Sunday, March 31, 2013

Thibodaux and Boudreaux in the Nutria Coat Business

Thibodaux got a really good idea: Nutrias must be good for something.  So could they be made into coats like some people wear coats of mink or bayou cat?  He raised this question with his part-time girlfriend, Françoise. 

She said, "Hoooeeee!  Dat is one good notion, Thib!  Dey can be sewn together and sold as coats up in Chicago.  Trap a few, and I'll sew their hides together!  Make us some money for good times."

So Thib did.  But, you know, the little boogers are wily and slow to get trapped.  But eventually, he got enough pelts, and Mlle. Frannie sewed them into a sample coat, and they took it up to Chicago to show a furrier.  The furrier, sensing a  bargain supplier, said that he's buy as many as they could deliver.  So it looked like good money, if only they could trap them more efficiently.  

Thibodaux was talking with his buddy Boudreaux, and old Boudreaux say, "Ma frien', why not let the car drivers do the work?  Me, I'll go out each morning and pick up what's there."

So Thibodaux hired Boudreaux to go out each day and pick up the roadkill nutrias. Now on the highways in the morning there is beaucoup of the little guys.  It worked wonderfully, and they were able to make lots of coats for the Chicago market; and even expanded to Minneapolis!

Things were going good:  Thibodaux, Françoise, and Boudreaux got lots of money for beer, boudin, and L.S.U. season tickets: what more could they want?  New pirogues, yes!  It was all good.  But the calm waters soon got rough.

It seemed that P.E.T.A. members appeared in Lafayette and New Iberia, and did their signature naked protest, "I'd rather be naked than wear fur!"  And this upset the Parish's High Sheriff and the police jurors and the local churches.  But, the P.E.T.A. damsels were heavy, and he didn't want his deputies to sustain injuries while carting those hefty heifers away!  So the Sheriff was cool; he ask his old buddy Boudreaux if he could ease up a bit.

After some appreciative looks, Boudreaux proposed giving two of the P.E.T.A. ladies a tour, so he goes, "Mesdames, if you would put on your clothes, I'll take you on a field trip to prove that we don't trap no nutrias nohow.  Honest, cross my heart!"

Two of the more adventurous ladies, though skeptical, took him up on the offer.  So the next day, Boudreaux picked them up with his pickup truck and three go-cups of coffee to put a a smile on the morning.  They rode along the swamp roads, and every time they saw a nutria or muskrat roadkill, screech!  Boudreaux would stop and throw the carcass in the back of the truck.

By the time the three-hour tour was over, the P.E.T.A. ladies were a little green.  Something to do with Boudreaux's driving, n'es-ce pas?  But they agreed that Boudreaux got his hides without trapping live nutrias.

So de problem went away.  "And also dem naked ladies from P.E.T.A.," Boudreaux complained.


Happy Easter!  May the Easter Nutria bring you lots of chocolate eggs!

Post #450!

Friday, March 29, 2013

The Alabama Solution for Unsuccessful Politicians

There's a legend that unsuccessful Alabama politicians go to Buck's Pocket after they lose an election.  Whether this is a local custom, or a rural legend, or required by law in that strange state, I do not know.

Nor do I know whether they console themselves with mojitos or martinis or margaritas there -- surely it's not in one of those depressing dry counties?  Maybe they use that place as a springboard for gainful employment.

But this is not about Alabama.  They seem to be doing quite well in football, so they have the important fundamentals down.  I'm concerned with this apparent glut in politicians.

We need to consider using the Alabama solution to help recycle politicians on the national level and in other states:  Send them away to a remote state park!  An apt modern use of ostracism.

One legendary loser on the national level once proclaimed, "Well, you won't have Dick Nixon to kick around any more."  He later became President.  And, like Frankenstein's monster, John Kerry is BAAAACK!  And Hilary never went away.  Will Rick Santorum and Donald Trump come out of their burrows in three years, not see their shadows, and decide to run again?  Or, look at our living Vice-Presidents.  Do Dan Quayle and Joe Biden give you scary thoughts?  Throw in Sarah Palin, Dick Cheney, and John Edwards!

Can you see the problem?  Now if they're safely deposited in some isolated state park and given some nice drinks, they might not keep coming back.  And it's a lot kinder and gentler than treating them like vampires.

On the other hand, Alabama has another landmark nearby: Scottsboro.  This is the home of the Unclaimed Baggage Center and First Monday, the monthly flea market.  And you can imagine how this would work if we treated unelected or deposed politicians as unclaimed baggage:

"Here's a slightly used Blagojevitch.  Maybe we could take him back home to Ol' Virginny, refurbish him, and he would do as a serviceable Governor!"

