All *NEW Paul's Place ❗ ⭕❗⭕ ❗⭕
 
Welcome...
◀️ (kLik the piC)
These aggregation of stories,
lampoons and irreverent points of view...
occasionally make sense.
I hope you can share my smile.


*NEW* 🆕 I put in a brand new sound system...
... and a turbo juicer.

You deserve a slow-dance .
(* ©April 2018-21 June Paul P. )
Keywords | Title View | Refer to a Friend |
My Private Mail Box 📌
Posted:Jul 12, 2018 9:41 am
Last Updated:Jun 8, 2021 2:54 am
499432 Views
My Private Mail Box 📩...
Do you have something to share? Send me a private message.
🍸 ☕
(kLik the Ram)
0 Comments , 97 Pending
If You Are Naked in a Forest... Will Anyone Notice... 😮❗
Posted:Jun 6, 2021 4:47 pm
Last Updated:Jun 9, 2021 7:03 pm
1776 Views
In lieu of comments — which are broken — text me your thoughts.
450 - 555 - 1927


If a blog is posted onto a website, where comments are FORBIDDEN, can we still call it a blog, or is it simply a cluster of words and pictures posted to a blank page?

If it were a mature timber growth, would it hold up to that 'lumberjack rule'? I mean, I think I'd notice if a tree were felled in my favourite plot of parkland, even if I NEVER heard it fall — wouldn't you?

I recall in grade one; that substitute teacher messing with us. She silenced our reticence by pressing her forefinger to her lips, then glared; we all complied. Our 'regular' teacher let us rattle on and on — but not that NEW one.

I'd rather have the freedom to voice my opinion instead of having to swallow my lip. I prefer the *victual option that defines a blog.

The current state of affairs on THIS website will exist for a while. There is no monetary incentive to fracture (into minutia) and repair faulty code, so this is our NEW reality.

It flattens out the purpose of this space. Or is it a way for a blogger to vent without worrying where the wind blows? I'll relax and realize — absolutely NOTHING is expected from me.

What else is there to do?



*victual; pronounced; 'vittal' — meaning food and drink, especially as needed for sustenance.*
I accidentally stumbled upon this word and thought it was perfect.
If You Are Naked in a Forest Will Anyone Notice

.....................

16 Comments
Sex In The Car With Frosty Windows... 😎❗
Posted:Jun 5, 2021 11:44 am
Last Updated:Jun 12, 2021 3:04 am
2187 Views
In honour of the site issues, allow me to entertain you with a tale. Twas an adventure Lynn and I traveled on.

In lieu of comments (which are broken), call me on my cell, with your thoughts.
450 - 555 - 1927

-----------------------------

Lynn reached under her skirt, lifted her cute bum, and peeled off a skimpy pair of pink panties— flinging them on my dashboard. I grinned back at her; my turn. I undid my belt and clumsily shuffled my jeans down to my ankles. Damn, have you ever tried fucking in a car? Five minutes ago, I'd forgotten what a jig-saw THIS frantic ritual could be.

Lynn and I HAD been teasing each other for fifteen miles as I bombed along that midnight highway towards HER place. Lynn's hands had made their way into my pants, and she'd been massaging my cock with cramped effectiveness: I was rock-hard. My right hand had slipped under the edge of her underwear to nuzzle the lips of her pussy. She was wet and squirming when we'd noticed a vacant picnic area by the side of the road.

I'd nodded at Lynn and turned into that deserted parking lot. We were on fire with a desperate hunger that had to be fed. We would NEVER have endured the twenty miles — to Lynn's bedroom. Safely parked, I'd shut the engine; heavy breathing filled the space. Lynn and I sat there for a second as we planned the logistics of — sex in a car.

Now you're caught up. And THERE we were; my jeans crumpled on top of my shoes, Lynn's panties footloose on the dash.

