Honea Express

Archive for the ‘beer’ Category

Hey, who’s been in my closet? SciFi Dad, my skeletons are dry clean only.

Next up is the mysterious New Age Bitch. What do we know about her? Well, going by her handle she obviously loves Yanni and she has some attitude. You don’t want to mess with that.

Please wave your crystals in the air for New Age Bitch!

Okay, so once upon a time there was this guy named Whit. He lived in…oh, that doesn’t really matter, does it? Somewhere. He lived somewhere. California? Arizona? Fuck, now I’m going to be thinking about that like ALL.DAY. Where the FUCK does Whit live. Because it’s not like we’ve ever met in real life or anything, NO. You can go whole lifetimes interacting with people and NEVER ACTUALLY MEET THEM.

What a concept.

Because you can just stay naked all day, or in Whit’s case, in your underwear.

Hmm. Boxers or briefs? I’m thinking those nice clingy boxer-briefs.

Yeah. Shake it off, NAB. Back to Whit. Okay. So, you all know that he’s been having guest posting here for a bit, right? But…has anyone mentioned WHY? I thought not. It’s my duty to tell you.

Was carried off by elves.

I am so not shitting you!!

Yeah. Elves. Wearing lots and lots of leather.

Okay, before you go all anal-probe on me, just picture this: There’s Whit, sitting there in his boxer-briefs front of his Macbook Pro and his fourth sweating beer, idly sipping at it while he’s waiting for the porn to download. There’s a scuffle at the cat door. Some strange noises. Heaving a big sigh, Whit scrapes back his chair and gets up, scratching his belly a little and stretching. The porn’s still downloading (fuck you, BitTorrent!) so he figures he’d better see what’s on the other side of the cat door. Might as well.

He opens the door and peers out into the darkness, blinking a little. He’s sort of drunk and was REALLY looking forward to the porn. His eyes adjust to the sudden change from Macbook-light to outside-dark. There are six weird little short dudes with pointy ears* standing there, holding up what Whit thinks was the neighbor’s cat** by its hind legs.

“Fuck you,” says the front short dude to Whit in a weird high voice. Like metal scraping on metal. Ow. Whit held his ears. They seemed to be expecting him. “You were supposed to increase the herd. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Herd?” Whit stares uncomprehendingly at the cat. Has its tail been shaved? He’s never seen a naked cat tail before. Weird. Fuck.

“You’re going to have to explain this. Come on,” the short dude says, grabbing Whit by his closest appendage, which happens to be inside his boxer-briefs.

“HEY—“

There’s a huge flash of green light and a big pop. Whit blacked out a little there, and swears he doesn’t remember anything after that. But I got this strange email from someone saying they were Whit not long after that and of course I hastened to explain his absence to his adoring audience.

Whit’ll be back eventually, but I’m pretty sure he’ll never be quite the same again. So if I were you I wouldn’t mention anything about fisting to him. He’s still sort of sensitive about that, if you know what I mean.

*Management regrets the perpetuation of stereotypes in this reenactment.

**No actual cats were harmed in the making of this post.

The livestock was a combination of pets and market. That’s to say that they were all pets and eventually they would all wind up in the freezer. They had names and personality and they had been good listeners to a boy growing up in small town America, and then they were dinner.

We hunted birds at daybreak- doves above the treeline and quail in the brush. We had a dog trained for the fetching of the fallen. Open meadows lay littered like battlefields, filled with hounds and the sounds of the dying.

On Sunday we went to church.

I am a case study in nature vs. nurture and I am too simple to understand the findings.

I registered Republican on my 18th birthday. I watched a wall go down and I dined with Congressmen.

At 16 I lost my virginity, at seventeen my religion.

I wandered from party to party, bed to bed. Libertarian and Independent both graced my description, and then one day, for lack of a better offer, I found myself gazing across memories and into futures, and the card said Democrat.

Maybe it was years in the theater that pushed me, or a lifetime of Lennon. Higher education has taken its share of the blame. I read books that should be burned and talked with people that should be feared. I worked three jobs to take one class and counted out coins to buy beer and Big Macs.