Buck's Pocket

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Underwear for the Calliphygous and Others

There was a recent news item that Lululemon, a Canadian-based vendor of women's clothing, is allowing customers to return yoga pants that use fabric that is a little too revealing for their tastes.  The original story is that customers would have to show clerks by assuming the downward-facing dog pose while wearing the risqué yoga pants is untrue.  Thank goodness!  You can imagine this tableau in a store!

One bit of information revealed in the original story is that the thin fabric pants were selling for $98.  On the other hand, yoga pants have become a strong substitute for jeans as comfortable, casual pants in settings that don't require mats or yogis.

Putting it another way, they're on target for people who think their butts are shapely, and want everyone to know it!

But this article in Slate by Amanda Marcotte seems to either miss something entirely, or she was ironically dense:

Why do women find the prospect of wearing see-through yoga pants to be troubling?  It's not because of V.P.L. exposure.  No, in some settings, a woman showing evidence of panty lines might provide a sign that she is conventional, if not virtuous! 

What a woman is wearing under her yoga pants opens her to be judged on different levels by others.  (The author herself specifically took women who wear thongs to task.)  But, given this fact being open to others' judgments, it's one of those situations in which, whatever choice she made, it's going to be the wrong one to someone else.  Some people might feel free to find fault with someone else's choice in a multitude of occasions, not to mention whether she's wearing a thong, a bikini, regular step-ins, or even granny panties!  Or going commando, heaven forbid!

Simply put:  the women who wear thongs under their yoga pants do so because they're pleased with their asses, and want them displayed in all their glory without the tell-tale V.P.L. shifting the focus from the butt to the thong.  If the pants are sheer, the color and pattern of the underwear is obvious to others.  Do you want everyone to know that you're wearing pink polka-dot panties?  Not usually. 

There's another matter: clothing that might be too sheer is going to be typically sheer both in front and in back.  There might be some unintentional disclosure that could further lead to a negative evaluation that is definitely morally tinged!  That's why some women wear thongs!

calliphygian -- kl-pj-n) also cal·li·py·gous (-pgs)

Having beautifully proportioned buttocks

Monday, March 25, 2013

Benjamin Buisson and New Orleans Street Names

Pierre Benjamin Buisson (1792-1874) was a French soldier, later New Orleans newspaper editor, parish surveyor, and (much later) even a Confederate brigadier general.  He had a fascinating life, as this brief bio summarizes.

While he was a Lieutenant in Napoleon's army, he was given a battlefield promotion for valor by the Emperor himself.

After the restoration of the Bourbons, he, like several other former French officers, migrated to the New World; in his case, to New Orleans.  He gained employ variously as an architect, surveyor, and even edited a French language newspaper.  Being in New Orleans, he also managed to fight a few duels.

One of his contributions was the establishment of an artillery unit in the local militia.  He wrote a handbook on tactics for light artillery.

Anyway, while surveying Uptown New Orleans, for the Faubourg Bouligny neighborhood, he chose the names of the streets, all on a Napoleonic theme.  Napoleon Avenue was the major thoroughfare; and there was a Josephine Street.  Several streets were named after Napoleon's victories, such as Berlin, Cadiz, Austerlitz, Marengo, Jena, and others.  After all, Napoleon awarded him the Legion of Honor.  Semi-ironically, these streets were in the American district!

During World War I, Berlin Street was re-named General Pershing.  This was a bit of misapplied patriotism, since the street was named after the Napoleonic victory and not the city.

A legend has it that his grandchildren used to tease him as to why there was an absence of Waterloo Street.  It reliably pissed the old man off!

Pierre Benjamin Buisson

Sunday, March 24, 2013

The Dildo Song

This song is totally risqué.  It's NSFW or for playing in front of the kids or boyfriends.
It's funny, though.

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Al Gautreaux Discusses Different Types of Women

Missy Chauvin's recent program in which she had Madeline discuss the major types of guys was an audience favorite, so her producers assigned her to follow suit on different types of women.  Madeline felt that she could not do the topic justice, so Missy called on her fellow Action News reporter Al Gautreaux to fill in the spot.

In fact, when he isn't diligently pursuing the news, Al is notorious for being an appreciator of women in all of their forms.  A bit of a roué in training.  Besides, he was already in the studio, having his second cup of coffee gratis from the newsroom pot.  (With chicory, absolutely).

So.......... the program begins:

Missy Chauvin:  "Al Gautreaux, we're always delighted to have you as a guest on The Morning Program in addition to being with you on Action News.  The topic for this morning is types of women.  Our avid viewing audience would like to know your take on this, so tell it all as it may be!"