Lynn leaned over and clamped her mouth on my pleading dick as my fingers found her swollen clit and massaged its length. She moaned softly as my digits gently rubbed that sensitive 'button' of hers. My eyes closed as her mouth seared the glans of my throbbing phallus. Lynn thrust her hips towards my hand — we BOTH wanted more!

"I'll get under you," I suggested, struggling with my fucking ankle-bound denim. I climbed and stumbled over the intruding 'shifter' towards the passenger seat; while lifting her bare butt high in the air. Lynn had her face squished on the cold windshield; 'reverse cowgirl' was her choice. She reached between her legs and fumbled — in the darkness — to try and find my beckoning cock. Success, as she guided my rigid manhood to the threshold of her eager gap.

I felt the intense heat from her entrance as she slowly impaled herself onto my prong. We gasped as I filled her. Is there a feeling more complete than that first union of a penis into a vagina? We paused to enjoy that luscious merger. I held the cheeks of her ass — squeezing them — as I braced for the next step.

Thrusting began as Lynn raised then lowered herself onto me; we moaned with lust-filled satisfaction. She closed her eyes and softly murmured expletives as I repeatedly slid my cock into her peach. Lynn grabbed my balls and caressed and squeezed them. Soon, the slippery sounds of sloppy sex filled the air along with a rhythmic slapping as her thighs bounced against mine. We were approaching that irreversible precipice with impatient abandon; Lynn's moans grew louder and more passionate.

I realized Lynn was having an orgasm when she cried out, lost her balance and smacked her head on the rear-view mirror. Her legs had turned to soft rubber as I supported her weight in my arms. I could feel her pussy pulsing as she repeatedly gasped.

I was 'close' and continued thrusting three or four more times until finally, my body shuddered. I had reached that elusive 'cliff' I'd been searching for; I was weightless. My eyes closed as my brain erupted with a kaleidoscope of sparkling colours. Every nerve in my body tingled as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over me. I pumped my seed into Lynn's tight vessel as a deep growl seized my throat. Leaning my head forward on Lynn's back, I held her close.

Our tremors gradually subsided — we panted — while our entwined organs twitched and throbbed. All we heard was the frenzied thumping of our heartbeats. Suddenly, we were startled by a string of loud on the window. We froze.

What was that? I thought. The vicious glare of a flashlight rudely peered into our private room. Oh, for fuck's sake. I made out a vague shadow of the intruder as panic snatched my breath.

"Lynn, it's a cop," I rasped as I lifted her off my shaft and desperately tried to clamour back into the driver's seat. Have you ever clamoured efficiently? Neither have I.

That incessant rapping persisted and grew louder — with monotonous urgency. I managed to tumble into MY half of the car, yanked and scrunched my jeans up and over my waist, and watched as Lynn scrambled into her panties. We were ready.

I lowered my frosted window and quite casually asked the man with the beam in his hand — and the firearm in his holster — what the FUCK he wanted.

"Good evening, officer. How may I help you?"

It might have been the polite and confident manner that I'd chosen to phrase my query. Or was it that the windows were SO cloudy, HE had seen nothing? Perhaps it was the explanation I gave when that man — in authority — asked his predictable question. My reply was swift and straightforward.

"My girlfriend was getting car sick, so I stopped here until she could recover. She's fine now, officer, and I believe we can be on our way."

Minutes later, I was accelerating onto the highway, smiling to myself as I spoke to Lynn. "Well, THAT was a close call."

"Huh?" she replied, frowning while wiggling her derriere. "My panties are soaked, and this seat is sticky."

I looked at Lynn and blinked. She'd given me a valid reason to drive with greater urgency; I HAD to get her out of those soggy undergarments. Is there anything worse than cold, cum-filled undies stuck to one's vagina? Not according to Lynn.


.....................
Sex In The Car With Frosty Windows
6 Comments
Things a Woman in a White Chiffon Gown Shouldn.t Do... 😮❗
Posted:Jun 1, 2021 11:50 am
Last Updated:Jun 12, 2021 11:18 am
3420 Views

Certain things in life just aren't done.

