If I were a cinnamon peeler, I would ride your bed and leave the yellow bark dust on your pillow

Just got back from Lemon Thai with Luke Warm. I had already eaten when he called to say he was in town and suggested we get dinner, but it's not often he's in town, so I went along for the ride. We split an appetizer of Curry dumplings. They were tasty and, to borrow a line from Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about tha-yat, or that, for those of you who have a difficult time with phonetic renderings.

At the restaurant, Luke Warm was assaulted with a welter of text messages from Foley. I may have shared the following in a previous post, but if I haven't, I'll do so now: Foley loves to text. A lot of people do. I've been positively awestruck at all the callers in support of text messaging I've been hearing on talk radio while driving to work in the morning. I consider my level of intelligence to be slightly above average, which I believe is a fair assessment. But you know, that's not such an achievement when you consider the people I'm smarter than, the likes of which think typing while driving is a reasonable thing to do. I recall a Simpsons episode in which Homer installs an Easy-Bake Oven in his car and bakes while driving. Absurd, but not so far from where we're at.

Anyway, Foley texted Luke Warm a bunch as we talked about Fourth of July plans, our parents, the Rondo trade talks, and how Luke Warm's not helping his chances with the man upstairs by choosing not to go to the animal shelter and work alongside his dad. He's sinning twice: He's opting not to spend some quality time with his dear ol' dad and, even worse, he's turning his back on the cutest and cuddliest of God's creatures. If Luke Warm were running for office, I'd hurry up and get a job at a newspaper just so that I could could run an article on the first page with the monolithic headline, "LOCAL MAN RUNNING FOR OFFICE WANTS YOU TO THINK HE'S ALL SWEET AND NICE AND CARING, BUT HE'S NOT BECAUSE HE'D RATHER DO ANYTHING ELSE THAN HELP OUT NEEDY ANIMALS AND SPEND TIME WITH HIS FATHER, WHO REALLY IS SWEET AND NICE AND CARING. WHAT A GOD-DAMNED SON OF A BITCH LUKE WARM IS!
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In the last year or so, I've noticed an advancement in one aspect of male hygiene: post pee hand washing (I'm leaving number two out of the equation because, thank God, I'm rarely in the bathroom with stall-bound men). Because we aren't equipped with a rest room in our office at work, we use the public ones downstairs. Consequently, I've seen a lot of guys peeing (there's no way to make that sound less gross) and bear witness, on a regular basis, to their level of cleanliness. Surprisingly, about ninety five percent of them wash their hands thoroughly after they finish their business. And I mean thoroughly! It's as if they're about to perform surgery. On more than one occasion, a guy has been washing his hands when I enter the bathroom and is still washing them when I begin washing my own.

Please don't get the wrong impression -- I'm not standing in the corner of the bathroom with a clip board and pencil, like some kind of bathroom statistician, but I have been observant, which is the duty of every American, especially after 9/11. Like the sign on the T says: "If You See Something, Report It". Anyway, I've just always assumed guys were filthy pigs in almost every way.

I don't wash my hands as assiduosly. I don't need to: my aim is usually true and there's not much hand washing that needs to be done. Still, I do a quick rinse anyway, to remind myself that I am no ill-begotten wretch, but a sophisticated, civilized gentleman.

So while it's reassuring to know people are washing up after expelling waste from their bodies, I have to wonder if they're doing so, often in excessive fashion, not out of a sense of propriety, but because they're sloppy pee-ers. Maybe they're pissing all over their hands, those hapless louts, and, unlike me, the dean of pristine, really need to wash up once the damage has been done.

I wonder if these same guys are as cleanly after beating off. Even though they've just been beating their dicks like they owe them money for a much longer clip than when they pee -- ball sweat and cum run-off all over at least one of their hands -- I can tell you with certainty that they get nowhere near a sink. They should-we all should- but I just don't think it happens. Probably because no one has the ambition to do much of anything post coitus.

Wow, didn't expect to take things in that direction. To those of you who took offense, I apologize. And sympathize, because I offended myself, too.

Well, I certainly can't get into zoophelia now. Too much, too much. Guess it'll have to wait for another day.

On a not really related note, I'll be helping my parents pick out their very first computer tomorrow. I'm legitimately excited. I think they're the only people I know who have a primitive understanding of computers and the Internet. I'm going to have to teach them how to use a mouse. I'm hardly a computer geek -- there are many six year olds more up to speed than me --so this experience should stroke my ego. And, they're taking me out to lunch. So, free lunch!
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Tom O'Bedlam, a man who eloquently reads poetry on YouTube, recently had his recitation of "The Cinnamon Peeler" banned because, in the collage of visuals that accompanied the poem, there appeared a black and white photo of a woman with an exposed breast. With the prompting of Roger Ebert, who was outraged, and rightfully so, at this development, YouTube reinstated the video. To their credit, they did the right thing, but it never should have been banned in the first place. There was nothing pornographic about the picture or the poem. There are thousands of videos littered all over the site depicting brutal street fights and other acts of violence, but show a tit and game over, son!

In an effort to show I am not the dull, unsophisticated, brute I portray myself to be, I present to you "The Cinnamon Peeler", as read by Tom O' Bedlam.