Al Gautreaux:  "Thank you, Missy; but you give me far more credit for knowledge.  I'm still in the learning stage, and lessons sometimes go hard.  But let me start off by mentioning a few types:

There's the highly motivated career woman.  You an always see her on the street wearing a business suit, and carrying the Wall Street Journal.  Business is her forté, and any love life comes incidentally.  As women go, she is the Alpha Woman, and if you go with her you had better know it!

Then there's the ex-sorority girl.  She does work after a fashion; but her style is more to socializing and good times.  She would be easily led astray with sojourns to the Florabama on the Gulf Coast or maybe a dirty weekend at St. Martin's, where she cheerfully goes topless.

I cannot avoid mentioning the sincerely religious girl.  Her focus is on matters spiritual, and if you see her, you had better expect a lot of church time.  Also, she is saving herself for marriage.  And not very often then.

Then there's the skank.  She can easily be found in bars; and her signature skill is being about to tie a cherry stem in a knot while using her tongue.  She's easy, what more do I need to say?

Missy:  "Al, aren't these a little overblown?  Aren't there other women that are out there?"

Al:  "Yes, Missy, there's the standard Yat.  Whatever her age, she lives and dies according to the fate of the Saints.  In guess that in that way she is religious.  She's fun to be with, she has a heavy accent, and can be soothed by a Dixie longneck or two.  Standard Yats make for nice girlfriends; they won't object if you watch the game on television and will even have a beer or two with you.

No so with the Uptown charmer.  She spends the period before Mardi Gras going to balls; when young she attended a finishing school and her mother groomed her to marry a bank executive or a corporate lawyer.  She's out of most guys' league!  You're most likely to encounter her at a debutante cotillion.

There's also the Scholar.  This rarely-seen shy species is usually in the library stacks, or immersed in some laboratory.  Little is known about her mating habits. 

Finally, there's the Artiste.  She is usually engrossed in her art, or her music, or her writing.  She can be seen occasionally at the Napoleon House, but is typically a loner."  She's heavy into theory, not much on practicality.

Missy:  "Well, Al, you seem to have described a range of possible women.  But what about that lady you had that brief encounter with; how does she fall in the scheme of things?

Al:  "Which one?"  [Visibly winces]

Missy:  "Oh, you know, Mistress  Wanda!

Al:  "Missy, she's sui generis!"

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Cowgirl Melinda Takes Yoga Classes

In an initiative to obtain fitness among ranch employees, the rancher included a health plan which also included three weekly sessions at the local health club.  Now Melinda, our cowgirl hero, considered herself to be reasonably fit; still, sometimes there are those aches and pains that come as part of outdoor work in Wyoming during the winter.  And seeking alcoholic solace with her friends did not help, either.

Frankly, Melinda was about as sensible about exercise as most Americans: she liked not doing it.  But she was practical; and wanted to keep fit against the unknown future.  After all, there are few desk jobs for cowboys or cowgirls!

So she signed up for Beginning Yoga.  She thought that the yoga costume was okay, if a little conspicuous.  (She would wear panties underneath (many costumes are somewhat see-through) and a windbreaker coming and going from classes.)  And she learned much of the lingo and some of the poses.

First there was the corpse pose.  That was easy.  And downward-facing dog.  And the triangle pose.

One pose that really got her was the plow pose.  Now this pose requires that the person start off, supine, and slowly move her legs upward while still extended.  Next, while the upper part of the body remains on the floor, the lower part and the extended legs are straight up.  Then, the legs are bent back over the chest and head.

Cowgirl Melinda thought, "Oh me; my ass is sticking straight up in the air! What if the guys see me looking like a pretzel?"

It was a critical moment, poor Melinda felt some pressure in her tummy, and she thought, "Maybe I can break wind unobtrusively, and maybe no one will notice . . . ."

Just then, three of the cowboys burst in the room, saw the class with their butts up in the air en masse, and one said, "Wow!  I never saw so many asses since Congress was in session!"

Melinda couldn't help herself; she got the giggles.  And let fly the most amazing and literary fart since Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales!

The Plow Pose

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

The Euphemism Treadmill and Intellectual Disability

Stephen Pinker coined the term "euphemism treadmill" to describe how terms, originally coined to replace terms that have a perjorative connotation, eventually become perjorative as well.  There are several examples of this that we can cite.

Take the area of intellectual deficiency.  As knowledge of this condition increased, and possible means of intervention were being developed, it became useful to distinguish different degrees of deficiency.  Hence, moron, imbecile, and idiot.