Eating a cherry popsicle in the blazing July sun while wearing a white chiffon gown would be one.

Smoking a cigarette in a car with a inside — unless you crack the window open would be another.

And passing out phony twenty dollar bills at the gas station could be a third.

They're all BAD ideas. Yesterday, I accidentally stumbled upon another one.

I was rummaging through my overcrowded closet, searching for 'eclectic' yet rarely worn items to pass onto the less privileged. I was also multi-tasking by cooking in the kitchen. That was a huge fucking mistake.

I never rev up my stove without supervising the proceedings yet — for some messed up reason — I'd quickly drifted into my bedroom for what I thought would be a minute. When I smelled smoke, I ran to my kitchen. What the FUCK? (*or replace with your favorite expression of shock.*)

The flames from the grease in the frying pan had reached the draft hood over my stove. I didn't panic until I couldn't find the lid to that fucking frying pan. It's then that I started to weigh other options. (*By the way, there aren't too many when you're dealing with a grease fire.*) Pouring that blaze down the sink seemed like my only alternative. (*I know, but I wasn't thinking clearly.*)

Before I could make it to the sink, the gloves with which I'd picked up the pan proved useless in preventing my hands from burning. Those towering flames had now singed my ceiling with black swirls. I placed the pan on the floor, reached into the cupboard for the first oversized lid I found and succeeded in starving that inferno. Unfortunately, there were consequences.

In all my years of cooking, I've NEVER had a fire. As proof of my stupidity, I now had a blackened ceiling and a charred floor, not to mention — my scorched ego. After all my experience and decades of prudence, I had finally learned my lesson the hard way.

Never clean your closet while frying.

I was selective and generous with what I gave away. Although let's face it, would a homeless person truly appreciate their first opportunity to wear a designer pair of 'Yves St. Laurent' pants? I don't think they'd be impressed, even if they noticed the label — but I'd hope so.

.......................................
*Note to anyone paying attention; grease fires are a bitch!
.......................


Does the man make the suit or does the suit make the man?
31 Comments
How To Show Your Intentions... Without SCARING Them Off... 😮❗
Posted:May 25, 2021 10:46 am
Last Updated:Jun 10, 2021 11:43 pm
4950 Views
There are NO 'excellent' Samaritans, so the best I can do is 'good'. I'll help out a stranger when I can. The other night, paranoia and perceptions conspired to blow up any 'good' intentions I had.

Darkness had draped the landscape as we all drove down that wide boulevard with our blinding lights blazing. Except for the person in that car in front of me, they merrily rolled along — in their own dark shadow. I felt I should do something for the safety of all of us. At the next light, I had my opportunity.

I eased up to that blacked-out vehicle to find a middle-aged woman behind the wheel. I motioned her via sign language — two fingers pointing at my eyes then at the road ahead — and by turning my lights on and off. She looked at me, bewildered. I lowered my window to speak with her and suggested she do the same. Well, the reaction I got was completely unexpected.

Immediately, she turned her head, as if I didn't exist, raised all her windows and, as soon as the light had changed, ripped down that road into the distance. Do I look that terrifying? Did she ever suffer from a bad experience? Could she be SO oblivious?

A half dozen blocks up ahead, that speeding 'stealth' car had caught the attention of flashing, red, white and blue lights. As I slowly passed to rubber-neck, I watched her gesticulate with animated enthusiasm as she tried to explain why she was a twit.

And then it dawned on me. I tell my daughters, who are well into adulthood, to be wary of strangers; had that lady's parents once advised her likewise? I think a certain amount of mid-life skepticism is valid, but an equal helping of driver self-awareness is also essential.

When I got home, while brushing my teeth, I looked into the mirror. Damn, maybe I do look scary. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do about THAT? I spent the next couple of minutes practising my smile. 😊

.......................


