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Sticky thighs

I don't hate my flatmate Dean, or at least I try not to. I'm lazy, and hate takes too much effort. I dislike him, but there are worse flatmates in the world, so I'll never punch him in the face. 

He loves to talk, that's all, and I love silence, or noises I can mute.

It might help if once in a while some sliver of his talkity talk talk was interesting, but that's mighty uncommon. It's happened twice in eight months living here.

CRANKY
OLD FART

#250

leftovers
& links

 
Friday,
Dec. 16, 2022

Mostly, Dean tells stories of how everyone simply loves his fish stew and beef bouillabaisse. And even if you're the best cook in the county (and he is not) it's narcissism on the edge of psychotic to tell your flatmates every day about the compliments your cooking got the day before.

"The hotel manager said my honey and cumin roasted quail was excellent," and "A woman from HR said she's stopped eating lunch anywhere else," and "A customer gave my Parmesan potatoes a 'chef's kiss'," and on and on.

I only have to hear it directly for a few minutes at a time, as I'm passing through the kitchen. My other flatmate Robert, though, doesn't walk away from Dean as quickly as I do, and through my bedroom door I can often hear their kitchen conversations.

Robert likes talking about sports, so they take turns. Dean talks for ten minutes about what a great chef he thinks he is, and then Robert talks for ten minutes about the Seahawks, and then Dean talks about what a great chef he thinks he is. Sometimes they go at it cooking-sports-cooking-sports for half an hour, and even in my room with the door closed I'd be long gone insane without my white-noise generator.

I've lived with worse humans than Dean, though. At least he's not a Republican. He plays his music too loud, but he doesn't sing along. He drinks heavily, and I've seen him stumble and slur his words, but never yet found him on the floor. And he doesn't smoke, so I'm not gonna strangle him.


Seriously, I'm not. If they find Dean's body cold one morning, it'll only be old age. Natural causes. I'll have an alibi.

I know it's Dean on the toilet, though. Three men poop on that toilet, so there will unavoidably be little leftovers at the back of the seat — a touch of brown, sometimes accompanied by underwear lint or the tiniest remnants of toilet paper. There might also be dribbles near the front of the toilet seat, because men our age leak a little.

All that is expected. Shared house. One toilet. No complaints from me, and anyway, sometimes it's my brown marks or dribbles. If it bothers you, you tear off a little toilet tissue, dip it in the clean water in the bowl, and wipe the seat before you sit. Wipe it again after you sit, if you're extra considerate.

There's something more, though. In addition to the brown and the drips, sometimes there's a coating of dried lumpy something on top of the toilet seat, not at the penis-point but where thighs ride — long stretches of something dry but sticky. And you know what I think?

Me and Robert, when either of us are walking toward the bathroom for a shower, we'll have a towel in one hand and a bar of soap in the other.

Dean walks to the shower carrying a carrying-case full of body oils, skin lotions, powders, pre-conditioners, conditioners, post-conditioners, a bottle that's all in French and says it's 'hydratant', and also half a dozen squeeze tubes and two kinds of shea butter.

Far be it from me to jump to conclusions, but I've concluded that Dean is rubbing some esoteric slop onto his legs in the morning. Eventually it gets mixed with his sweat and loose leg hairs and threads from his pants and grease from the kitchen where he works and whatever else, and then he sits down to poop, and the glop from his thighs sticks to the toilet seat.

It sticks real stubborn, too. The stuff at the back and the pee drops up front will wipe away in a few seconds, but whatever he does to goop up the thigh spot, left and right, I have to scrub vigorously for ten seconds to get most of it gone from the seat, and a little longer to get all of it gone.

Am I gonna talk to Dean about his sticky thighs? Hell, no. I don't want to talk to him at all, because every time we talk he keeps talking for ten minutes, and anyway, how do you talk to someone about his sticky thighs?

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And it never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, because Republicans are the enemy of common sense, common decency, simple truth, and democracy.

Clicks ahoy

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Barbra Streisand (and Rita Bennett) in Cycle Sluts, the sex film within a film 

Octavia E Butler and me 

Will Rogers phenomenon 

Adwaita 

• Mystery links... like life itself, there's no knowing where you're going, so click and click and click a third time.

♫♬  Mix tape of my mind  ♫

Concentration Moon — Frank Zappa 

Galaxy Quest — David Newman 

MacArthur Park — Richard Harris 

San Tropez — Pink Floyd 

When Tomorrow Comes — The Eurythmics 

The End

Bernadette Mayer 

Meg Wynn Owen 

Julia Reichert 

12/16/2022   

Cranky Old Fart is annoyed and complains and very occasionally offers a kindness, along with anything off the internet that's made me smile or snarl. All opinions fresh from my ass. Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.
 
Tip 'o the hat to Linden Arden, ye olde AVA, BoingBoing, Breakfast at Ralf's, Captain Hampockets, CaptCreate's Log, John the Basket, LiarTownUSA, Meme City, National Zero, Ran Prieur, Voenix Rising, and anyone else whose work I've stolen without saying thanks.
 
Extra special thanks to Becky Jo, Name Withheld, Dave S, Wynn Bruce, and always Stephanie...

4 comments:

  1. Why in heaven's name have I never tired of hearing MacArthur Park? Richard Harris was exactly the right guy to sing it, and the arrangement and production were near-perfect.

    After about take ten, Jimmy Webb came on the studio speaker and said, "Richard, you're singing beautifully, but you keep singing MacArthur's Park. In American English we rarely use the possessive when talking about a park or a building or a mountain. It's just MacArthur Park."

    Harris said, "Alright, you're the composer. But MacArthur's Park flows better. I'll try to do it your way." And continued to use the possessive at least once in the next three takes. Webb decided to win the battle and lose the war, because Harris' voice was starting to go. He settled for an earlier take containing a possessive and a nice lyrical delivery. I hear the possessive every time I hear the song, and the song wouldn't be as good without it. It's one man putting his own small mark on a beautiful song; it's the brick that's slightly askew that makes the wall into art.

    John

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. There were days when I put my single of MacArthur('s) Park on the record player and let it play for the entire afternoon. I'll never tire of it, though of course it's ridiculous.

      I read somewhere years ago that the backstory is, Harris was an actor who wanted to sing, and he asked Webb to find him a song. So he's a huge movie star and also a one-hit wonder, but oh, what a one-hit.

      Someone left the cake out in the rain
      I don't think that I can take it
      'Cause it took so long to bake it
      And I'll never have that recipe again

      I think we've all been there, even though none of us have ever been there.

      I walked on the grass at MacArthur Park once. Never been to MacArthur's Park, though.

      Delete
    2. I have an oddly romantic streak: I think MacArthur's Park is just south of Camelot. I don't give a rat's ass about the play or film: But the idea of Richard Harris as king, I find strangely calming.

      jtb

      Delete
    3. I have not seen many big-time plays, but I saw Richard Harris starring in Camelot, and he was quite good.

      Delete

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