At one time, the terms "moron," "imbecile," and "idiot" had specific meaning.  Morons had a mental age between 8 and 12 or an IQ in the 51-70), imbeciles had IQs in the 25-50 range, and idiots had IQs below 25.  Because those terms came to be used loosely as insults or other non-diagnostic usage, in the 1960s the American "Asociation on Mental Deficiency adopted a four-category classification system:

Mild retardation             IQs between 50 and 69
Moderate retardation    IQs between 35 and 49
Severe retardation        IQs between 20 and 34
Profound retardation     IQs below 20

Older terminology used to refer to specific syndromes also changed:  cretinism became infantile hypothyroidism and mongolism became Down's syndrome.

Indeed, the term used collectively to refer to this type of disability has changed.  Once, it was known as "feeblemindedness"; but mental retardation was substituted as an euphemism.  However, in recent years, there was been a push to substitute "intellectual disability" for mental retardation.  In 2010, President Obama signed Senate Bill 2781, which changed references in Federal statutes from mental retadation to intellectual disability.

My guess is that people, in their mania to dysphemize, will eventually turn intellectual disability into an insult.  Politicians, the media, academics, and good old-fashioned perverseness will provide the fuel for that linguistic change.

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Begorrah! A Bikini Contest for St. Patrick's Day

Sainthood has its hardships: the surest ways of becoming a saints are to be in J.C.'s posse, to be a martyr, to be a virgin, or to have founded some influential religious order that will politic to make sure you're elevated to that status.
Or you can convert some pagan land, as Patrick did for Ireland many years ago.  And he allegedly drove out the serpents, as well.  But my point is that the road to sainthood is filled with rocky, uneven parts; and there's little emphasis given to the prizes that go with that lofty status.
Does sainthood come with Frequent Flyer Miles?  If you're a Saint, do they wave you through TSA screening?  So far, these premiums have not been included in the Standard Sainthood Package.
As a matter of fact, there is no Standard Sainthood Package, just as there is no Santa Claus.
However, one saint managed to hit it big time with the goodies: St. Patrick.  Now, for starters, for having converted Ireland, and driving snakes out, he was named patron saint of an island with great beer (Guinness, especially!), great Irish whiskey (Jameson's), a lot of greenery, and winsome lasses.  Erin Go Bragh!  Whoever got named patron saints of  Canada or Iowa got left out: maybe they didn't score high on the saintometer!
Anyway, St. Patrick gets the royal treatment for being a saint:  They parade in his honor in Boston, New York, Savannah, and even Huntsville (thanks, Elvis, for this information!)!  Green beer is drunk aplenty, and everyone gets a good buzz on. And St. Patrick's Day is like Cinco de Mayo: it's has morphed into an occasion to party, even though you're not Irish or Catholic!
A recent development is the emergence of Irish-themed St. Patrick's Day bikini contests in several places, even in those not known for Irishness.  It is not known how the good saint feels about this development, is he flattered in the hereafter, or offended?  My advice to keep on the good side of Saint Patrick is to wear a green bikini with some caboose coverage, and drink a glass of green beer in his honor.
See this site: 
Erin Go Bragh!

Friday, March 15, 2013

The Prophetess Gets a Vexing Question

There was a young lady of Shanghai,
Who was so exceedingly shy,
That she undressed every night
Without any light
Because of the All-Seeing Eye.

-- Bertrand Russell

One day Madeline the Prophetess mentioned while preacting in Jackson Square that everyone had a guardian angel, who would always watch over each and every one of us.  A mischievious tourist asked, "Even while you're bathing?'

Immediately, poor Madeline got an image of herself cast in the role of Susanna, being peeped on by the Elders.*  She never thought of that possibility! OMG!

Not wishing to bother the priest of St. Cletus's, she tried to research the topic on the internet, but all she got was naughty pictures of peeping Tom angels.  This disturbed her greatly.  But, being the optimist she was, she reached a pair of possible conclusions:

1.  Her guardian angel, being a profoundly holy spirit, would avert his or her eyes whenever she started to undress.

2.  He or she would continue to look; but since he was a pure spirit, he would be untempted.  So, as to be entertaining while he hung around, she would do a playful strip before the bath.  Madeline had a mischievous side, it turned out.  Maybe hanging out with Officer Pete and Crazy Chester and living in New Orleans brought that out.

I already told you about my guardian angel Steve.  Once I asked him about this.  And, being unable to tell a lie, he admit that when I bathed, he looked for a while but eventually just spent his time watching Cops rerunsSometimes you get a little too much truth.

I wondered why I would periodically hear the "Bad Boys" theme by Inner Circle!

*When Mormon missionaries come to visit, and introduce themselves as Elder (Name), would it be too much to ask which one peeked on Susanna; and whether she was well-endowed or not?]


Best wishes to Pope Francis I.  I hope he cleans up the mess in the Vatican.