I think I'll wear a shirt, next time I drive.
31 Comments
Women Say Men... Aren.t as Sexy... As Men Think They Are... 😮❗
Posted:May 18, 2021 10:45 am
Last Updated:Jun 7, 2021 7:17 pm
9294 Views
When I'm in my car, I don't have the time or patience to fiddle with playlists or search for themed music; I choose whatever random radio station is available and listen until I get fed up — then I flip to the next airwave. It's rare for me to get glued to one frequency for any period. Yet yesterday, I was stuck on 'The Beat 92.5' ; they'd sucked me in with their — 'Question of the Day.'


'What do men do — that THEY think is sexy — but has the OPPOSITE effect on women?'

Interesting query. Here are some of the answers that were texted.

- Send dick pics. (Of course.)
- Wear socks to bed. (What man thinks that's sexy?)
- Call middle-aged women 'hot'. (The term ladies prefer, is 'attractive' or 'beautiful'.)
- Wear pants that are too tight. (I can see that.)


And then the DJ opened up the phone lines. Who knew women had so much to say about men? The first caller must have enjoyed 'Happy Hour' somewhere in this city; it was evident as she spoke that she'd had a few.

"Just because you buy a woman one fucking drink doesn't mean you own her for the night."

The DJ had forgotten to press the seven-second delay, and — after another second of stunned silence — he cracked up. Meanwhile, the lady continued.

"Don't think women get impressed with one drink. Are we expected to sit next to you ALL fucking night because of that two-for-one one glass of whatever you just bought us?"

After I'd stopped laughing, I paused and thought about what the caller had said. I might have been guilty of THAT faux-pas — once or twice.

Traffic barely budged, but I didn't mind. The DJ was still chuckling and questioned whether or not he'd lost his job. I sat in my car and listened and got an education from all the women who called. Who knew? lol 😂

................


I guess these socks are sexy; sort of.
51 Comments
Secrets You Should Keep... If You.re Making a Fresh Start...😮❗
Posted:May 11, 2021 11:46 am
Last Updated:May 19, 2021 5:00 pm
10003 Views
Debra sat on the polished granite, leaned her elbows on her knees then propped her chin between her hands. That pile of red roses had shrivelled and browned, and clumps of black earth were dangerously close to staining the white laces that dangled from her runners. The wind whispered her secret in a hushed chorus as it rustled the leaves of the soaring maples that had assembled. Robert was gone — and she felt nothing.

Debra looked up to watch a large crow fly into the distance, perhaps to escape the rain which had begun to fall. It was a refreshing summer shower she welcomed. She never noticed the approaching footsteps until they were upon her.

"Enjoying the moment?" Detective John's voice boomed between the fat water droplets that pattered.

"Yes... I mean, no. I'm leaving for New Hampshire tomorrow to visit my sister. I was saying goodbye," Debra stammered.

John opened his umbrella and welcomed her. Debra obliged and huddled under the canopy he'd provided; yet... she felt uncomfortable as he spoke.

"It's an absolute coincidence that Robert plunged where he did. That trail you were jogging has few danger spots; he tumbled in the only prohibited area — it was marked and blocked by warning signs everywhere. You guys didn't see them as you ran?"

This question had become repetitive and irritated Debra.

"He was ahead of me, I've told you already."

"Yes, you have. I can't figure out how an experienced runner like Robert could have slipped from such an obvious path."

"I warned him not to go, but he wouldn't listen. He was stubborn."

John looked at Debra and nodded politely. "Walk you back to your car?"

They walked as the detective spoke again.

"I'll need your address in case anything else comes up."

"Sure, but you could have called me. Why are you here?" Debra asked, puzzled.

"The autopsy revealed something interesting. Robert died from his fall, but he was also high as a kite. Did you see him take anything that day, Rohypnol, Ecstasy perhaps?"

