this. We both say sorry as the light changes, one last word.  Mondays! Bozo and Oppsy drive away to one day meet again at another red light and another daydream. 

The Three C's

We all do it. There's no reason to be ashamed. It's part of our daily natural cleaning process. There are two things people don't want other people see. Well, there could be a few others but I will address just a couple. One, wiping our asses. Nobody wants to see that. A close second, getting caught picking our nose. This is the one area of focus, I want to talk about today. Why, I don't know, maybe it will be funny.

Crusty Happens

They happen on the couch. They happen on the can. The happen in the car. Crusty happens. How you take care of crusty is up to you. Just don't get caught decrustifiying the crusty. Are you a couch, can, or car picker? 

The couch is probably the worst place to do the deed. Tissues only do so much some. You think you got your nose covered but some of that stuff is going to get lost and find a new home somewhere on the fabric or maybe stuck to an old getaway chip, you lost under your cushion in 1979.  There you are hiding your pick. The thumb behind the palm method is popular and is often used, when your wife is sitting beside you. But, you're not hiding anything.  Your wife knows your doing it. She is tired of it but can't say anything,  saving that card for the day she gets caught. Oh, she's going to get caught. Just a matter of time. The crusty will come out. 

On the can is the the best place. One, you have privacy. Two, you can get your fingers involved and you won't get caught red handed, even if you get red handed. There you are on the can massaging your brain through nostril, when your wife knocks on the door. What are you doing in there? You quickly pull your finger out and say. What do you think I'm doing in here? She has learned there are only two times you spend more than five minutes on the can. She walks away grossed out but thankful, there is another bathroom. 

The car is all about calculation. There are many things to consider. Timing the flow of traffic, front and behind. Can you use the palm hiding thumb method or do you really have to go in. Sometimes you can overthink it, get half way committed, when some bonehead speeds up behind you. You know your rear view mirror is small. Why be paranoid? Really, what ego are you protecting? I mean, what could they see? That's when you realize. That bone-head is your wife. Oh my God he does it everywhere. 

Ever see the sticker on the back of car window of some guy doing it, to it. Clearly this guy doesn't give an f, if anyone is watching. I've seen him in my rear view mirror, massaging his brains through his nostril. I'm stuck at a read light, I can't pick and this guy behind me if like F it I'm going in. Can you imagine TV night with the wife. F it, maybe they both are just sitting picking their nose and flipping through the channels.  Just a picking and flipping. Just a picking and flipping. Make you feel sorry for the remote control. 

Crusty will come. Crusty will go. You hope they'll leave when you blow but some will hang around just because that's the way it is or maybe was

 Keep your nose clean.  See next time on the road.

DennyD

Born in a barn

 Born in a barn

 If Jesus were here today, he'd probably live in a bachelor apartment above an old out-of-business service station in rural Ontario, Canada. More than likely be vegan and host a podcast called The Daily Miracle. The apartment would be spotless. And although he was born in a barn,  I don't think he'd appreciate everyone mentioning that fact, every time they visited. 

He would still have twelve friends. One, of course, a traitor. The others could be and would be, a big fat gender-confused spectrum of interesting possibilities. Oh yeah, and maybe a hooker on the side for arm art because I don't think he would be into tats.

 The opening lines of his podcast would be. “My dad loves you and so do I”  The guest would come on the show with a host of problems. Why yes, pun intended. Thank you. He would ponder, think and say out loud “What would daddy do?” I think your solution my friend is stuck between stagnation and creation. Look what can be done with a stick and mud. What I'm trying to say is “Don't be a stick in the mud, make something happen”  You woke up, so wake up and create your daily miracle. At the end of the show, he would have a simple closing remark “Amen”

 

#ChickenDrivers

This is what I see on a daily basis in my rear-view mirror. People who morph into chickens.  I'm stuck at a red light. A fun activity. Other than trying to distract myself from a blinker that sounds like "Let's go! let's go! let's go!" I turn my attention to my friend. My rear-view mirror.  The scene is someone looking down at their cell phone with a case of chicken turrets. Chicken fingers, thumbs, bopping heads and sideways glances. Looking out for cops or maybe a better shade of green. They don't care about the guy in front, me,  clearly indicating that I know what they are doing. I raise my hands in the air pretend I have an invisible cell phone and I point in a downward motion asking them to politely hang up the frigging phone. Well, it starts out polite. Soon chicken fingers turn into just a couple of middle fingers and a bunch of f-bombs. Chicken Neck is mad and drives like all madmen with a small penis, fast and loud. That's life #OnTheRoadWithDennyD

Old Bag Perfume

                                                                             OBP

 

I know it's not nice to call them old bags. Life-experienced may be more appropriate.  But I'm sorry. I just can't handle it. My lungs yell out.  I've heard them.  What the F is with the OBP?  After I run away as fast as I can and cough my lungs out, It occurs to me.  Maybe it's all part of their evil plan to weed out weak, allergenic, entitled pricks like me. You know, have a few laughs before they cash in their chips. I'm sure they're organized too. There are probably thousands of wrinkle skin people, who are pissed enough that they're getting older, who are somehow concerned about body order and have no, I mean no sense when it comes to scent. It's like that old lady who spices up her food with hot Sause but instead of hot Sause, it's a stinky moisturizer. Similar slogan. I put that smell everywhere. Any place that might cause a weird unrecognizable stink, gets covered up in stink.  

I'm sure they meet weekly. I've seen them at big M's, drinking senior coffee and planning their attack. I use the drive-thru for obvious reasons. I like to breathe between sips.  The ring leader is a retired school teacher who wasn't allowed to wear scent at school. Her name?  I won't mention it, just in case I get it right. Little Miss nameless had it all. Plastic boobs, Botox lips, big hair and fuzzy sweaters. She stunk as a teacher but she couldn't stink as a teacher. Oh, the sweet fragrance of Oxymorons. 

Can you imagine roll call at the Big M.   Okay Betty, you get the long line at the bank. Joan, you go to the casino and flush out the Keno players. Judy, you got the big box store and feel free to eat as many samples they can hand out before they faint. Now we know why the men go to the big T across the street. They know their wives stink and they found the only hiding place other than the hardware store to hang out at.

Heaven forbid they run out of their twenty-five-pound bottle and have to go to the fragrance counter. The scene must be a treat.

Excuse me miss, can you help me. The salesperson looks at her and thinks Oh shit, it's one of them. The lady says I'm looking for some moisturizer. The salesperson says Here's a popular fragrance that all the life-experienced ladies wear. It's called Old du toilet. The lady asks, Why is it called that? The salesperson chimes in, she wants to say Because it smells like shit and it probably should be flushed down the shitter but decides to be diplomatic. It's the best moisturizer for your skin (Thinks to herself wet paper bag wrinkled skin) with just a hint of fresh cut flowers ( Like a rose being crushed by a hammer) and essential oil.  The lady is now curious. No Really, what's in it? The salesperson looks at the twenty-five-pound bottle and reads the ingredients. Oh let's see. Moisturizer, embalming fluid and potpourri. 

Well, you do want to have nice skin and smell good on the way to, well you know.  There she is laying there. It is a sad day. After all the years of practice and she finally made it to the pros with three-quarters of a litre to go. I'm sure one of her friends will get the unused stink as a going-away present.  I can almost imagine the conversation.

Look at her. She looks so good. They did a great job on her. Good thing she had that head start. We will miss her, lingering smell. 

The above was created for your amusement. Just for a laugh. I like older people. I am one of them. But I don't have to stink as one. Please let me know if I do.