Assorted cynicism and pessimism

Let's open with "My Prayer," by the Platters. I always liked the tune, but didn't want to sing a song about prayer, so I wrote these lyrics instead:

My balls
are a rapture in balls
under peter, two pauls
skin that literally crawls

That's childish, yes, but I was 12 when I wrote it, not long after I'd used a hand-held mirror to examine my testicles. They amazed me — the skin never stopped moving, literally crawling, and thus the song.

In 50+ years since putting the mirror back in my sister's room, I probably haven't gone a week without singing "My Balls." Today I was singing "My Balls" in the shower, and realized I'd never yet shared the lyrics, so there ya go.

♦ ♦ ♦  

My nephew George continues his concern about my mental health. He's 50-something and a non-stop stoner, but he's a Christian and knows I'm not. I guess he's worried about my immortal soul or some such.

Coupla days ago, we texted about the All-Star Game (he was excited, and I wasn't), and the SuperSonics (he thinks they're moving back to Seattle from Oklahoma City, and I don't), and the car I no longer have (he thinks riding the bus is a slow form of suicide).

A few hours later outta nowhere he texted, "I really hope you can find something in life to bring you joy."

Do I seem joyless?, I wondered. To George, probably. If there's a recurring motif to our text messages, it's that he's happy or optimistic about something, and I reply with cynicism and pessimism.

Sorry, but it's the cynicism and pessimism that gives me joy in life.

"For an old man without an old lady," I texted back, "I am about as happy as I'll ever be."

♦ ♦ ♦   

Major League Baseball's All-Star Game was held in Seattle this year, a few days ago. I retain a sliver of interest in baseball, but none for the All-Star Game.

I don't like the ball park, won't pay the prices, and couldn't sit through the commercials even if I wanted to watch the game on TV. Not to mention, no TV. What, me cynical and pessimistic?

Well, on the day before the All-Star Game, I met with an old friend for dinner, and getting there entailed a bus ride from the south side to downtown, and then another bus from downtown to the Capitol Hill neighborhood.

The downtown leg of my trip brought me close enough to see the ballpark, and it was like being at Checkpoint Charlie.

At every intersection, two police muscle-cars were parked illegally on the sidewalk, with their flashers flashing. The cops from those cars, all roided out like Mark McGwire, stood in batches at the corner, scowling muscularly.

And again, this was at every intersection for a mile, all along the bus route, and presumably at other intersections on nearby blocks beyond my view. Must've seen 60 police muscle-cars and 200 police-muscle-men along my way.

Some of the cops and cop-cars were branded Seattle Police Department, some were King County Sheriffs Dept, some were from suburban police departments. With so many, many cops, it would've been the perfect time for a bank stick-up on the city's north side — would there have been any cops remaining to respond?

Downtown Seattle, at least near the ball park, was a police state. Three cop choppers swirled above the area. It felt nothing like America, and exactly like America.

And this was the day before the All-Star Game, so presumably, it was merely a dry run. The real show of force, the snipers and surveillance, would've been on Tuesday, day of the game.

If this is what's necessary to hold a big-time spectacle like the MLB All-Star Game, the game should be cancelled, or played at a military base.

Were I still employed and needing to bus through downtown, I would've taken the day off, not to watch the game, but to avoid being anywhere near it.

♦ ♦ ♦   

On the topic of work and all that rot: My original plan after leaving Haugen & Dahl was to take a week off, maybe two. Today's two weeks since my last day, and I have enjoyed it so much that I believe I'll take two more.

There's enough money in the bank to pay the rent for August and September, so I'm rich, damn it, and I'm going to be the idle rich. Until I'm poor again.



  1. Captain HampocketsJuly 14, 2023 at 4:00 PM

    Have you shared the lyrics to "I've Got a Penis?"

    1. I thought I had, but can't find it with a search. Perhaps I should just release an album of my greatest really stupid dick, balls, poop, farts, and jism songs.

  2. The police presence around downtown sounds really scary. Was there some threat they wre responding to?

    Testicle humor generally eludes me :) but you boys do love your dicks and balls.

  3. If there was an actual threat, the city and county kept it very hush-hush. Certainly all of the many well-armed police seemed concerned only with chatting up the other well-armed police, so my impression is that what I saw was standard procedure for a big event: a festival of overtime.

    Sorry about my dick and balls, but yeah, I do find them very entertaining.

  4. Youve been singing about your balls since you were 12, and your how old now?

    1. It's "you're."

    2. It comes down to whether you think balls and farts and all that stuff is funny, and if you don't why are you reading this website?

    3. I believe it's OK, better than OK, to compose and sing sonnets to one's balls at any age.

    4. It's also "you've," but I try not to edit anyone but myself.

    5. If I wrote up all the balls & fart jokes I tell myself all the time, there'd be nothing on this site but balls jokes and fart jokes — and that's not even considering all the all that stuff jokes.

  5. A suggestion from the poet laureate of eastern Montana:

    "under Biggie, two smalls"

    1. I will test drive the new lyric singing in the shower tomorrow, thanks.

  6. Miles City? If so, I believe it's called Poet Lariat.



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