In my family we refer to a chicken's butt as 'the Pope's nose.'  No disrespect intended.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

The Swamp Tour

In one of my occasional forays into the realm of being gainfully employed, I worked as a tourist guide on swamp tours. Now there's something overrated about swamps: for most people unfamiliar with the setting it's a place teeming with dangerous eccentrics, swamp monsters such as the one that stalked some underdressed heroine in The Swamp Thing, assorted saurians of the alligator or crocodile variety, and other outlandish residents as well. And of course the state pest: the mosquito. In fact, there's a number of people who fear going into such a setting. Now, I fear more going into certain neighborhoods of New Orleans during the daytime than into the swamp, although it can be mercilessly hot during mid-day. [Nowadays it does pay to wear a strong mosquito repellant to avoid the West Nile Virus and the continual harassments of mosquitos.]

Yep, my job was to take a group of tourists out in a little putt-putt boat, show them the various sights and make it sound as gothic and melodramatic as possible. I had to put on a "swamp girl" costume; the cutoffs and halter top making me look something like an undernourished Hooters' reject. And do a fake Cajun accent, which may actually was an improvement over my real New Orleans Yat speech. Imagine an admixture of pidgin English and a few semi-French expressions that no one seriously uses and which would get me labelled as 'retarded' if I were to use them in Lafayette.

What was it for them to see? Lots of fish schooling, muskrats and nutrias, water skimmers, birds galore, especially egrets and cranes and 'dooks" (ducks), an occasional decrepit shack to weave a story around, and so forth. I could do the real stuff about the biota, and ecology, and the fragility of the swamp; but let's face it, they liked the sizzle more than the steak.

We even had a small alligator to show the people. And a story to go with it. Namely, that he could talk.

We would tell the guests that one day he complained, "I'm a crocodile."

Our immediate reply was, "You're a crock of what?"

Usually someone asks if I had ever eaten alligator, and I can truthfully say that I have: as a matter of fact, you could get an alligator tail sandwich at Liuzza's on Bienville Street near Memorial Hospital! Several guys expressed an interest, but I don't know if their worried-looking spouses subsequently deterred them or allowed them the dubious thrill. Occasionally someone would ask if I had eaten nutria. I would lie.  What self-respecting swamp girl would not have eaten nutria!

We could give them a frisson of apprehension by pretending that the boat motor conked out and I could not get it started again. "Mais, Chers, never the mind, after a few days I will be missed and they will look for us." Children would eat that up! We got some return customers.


Monday, March 11, 2013

St. Guignolé and Victor Noir: Two Useful Fellows

There is an actual category called phallic saints.  For true, as we say in New Orleans,

In Brest there is a church with a wooden statue of St. Guignolé (Guénolé) that has a long, erect extrusion from its body. It was the practice for Bretons to fondle or cut a small piece off St. Guignolé's apparent virile member as a charm or antidote against impotence.  His manliness seemed inexhaustible; however, that was due to a replaceable dowel placed through the statue.  Men calling on this hypervirile saint would do so to have relief from erectile dysfunction.  Women were particularly interested in him, as rubbing his, er, thingie was a good luck ritual that would increase their sexual enjoyment.

Rumor has it that the Vatican will repackage St. Guignolé as the Saint of Morning Wood.  Sometimes saints can be practical!

In another version, girls stick pins in the foot of his statue in order to find their soulmate.  Ouch!

In Péré LaChaise Cemetery, there is the grave of Victor Noir, a 19th century newsman who was killed in a duel. His recumbent statue on it has a suspiciously large bulge in the crotch area. Supposedly, women rub it to increase their enjoyment of sexual pleasure.  Although the statue is bronze and should be tarnished after being exposed to the elements for over a hundred years, Victor Noir's crotch is shiny!

So much for European sophistication.

Fans of M. Noir

Saturday, March 9, 2013

A Tale From the Annals of Dating

In the gray areas of boy-girl relationships, there is a necessity to learn, negotiate, and (rarely) finesse those boundaries of personal space.  No, this is not about the Second Base Question: you're pretty much on your own there.  It's more fundamental, knowing when opinions are welcome and when they're not.

Anyway, when I was a Teen Angel*, I was going out with this guy, and he definitely had opinions to spare.  Now, having opinions makes for a fuller, more rounded person and  certainly makes for one who is more interesting.  Really, it's good to have something to bring to the table when you are going out with someone to fill those quiet moments.  However, he could be a bit of a control freak.  I wonder now whether he was pre-OCD?

For some reason not allergy-related, he took exception to my wearing a scent.  No, this was not some Britney-inspired product or the mature fragrance of Poême, this was a gardenia scent.  His reasoning: perfumes were artificial and insincere.  Would the essence of Angel, fresh from track practice, convey more authenticity and sincerity?

