Cottages

I really hate cottages. The whole idea of a cottage is absurd. One owns a cottage, which is ideally located a mere two hours away from one’s house. Every friday, the family rushes into the the car right after work (most likely an SUV, hmm?) and drives the two hours north to said cottage. (By the way, 50% of the population will be joining you with their families in their SUVs, on the same highway.) After a stressful, trafficky, horn-blaring drive, (one needs to speed, too, so as to “get there at a reasonable hour”) one reaches “cottage country”. (Did I mention this voyage is done at rush-hour?) So it’s 8PM, the kids are whining and restless, one and one’s other is exhausted, and one is at said cottage. Woo-fucking-hoo.

One goes to bed.

Saturday morning is spent...well...raking, cleaning eavestroughs, “getting the deck ready”, cutting branches, and on and on...’cuz one is never there, right? So one has to get all the “chores done”. Right, lunch, and back to work.

Saturday night. A few beers, some godforsaken burnt burger with the godforsaken kids who want to go get drunk with the other kids in town but you won’t let them even though they will come home at 11PM and why can't they and one is the worst parent in the history of parents and why do they have to stay here tonight? A fun-filled evening of playing cards with the whining, unfriendly kids, and the quite too friendly mosquitos until it gets dark. 8PM. Time for bed. One is, after all, exhausted from the day's proceedings.

Sunday morning. Help bring on an early heart attack and monitor the kids so as they don’t drown themselves swimming in the open lake that is full of jetskis and drunk boat drivers, have a quick lunch, and guess what?

You gotta pile in the car and head home to “beat the traffic”.
Oh, did I mention everyone else in cottage country has the same idea and leaves in their SUVs at exactly the same time?

That’s relaxing at the cottage.

men’s fascination with breasts

Women never seem to understand men’s fascination with breasts. They don’t get our compelling urge to touch and squeeze every single pair we see, or the fact that we would do anything to see more. I mean, we all know that breasts, for the most part are same: soft skin, some nipples, protrusion, and that’s it. Yet still every man will go to whatever length to see or feel more, as if the next pair will be different. Maybe this time, they’ll be just ONE nipple.

Plus, it goes with natural instinct. Basically, nipples are like little bullseyes, and we are always trying to find the target---it's true---we are societally conditioned to located and center in on women’s bulseyes---which are nipples---I mean, think about it—what else do they look like?

Plus --- women are astounded when men always want to play with them, and play and play --- well all I can say is “ever seen a kid press elevator button like a million times?” Same thing, we see a rarely seen glowing protrusion, and we want to press it and press it---hey—we don’t know when we will see them again—the button or the breasts---so we press it as much as we can!

I really hate horses. . .

Big, stupid animals that shit everywhere and still get freaked and look like they are going to kick my head off. Come to think of it, I think they hate me, too.

However, I honestly wonder if there could be a horse-human conspiracy going on. Perhaps they are just pretending to be big, stupid animals that shit everywhere.
Do horses actually digest the hay they eat, or is it some form of retribution at humans for cooping them up and plopping their fat asses on their vertebrae for thousands of years?

Horse shit really doesn't look any different from undigested hay. Look closely - it's like they don't even chew the stuff and their duodenums just wave it past and say "yeah, just keep going."

I think it's just horses conspiring to cover all our walking trails with shit. They probably eat burgers when we aren't watching.

"Windancer, keep loading up on the hay," Greystone Rider announces, "you have to cover the hobby farm tomorrow, Eternal Beauty, you take the Moraine trail, and I'll hit the apple orchard. We'll have those humanshoes caked with shit by lunchtime."

"And then we can have burgers?" Winddancer asks, as he clip-clops out the door...

March 3, 2004 - What kind of abbreviation is R.I.P. anyway? I mean, when people see that on gravestones, they don’t say Rest in Peace---the first thing that comes to mind is RIP. RIP, John Smith---he was a good man. RIP, RIP, RIP---after a few seconds everyone says, oh yeah---Rest in Peace. Phew.

Who thought of abbreviating it anyway? Was it during some cash-strapped era like the depression or something? I mean—the guy’s dead---now is not the time to skimp—and RIP? That’s a great word to have on the stone that guards your body for eternity—think of all the other great things that sound like it: Jack the RIPper, RIP-off, RIP your lungs out (which for some unlucky mobsters, might be the way they actually did pass on, which in that case, I forgive them.)