Separating Wheat from Chaff

Mary-Louise Parker pic credit.

Grain silos are dangerous. Fall into the top of one and you might end up suffocating as you struggle to escape, buried alive. There are trucks itching to run you over. Augers want to rip your hand off. And an empty silo can be full of explosive dust. No smoking, thankyouverymuch.

I'll resist the (strong) temptation to compare love to grain silos. Of course love doesn't physically injur anyone. But it can feel nearly as rotten then things turn bad.

My first grain silo accident happened when I had to move cities for a job. She was a friend turned lover, IMO still the best way to find the someone. She stayed, I left. We corresponded, I was busy. She found someone else, I discovered heartbreak. Only sleep soothed.

The loss wasn't fatal, however, and hope regenerated. Another crop came in. I know now the poor odds of success if you're in a long distance relationship.

Separating wheat from chaff. As long as it doesn't kill you. 




Bottoms Up, Croppers.

Brodeo

I pretty much gave up on my regular Friday bar on Friday. A long day labouring for money gives a bloke a thirst, and when booze alone can't release the animal spirits, the potential for finding women will tip the balance. Still dripping with Working Stiff cologne, I made Happy Hour with a minute to spare.

It's a hamster-wheel life, single maledom. It's one in which we are handily practiced at dismembering women with a head-to-toe glance. (That's a metaphoric dismemberment, but no less vicious for it.) She's either a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down, after which comes the calculation of whether she'd have an interest in a chap with twelve-hour-shift hair. Looks like another hundred scampers around the wheel when she sashays to the guy with the Bentley key fob.

Mr Nights, my drinking companion, looked kinda peeved. He'd been sipping tequila for an hour, and peevishness is a common-enough side-effect. But in this case it was the lack of women in the bar that had gotten to him.

It's a brodeo here, he said, despondent.

And he was right. Over his left and right shoulders was a herd of men, rather like beasts at a waterhole. In nature, a regular mix of sexes would naturally gather at the cool corner of the bar - which I think was the reason Mr Nights was off-balance. Absence of females felt all artificial and dysfunctional. The livestock references aren't accurate either. All showered and shaved and Alpha-ed up, the guys looked as useless as show-dogs. Bulls never looked so pouffed.

The good news is that even if one is stuck hamster-wheeling through life, it's possible to have more than one hamster wheel.



Bottoms Up, rodents!

Friday Fluffer - Robotic Love

Wombat's Second Maxim should be:

Never underestimate the capacity of men to find new ways to stick their dicks in things.

If you thought the Pocket Pussy was bad enough - as I do - meet Roxxxy. Roxxxy is a programmable sex bot. She was developed by....

....you know what? This is so stupid, I can't continue. Decide for yourself. I'm not often embarrassed by my fellow man, but this is beyond pathetic. [link] Safe for work.




Pic from here [link]

Resignation

Being single is okay, but that might be resignation talking.

Resignation has a habit of filling silence with verbal equivalents of shrugs and open hands raised in surrender. He (or she) is the kind of emotion who sits in a comfortable chair in a corner at parties, not saying much, but making it count when he (or she) does.

Not that Resignation is devastatingly funny or heart-breakingly pithy; it isn't. His (or her) trick is timing, knowing when competition is at a minimum. Resignation is what's left when there's not that much left.

Like I wrote, he (or she) lives to fill the gap.





Oil from here. [link]