Once he expressed horror (!) when I admitted that I planned to attend church the next morning, like I do, and he comes across with this long monologue about how nobody with any sense or claim to science believes in that stuff anymore.  And, moreover, I should stop going.  I indicated otherwise, and that, yes, I truly believed that stuff!  This led to a uncomfortable evening, and no good-night osculation!

On another occasion, he pushed me into going to a Kerry for President rally, even though I indicated that I wanted no truck with politics.  Anyway, there I was, with the true believers and the socially conscious intellectuals even though I indicated that I thought that a more appropriate dating activity was shooting rats at the city dump!  (Disclaimer: I believe in living and letting live when it comes to rodents).

One time we had a date for the beach on the Mississippi Gulf Coast.  He threw a fit because of my two-piece swimsuit being too revealing.  While it was not in any way too brief to be worn in public (Mama helped me select), he made me feel like I was dressed as a stripper.  In fact, it could be wearable for swimming at a church youth event.

He insisted that we talk on the phone every night.  At first, I thought it was because he loved me, but got the feeling after a while that he was checking up on me.  He could not believe that I went to bed so early, and recommend that I gradually grow out of it with time.

He would often ask me what I was wearing during the nightly call, and I found myself waiting to dress for bed after his call.  Describing my nightgown or pyjamas to him seemed a little ishy.

Once he took me to a meeting of his Star Trek club.  They met in a bookstore on Sunday afternoon, and I guess I was arm candy for a Trekkie!  He tasked me with putting out the placards claiming the tables for that lovely bunch of coconuts.

What do you wear to a Star Trek club meeting?  Whatever you want, because you're not likely to have it in your closet.  In all seriousness, the Trekkies fell into two groups: the authentics and the ones who horsed around.  Yes, imagine Trekkies with a sense of irony . . . . what would Sheldon Cooper think?

Anyway, I'm ashamed to report that I went along with some of his ideas; so much for the scent, politics, and the swimsuit; not to mention the nightly calls.  Finally, I found the whole dating thing to be tiresome because of his overcontrolling nature, and we broke it off.

Please don't take this as a Taylor Swiftian trashing of a relationship gone past; I recognize that both of us were in the learning stages, and we did have fun together.  Even the Star Trek thing.

Live long and prosper! 

*Also a semi-maudlin song

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Cowgirl Melinda and Her Bunkmates Take a Road Trip

Much of the Western Plains ascribes to a conventional form of morality; much like the Bible Belt of the South, but with quite a bit more tolerance for a convivial nip or two in the friendly saloons.  Still, ranch hands must blow off some steam.

Melinda and her bunkhouse buckaroos found themselves with a little time on their hands, so they all piled into pickup trucks and headed out to Sin City West, AKA as Las Vegas!  Yes, it was a rough ride, but all pitched in the driving tasks, leaving the greenhorns back at the ranch to tend to the herd.

They arrived at this Mecca of lights and bad taste at 1 A.M., and were suitably awesruck.  They went into one of the casinos, played the slots, ate some vittles, and had a few drinks.  They started off with a sissy drink (a Cosmo), but graduated to bourbon neat.  Melinda wandered over to the poker tables and soon was $5000 in the black!

"Drinks to all in the house!"  That quickly ate up her winnings, but she got another $7500 because she was the most skilled poker player to come out of Wyoming.

Melinda, having gotten a little relaxed, decided to help out the showgirls with their act.  Since they were in a classy joint, and Melinda was toting, she got no complaints!  I must say that Melinda behaved like a typical tourist to Vegas, being quite a bit less inhibited than living amound the ranch hands and Republicans of Wyoming would require.

No, she didn't go the full monty.  Let's leave it at that.  But she definitely added to the tone of the act.  The guys took pictures but, being gentlemen, did not share after they got back home to Wyoming.

Some of her bunkmates also whooped it up, giving currency to the slogan, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."  Or should.  Rick amused himself by shooting at the lights on the Strip.  Big Tom 'borrowed' a police horse and rode it into The Sands.  All thought it cool that Big Tom was wanted for rustling in Vegas; that's being a serious badass!  Denver Darla drank herself under a table.  She never could hold her liquor.  Little Willie proved where his nickname did not come from! 

Everyone had a good time, but especially Cowgirl Melinda.  She was just too good at ripsnorting.  Finally, after many were hors de combat from firewater,  two of her bunkhouse mates still standing pitched her and her friends in the bed of one of the pickup trucks and she woke up in a sort of costume in Salt Lake City.