I lost myself in coffee and poetry. I found myself in women and whisky. I lived late and died early, and by the dusk of twilight lessons were learned, taught and forgotten.

It is a blur of clear, precise moments.

Now I am older, wiser, and the dumber for it. I don’t eat meat and I don’t go to church. I drink too much coffee and not enough bourbon. I have my own boys to place my views upon and a wife that contradicts most of them. I can only hope that we are the push and the pull that they need to consider all and accept little.

There is peace in finding oneself, and there is life in the journey.

I am fits of rage and passion. I spread my wings in a constant gathering- a gander and his goslings. The world is a dark and scary place and my instinct is to protect.

I push them out of nests built far from their ground, and the fear in my heart does a waltz with the pride. One, two. The boys soar and pride gets spun. One, two, three. The boys fall and fear gets dipped. The world is a never-ending ball and their dance cards are full.

There is safety in the box step and lessons in the mosh pit. Mine is to instruct. Mine is to encourage. I play the songs they need to hear.

I talked the boys through speeches tonight. They didn’t care about them, despite my insistence that one day they’d be proud to share this lifetime with those that dare change the beat. I dared them to hang the DJ.

We played games and did puzzles on the living room floor and our soundtrack was one of progress and hope. Therein lies my passion.

Yet, others have views that differ from mine. They crave a future that doesn’t hold promise, but doubt and debt. They place importance on things that shouldn’t matter. Things that shouldn’t even exist. People talking without speaking. People hearing without listening. People writing songs that voices never share. They dance with who brought them and there is no rhythm to their madness.

I take it personally, because it is. It’s an attack on the only thing that does matter- the children. My children. It is an attack on the future.

I gave the boys a bath and put them in bed. I played the song that I needed and turned my attentions to the kitchen, dirty dishes and full bottles of beer.

And the vision that was planted in my brain still remained, it spun and it dipped and it made me lose my count. I stood over a sink filled with hot, soapy water and savored a sip. The sounds were of silence, and a better man may have cried.

This is what 3 days of reluctant bachelor looks like:

I know, you’ve seen sadder pictures and probably more boring images, but that doesn’t make me miss my family any less. You can just stuff your sorrys in a sack, Mister.

Updated: They’re home! The boys were so excited to see that the TV was right where they left it, and it still works! I almost lost a toe in the stampede. It’s good to be loved.

As I mentioned previously, some kind folks were nice enough to give me some topic suggestions. I’m going to do them all now because the wife and kids are out of town and I have no life. It’s very, very sad to be honest. I do have a cold Moose Drool at my side though, and some Shout Out Louds on the iTunes, so I’ll make the most of it.

mitchmcdad @whithonea Single what? Perhaps you should be more specific. As for blog fodder…how about the Honea Express guide to oral sex.

That Mitch is a rogue and often works blue. I wasn’t sure what he meant at first, so I looked “oral sex” up in the dictionary. Oral obviously means to speak, and sex, of course, is the tenderest of moments when two people love each other and rub their special purposes together.

Then it dawned on me, Mitch wants to hear some of the love poems that I’ve recited to my lover! Oh, Mitch, why didn’t you just say so?

Of course, since I’m writing them down they will no longer be oral, but if you read them aloud to your lover everything should be okay. It’s like group sex, which I’ll look up in the dictionary later.

Here are the poems:

Pretty woman, love of my life,
if you get pregnant I’ll make you my wife.

———————————

Girl I met in a funky bar,
sing me songs in the back of my car
and by “sing” I mean sex.

——————————–

Lying here with you in my arms,
beneath fire escapes and car alarms,
I wish you would have told me
that was going to cost extra

———————————-

Roses are red, violets are blue
I paid for the bed, cables free too!

————————————-

I beg and plead,
please let’s be free
I want and I need,
you’re saving me
I choke on these words
my heart has a limp
I never asked to be the gimp

————————————–

Well, there you are, Mitch. I hope these soft words of love and magic add a touch of romance to your own moments of oral sex.