"I don't know if he took drugs. He never told me and I never noticed, and it's too late to ask him, isn't it?" She'd reached her car, drew the keys out of her pocket and impatiently waited for John's reply.

"That's true. We might never know, will we?"

Debra slipped into the seat, closed the door and listened to the calming pitter-patter of raindrops as they tapped on her roof. She watched as that detective walked away, knowing — hoping — she'd never see him again, then rested her forehead against the steering wheel, precisely as she'd done... two weeks ago.

A sharp of knuckles against glass startled her. It was Robert; she'd been thinking while parked in the driveway. He spoke to her in his usual belligerent tone.

"Hey! The rain has stopped. Are we going for a fucking run or not? Otherwise, I'm leaving without you."

"Uhm... Yes, of course. I'll get our water bottles from the fridge. Why don't we try that park by the lakeshore? It's got an impressive cliff to jog along," Debra replied, stepping out of her car.

The first time he beat her, Debra knew she'd have to find a fresh beginning, and that 'debut' was about to start. She was anxious to repay Robert for all his devoted fucked-up love.

................


Black as the devil, pure as an angel, sweet as love.
21 Comments
A Kiss... Is Just a Kiss... Or Is It... 😮❗❗
Posted:May 4, 2021 10:56 am
Last Updated:May 13, 2021 5:09 am
12371 Views
She looked at him, grinned, then labelled his sweater as 'funky'; was a compliment, she insisted. I admired the rich, black cashmere with that silver gnome, creatively stitched on his shoulder. " Funky, is a fluorescent t-shirt you buy in a souvenir shop next those glitter cellphone cases," he frowned at her. Their date was off an auspicious start.

I sat on my stool by the window, watching the cars go by, sipping my cappuccino; I tried not to stare at them. They, were an attractive young couple standing next to me nestled around that counter, with the cream and , and a half dozen other stainless steel vessels containing trimmings I never knew one could put into coffee.

"All your clothes are funky. That's what I like about you", she whispered.

His steaming mug was prepped, and he tried to walk past her — to claim a couple of those empty chairs. She moved to her right and reached for the ; he took a step to avoid her. She caught his glance, leaned forward and went for the milk; he veered left, but she quickly shuffled in his way. Her lips brushed by his cheek. She took a breath and nuzzled her nose against his ear, then turned and faced his eyes and inched her open mouth towards his.

He had no choice; was none offered, and no other would have been taken.

Their kiss was soft and gentle yet held the raging passion of two young lovers — still learning each other. I guess I was staring because when she un-fluttered her eyes, she glared at me as if say, "What the fuck do you want?"

I would have answered, "Some of what HE'S having." Instead, I turned my head and looked out through the hazy glass onto the street as a cluster of dusty cars drove by.

.......................


It's just a kiss, or is it?
35 Comments
You Know Her... She Wears Stiletto Heels... and Drives a Truck... 😎❗
Posted:Apr 29, 2021 11:37 am
Last Updated:Jun 5, 2021 10:03 am
15225 Views
'Time'
is a pitiless old bitch who plods along in scuffed stiletto heels, cloaks cheap whiskey stains on her red-smeared lips and cackles with a chain-smoker's cough. The electronic billboard I'd just passed warned me of an 'incident' four miles up ahead. I crawled behind the noxious black fumes from a trio of eighteen-wheelers and glared at my dashboard clock. Why, had I promised Lynn I'd be there?

SHE, planted that seed decades ago in a Toronto hotel.

The party was jammed with hangers-on and groupies and a throng of friends we'd invited to join us after our gig. I was the last to arrive, and she was the first person I saw — she stood out. I was mesmerized before Lynn had even said hello.

It took me a while to sift through that crowd and get close enough for her blue-green eyes to greet me. We didn't make love that night; instead, she poured a foundation for an insidious addiction that permanently tattooed my brain. In one night, she'd twisted me between her fingers.