"Where's my frickin' clothes!  It's cold here!  I need some coffee!!"   She woke up partly dressed and totally disoriented with her bunkmates in the back of the pickup, and all added to the decorum of The City of the Saints.

Quite a different attitude toward whooping it up there in that City of the Saints!  The local gendarmes disarmed her, made her finish dressing, and told her that there was no coffee to be had.

Damn.  Salt Lake is a coffee-free burg.

Her bunkmates thought that perhaps on their next road trip, they should dial it down a bit and go to Omaha instead.  Melinda, when she whoops it up, pulls out all stops.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

The Dirt Road Sports and Rural Terrorism

I'm sorry to say that our two Dirt Road Sports, Bubba and Billy Bob, engaged in a minor act of terrorism in the name of religion.

Now there's religion in the South; and there's Religion.

The first kind is largely kept to church, and occasionally inviting the preacher to a Sunday dinner.  Oh yes: voting "dry" if you're a "dunking" Baptist.  "Sprinkle" Baptists have a little beer or wine on ceremonial occasions; and everyone pretends not to notice.*  They will secretly vote "wet" when in the voting booth.  [It's kind of like voting Republican if you're in the literary set in New York City.]

But what they areally mean about Religion is barbecue, what you barbecue, how you do it, and what kind of sauce or rub you put on it.  It's taken seriously.

Now Billy Bob and Bubba were generally tolerant: they were even prone to a little Memphis dry rub on the sly as long as there's beer; and they were more or less resigned to the fact that Texans like to barbecue cows!

But on a road trip to the gambling hells in Tunica, MS, they passed through northern Alabama and encountered (gasp!) a sacrilege!!!!

Yes . . . . that dreaded white sauce on the barbecue plates!  It's made from mayonnaise.  That white, fatty crap!  And the varmints there were proud of it!  As a matter of fact, they found this vice all over northern Alabama.  Oh, how could the Confederate dead stand for this without rising from their graves!  Now that's worthy of an ode!** 

They decided to go jihad.

So how do you do that?  Well, Billy Bob and Bubba thought and thought.  To help them do that, they got a six-pack of beer.  And another.

Finally, they decided to do guerilla tactics.  How?  Hit the problem at its roots.  The white sauce.  They planned a little break-in, which they pulled off at the offending barbecue joint late one night after closing.  They went into the supplies room, opened each of the large jars of mayonnaise, and poured a liberal amount of tabasco sauce and horseradish in each.  To cover up the real reason for the break-in, they stole all the Moon Pies and Doritos in the place.

When the crime was detected and reported in the local county weekly, the speculation was that it was drug-related: some marijuana users got an incredible case of the munchies and loaded up with provisions.

For the next few weeks, the customers complained that the white sauce on the pork was "off," and there was an increase in requests for the barbecue, plain.

However, Billy Bob and Bubba's cunning plan backfired: there was a minority of customers that positively raved about the barbecue sauce!  Sales soon went back to the usual rate.

Bubba observed to Billy Bob, "I guess there's no stopping white sauce barbecue fans from being candyasses."

Billy Bob said, "No."  And mused on the confusing order of things.

*There are four religious truths:
1.  Jews do not recognize the divinity of Jesus Christ.
2.  Protestants do not recognize the Pope as the head of the Christian religion.
3.  Baptists do not recognize each other in Hooters'.
4.  True Southerners do not put mayonnaise on barbecue.

**I don't think Allen Tate had barbecue in mind.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Why Tee Boudreaux Went to Detention

One day, Tee Boudreaux, de smart one in la famille, came home from school totally bent out of shape and late, yes!  Tee Boudreaux was so totally amazed and so nonplussed, that he could not answer his Mama when she axed him how come he late.

So she got Oncle Robichaux to find out.  Oncle Robichaux was all tact and discretion, unlike the other Boudreauxes.

Oncle Robichaux goes, "Eh bien, Tee Boudreaux, how it goin'?"

Tee Boudreaux replies, "I done lost de spelling bee, Oncle Robichaux!"

"Eh bien, mon petit.  But you were always the best speller in Terrebonne Parish.  But you know:  Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.  And Good Time Boudreaux got the blues."

Tee Boudreaux smiled a little, and added, "Actually, I also got sent to detention."

"Eh, podner, I savvy.  No penalty.  What did you do?"

"Ah, Oncle Robichaux, I misspelled a word.  ONE FRIGGIN' WORD!"

"Gosh, dat is trés harsh.  Dat teacher is one mean woman.  And what word was that?"

"De teacher axed me to spell 'auspices, and I musta spelt it wrong.'"