She'd call whenever she was in Montreal, and I'd drop everything to enjoy whatever time she had for me. We were always reckless in our lust for each other, fueling my obsession and leaving me with a horde of memories and wild adventures. Others complained of her vain cruelty, but she only jerked me around once; claimed her best friend had fallen down a flight of stairs — it was bullshit.

And then her career stepped in.

She moved to London, and we drifted apart. I was invited to her wedding but never went and I hadn't seen her in years. When she called this morning, my heart skipped a couple of beats. She was in the city for a conference, would I like to meet up for dinner and, oh yeah — she's divorced.

And here I was — fucked on the freeway. I dialled Lynn's number; it wasn't going to be — not THIS time. Besides, I thought to myself, why should I jump whenever she snaps her fingers. She picked up after a couple of rings; I was about to speak, but I paused.

I'd begun to gain speed; ten, then thirty and forty miles per hour.

"I'll meet you in the lobby of your hotel in twenty-five minutes," I blurted. "See you soon, Lynn."

Why did I say twenty-five minutes? I was sweating out the haze of exits in front of me, wondering how the heck was I going to make it downtown that quickly. Suddenly, those damn plodding trucks in front of me took an off-ramp, and I had — a wide-open road.

My phone rang, it was Lynn.

"Paul, listen, my sister just called. My brother fell down a flight of stairs; I'm taking the next flight to Toronto. We'll have dinner another time; I hope you understand."

I eased up on the gas, looked at my watch and smiled; I would have made it. What a bitch! I meant 'time'... I think.

................


In my city, many women truckers wear this uniform.
33 Comments
How To Write A Fucking Profile... So That People Fucking Read It...😎❗
Posted:Apr 22, 2021 11:31 am
Last Updated:May 31, 2021 4:45 pm
20890 Views
The Sad Lament

If you peruse the pages of this imploding website, you'll inevitably stumble over some poor soul's blog as they lament their inability to make themselves understood. Poorly written profiles combined with an inattentive audience result in a crybaby approach to finding a solution. Wouldn't it be more productive to learn how to write a proper profile for your target audience?

I'm here to help you before this site fades into oblivion.


The Typical Complaints

How many times have you come across some sensitive male blogger whine;

- They won't stop sending me pussy pics.
- I just want to blog.
- I'm not here to meet.
- I want a meaningful friendship before we fuck.


And yet, women harass men on this site incessantly and without remorse. The reason — men have mishandled their profiles. Let me explain.


How Much Can A Standard Member View

More and more women no longer carry that golden crown, they've become Standard members, and as such — they can only view a portion of a profile. How much?

Approximately 25 words, or 122 characters. THAT'S how much space you have to make clear EXACTLY what you're looking for. There is no room for pleasantries or salutations, or adjectives, let alone adverbs. Here are prime examples of how you should express yourself.

- "Please fuck off."
- "I don't wanna fuck."
- "I just wanna blog."
- "I'm here to look at pics."
- "Even if I wanna fuck I've forgotten how."
- "I'm only here for the free coffee."
- " Leave me the fuck alone. My wife just left me and I'm depressed."


The Average Attention Span

Experts have determined that people on a web page read only 20% to 28% of what's written before they get bored. So even if a woman is a Gold member, she'll be inattentive and lose interest in a hurry. Don't waste your time describing your interests or your wish list - they'll never get low enough into your profile to read it.


Women Can't Read

That's shocking yet true. Don't use fancy three-syllable words and keep your writing level to no higher than a Grade Four proficiency. Although women claim to be able to read — it's a fallacy.

Optimize Your Profile Pics

If you don't want to get harassed by women, stop flashing your dicks. The best pics you can post are;

- elbows, knees, arms, feet (wearing dirty socks), white teeth (are pushing the limit), definitely NO tongues!


A Perfect Example

Here is an example of a well-structured, exquisitely composed and brief profile.
..............


나는 섹스하고 싶지 않습니다. 채팅하고 싶어요. 나는 처녀입니다. 나는 친구로 남고 싶다.