The Horse, Otherwise Occupied

Saturday, March 2, 2013

The First Time

In "Gone But Not forgotten:  Virginity Loss and current Sexual Satisfaction," Smith and Shaffer present evidence that the circumstances of loss of virginity has longer term effects on persons' current level of sexual satisfaction.  This applies especially for women.  Because this research was widely covered in the news, often with loosely-accurate summaries, you might profit from reading the actual research in this article.

Specifically, The authors assert that first-time sexual experience is more than just a milestone in development but may appears to have implications for their sexual well-being years later.  The authors also claim that their research “suggests that any schemas and scripts developed during the first time may continue to influence sexual intercourse later on in life.”

Of course, their article inspired alarmist conjectures from the media; and a few nay-sayers, as you can read in this article.  However, in my opinion, it appears that the authors did a good study with a sufficiently large sample, and did not overstate their conclusions.

Besides the major conclusion, are there other things we might note?  Well, among things, the first coital* experiences for boys tended to result in more physical satisfaction, more emotional satisfaction, less anxiety, and more of an afterglow.  In short, they enjoy it more.  The two sexes did not differ in terms of connectedness.  However, I suggest that you read the original article and draw your own conclusions.

In my thinking, the sex differences in reactions to this first coital experience is a significant place to look for why.

First, there's the semantics involved:  the first coital* experience is framed with negative terms: loss of virginity or deflowering.   This suggests that this normal developmental milestone should be viewed negatively, as a tragedy.  This is a schema or script that is already in place for girls before the first time they experience.

Then, there is the fact that males and females have imbalances in experiences with noncoital forms of sex: girls have less knowledge about sex and experience with masturbation than do boys.  As a result, they would have had fewer actual orgasmic experiences, and  consequently might not be less lubricated at the first time and thus experience pain or discomfort.

Thirdly: there are imbalances in risk.  After all, girls can get pregnant, not boys.  And it is an extremely hard, life-changing event to be an unwed mother!

Finally, there is the obvious factor that girls are more likely to be pressured into sexual activity, perhaps long before they're ready.  These factors might contribute to the lesser positive experiences that go with sex.

So, what might be done to counter this slightly?

1.  Obviously, one thing is that it is better for both girls and boys to wait until they are older, perhaps the later teens, before engaging in full coitus.*  Considering how later people marry nowadays, waiting until marriage is unrealistic for many people but not all.  If this happens, they might be in a more advantageous place for truly free choice, and the quality of potential partners at that time is likely to be more mature and more caring.  (Okay, one who is not a jerk.)  Incidentially, the notion that the first time occurs on Prom Night is just a cliché.

2.  Should you decide that it is time, then select your potential partner carefully.  Is this the guy you want to remember as part of this script?  Anyway, don't be playing Post Office with third-class males!

3.  Plan the occasion and possible setting at your leisure.  Anticipation is part of the pleasure.  Get a nice nightgown, lingerie, and so forth.  While it is a bit over the top, I know of one girl who had a boudoir photographer take some pictures of her in her precoital finery.

4.  Look up information about alternatives to coitus and take matters into one's own hands, and find out about these.

5.  Learn about birth control information and have contraceptives readily available.  This might de-fuse some of the anxiety regarding the possibility of pregnancy.  Unfortunately, younger sexually active persons are less like to use these contraceptives reliably.  Also, consider using a lubricant like K-Y Jelly.**

6.  Get more realistic information about these initial occasions, including how to pleasure a partner, in sex education.  Above all, be positive.  Don't go into sex with anything of the flavor, "Close your eyes and think of England."

7.  Sexual intercourse should never, never be the result of a hard sell.  Or a soft one, such as through whining or pleading.  Or alcohol or drugs.  A couple should engage in sex only if both are ready, willing, and unimpaired.  After all, shouldn't it be special and to be remembered fondly?

Obviously, some of these ideas are not readily going to come to pass, given our neopuritanical society, but I can wish, can't I?

On the other hand, in some sets virginity is ridiculed.  It seems that you can't win!  It really shouldn't be that way.


Who knows?  With more positive attitudes towards ending virginity, it could lead the way to commercial opportunities, much like prom night has.  Think of the marketing opportunities:  Publishers could publish Your First Time, a magazine about articles preparing for the occasion and advertising products germane to the occasion.  Clothiers could market a line of "First Time" gowns and bedwear.  And, who knows?  It may become de rigeur for guys to rent limousines for this occasion, and tog themselves in a spiffy tux!  [Seriously, guys look neat in tuxedos.]  Finally, relatives cound send their first time nieces and nephews First Time greeting cards!  It's thinking like this that can bring about economic recovery.
Why not be stunning for your First Time?
*By using this word, I feel like a character from The Big Bang Theory.
** Known also as Kentucky Jelly.