............


As you can see, this person has followed all my rules and has crafted the perfect profile.


Conclusion

Don't complain about being harassed by women on this site. Take these tips I've provided, hone your communication skills and affect a positive step to ensure YOUR profile reaches your target audience.

Make it happen, and good luck!
...........................

This man successfully found a partner to spank.
74 Comments
Would You Put THAT In Your Mouth... On A DARE... 😦❗
Posted:Apr 20, 2021 11:37 am
Last Updated:Apr 24, 2021 12:01 am
18348 Views
Who says hospital food sucks? My niece is a nurse at one of the mega hospitals in this city, and it's got a fantastic world-class food court. It's nestled beneath a fifty-foot high, glass atrium along a wide hallway of vine-covered red brick walls in an inviting space that murmurs — 'Why dontcha sit a spell.' I was early, and you know me and my restless feet — so I walked around.

I trudged along through a maze of pastel green halls and offered an encouraging smile and a thumbs up to those who looked like they needed one. Eventually, I'd drifted into the emergency waiting room, and that's when I saw her — sitting in a wheelchair.

She was a young girl with a chrome hood ornament stuck in her mouth. [* NO, I don't know what type of car it came from; I should have asked. *] I wondered what might provoke someone to shove something like THAT down one's throat, and then it dawned on me — it must have been a dare.

Which reminded me of one I'd lived through many years ago.

I was ten years old, lying naked on a table in the basement of my neighbour's house, Rosanne. She and her assistant, Giovanna, were both eleven and had volunteered to give me a free medical exam; I obliged. When they got down to that sensitive rigid twig between my legs, I thought of something my best friend Bobby had told me. His older brother had told Bobby — so it HAD to be true.

I shared Bobby's comment with my physicians.

"Ya know, if you lick it, it tastes just like a cherry lollipop."

Rosanne and Giovanna both stopped and stared at me. "No, it doesn't," they exclaimed.

"Yes, it does. Bobby's brother told him so, and he told me," I replied, quite sure of myself. Rosanne confronted her assistant, Giovanna.

"I dare you to."

Ya don't wanna mess with a spunky Italian girl who's got three brothers and doesn't take shit from anyone. With a confident glare, she leaned down between my thighs, licked and then waited a few seconds; as if to test the theory.

Rosanne spoke again. "Ya gotta lick it more than once — like a lollipop," she insisted with authority.

Giovanna nodded and dove in with gusto. Now, if it wasn't for the fact that we all heard the front door opening and Rosanne's mom calling us into the kitchen for popsicles, I might have had a 'happy ending'. As it was, I'd felt the most incredible sensations ever — in my time on the planet!

"It doesn't taste like cherry," whispered Giovanna to Rosanne as we all scampered up those stairs for our treats.

They wheeled 'hood ornament girl' into a private room as I looked at my watch. I'd be late, so I quickly headed back to the food court, where my niece greeted me. Our meals were 'ta die for,' and we both grinned ear to ear as we were draped with the international aromas of haute cuisine.

I sat there smiling, savouring my 'casu marzu' (maggot cheese) and grilled octopus while thinking about HOW they ever extracted that hood ornament from that girl's mouth.

Geez, the strange things people will shove up and into holes and cavities of their bodies, huh?

............................

I believe that's a bottle of Miller stuck up there, or am I wrong?
26 Comments
If You Do A Lot of THIS... Don.t Expect A Lot of THAT... 😮❗
Posted:Apr 15, 2021 10:45 am
Last Updated:May 26, 2021 2:13 pm
19762 Views
Ever have to deal with methodical, plodding, detail-oriented — 'don't see the big picture' — people whose goal (seemingly) is to blather and prove how smart they are?

The meeting started late because HE (our Chairman Richard) wanted to wait until EVERYONE was in the boardroom and seated — even though we'd had a quorum for over half an hour. George and Irena were tardy; no one wondered why. Richard glared at them and went through roll call, although THAT was redundant; some of us sighed.

He refused to acknowledge a motion to approve the previous meeting's minutes; two extracts were missing from our copies. Instead of reviewing the missing pages, he insisted on reading all eight — just in CASE, there were other omissions.

Before we could vote on accepting the minutes, Dottie left the room to answer an emergency call from her ; and Bill and Steve were summoned to put out a 'fire' with their TOP . We still had a quorum, but rather than vote, the chairman, waited for all of them to return — which they did, about six or seven minutes later.

After the vote, he read the agenda line by fricken line, despite the fact it was the same plan we'd had for the previous six months — with one new addition.

Finally, we got to the meeting's main item. Richard got up and used his 'privilege' to share with everyone a lengthy article he'd read — in The Globe and Mail — but unfortunately, he couldn't recall the intricate details of what the author's conclusions were. We all looked at each other around that giant table and just rolled our fucking eyes.

At that moment, Dottie got called back to the phone with her , and Mike — from Marketing — walked into our room to remind us that THEY had it booked for one o'clock and we were already five minutes late.

David quickly motioned to adjourn the meeting, I seconded the motion, a flurry of hands flew in the air, and we zoomed out of that bunker in seconds, all except one embittered chairman. Richard stood there with a puzzled look on his face. "Who seconded that motion?" he squawked after us.

I turned and watched as Mike casually sat down, looked up at him and grinned, then tapped an up-tempo Latin rhythm on that polished oak table.

................................
*Note:I dare ANYONE to write a piece about blathering and not get paranoid about blathering. lol 😂
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We met for a coffee in the cafeteria after the meeting; it was 'casual Friday'.
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Shades of Her Chestnut Hair... and Two Hundred Pound Anchors... 😮❗
Posted:Apr 6, 2021 10:31 am
Last Updated:Apr 22, 2021 11:44 am
22730 Views
A brilliant haze splashed hues of auburn and had lit her hair in shades of chestnut and burgundy as the sun blazed its chorus — and paused. He gazed at the framed picture and her faithful smile and recalled that moment as he sat down. Saturday afternoon was fading. He lit a tiny pink candle buried in the chocolate cupcake, resting on his kitchen table, and watched it flicker as it cast vague shadows along darkened walls. It was his birthday.

SHE was never supposed to leave before him; he thought he'd made that clear to her. He smiled wistfully as an accustomed ache choked his throat. He blew out the candle then watched... as those wisps of white smoke drifted into the air. His wish would not be granted.

The boxes were packed, and most of his furniture was gone. He'd just missed calls from both his daughters — while rummaging through old clothes in the basement — but his phone had captured their song and the harmony of his grandkids. He listened to the replay of their voices and giggles.

He remembered that time when they'd tried to plant sixty candles on his cake, with much laughter and dizzy hope. It was a fail, but one where they ALL squealed and cheered. He'd puffed at those flames till he was light-headed.

He took a bite of his cupcake, sipped from a glass of cold milk and slowly turned his head towards the eerie silence that had emerged. The Grandfather clock, the guardian of his hallway — the one he'd bought with her when they first moved in — had just stopped ticking. Its moon face mocked him, the swan's neck, reflected in the bevelled glass, stood expressionless. No one wanted it, and he didn't know what to do with it.

The doorbell rang and broke the stillness of his thoughts.

He shuffled his tired legs to the door and greeted a young couple who smiled and spoke softly. "We saw your ad for the Grandfather clock. Do you still have it for sale?"

He welcomed them into his house. The couple gasped as they eagerly nestled up to the edge of the impressive clock and began to caress the smooth lines of its warm mahogany case. He smiled contently to himself as he watched. That clock would start life afresh and find a new home.

As long as they didn't ask him for help, moving that ginormous two hundred pound timepiece down the stairs, up the walkway and onto the roof of that guy's fucking Toyota.

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