The intellectual equivalent of a ham sandwich.

Posts tagged ‘Du Jour of the Week’

Thoughts During a Massage

T Minus 5 minutes: I greet her, say hello, how’s it going, etc. Little chit chat. Work out any specifics (ex. I went once when my right knee was bothering me due to lack of good enough stretching).

T Minus 3 minutes: She tells me to get undressed, hop on the massage table, and she’ll be back in a few minutes. As I am getting undressed the same thought always pops into my head: What if she walked in right now (with me standing beside the table in just boxer briefs)? That would be so awkward! But really, that’s a pretty silly thought because she knows better than most people what I look like wearing just boxer briefs and she couldn’t care less. (Well, she probably would care if I stopped personal hygiene activities.)

T Minus 15 seconds til she walks in: Should I greet her when she walks in? Should I look up and say hello or something? She walks in, I respond to her if she says something otherwise I am silent and I feel slightly awkward.

Minutes 0 – 7:

Should I talk to her? What would I say? Should I just sit here?

(Mental lull while something feels good or painful.)

Hahaha she just touched my tushy.

(Mental void.)

How is she able to inflict so much pain!? How is she so tiny and able to do this job? My gosh, she must need to get a massage a day after all the effort she puts in! She’s just so … tiny! Ahhh elbow on the back!

(Time passes and I might fall asleep briefly.)

Woah! I think I fell asleep! I wonder if she notices that and just picks up a magazine, like, sweet, this dude’s out cold, time to chill. But then would I notice the sudden lack of touch and wake up from that? Eh, probably not.

(After a bit I go back to a mental void. That is, until she switches to massaging my legs.)

Oh man. My toes. My feet. I wonder who has the hairiest feet of all her people. I can’t be the worst … My toes are pretty gross though. Stupid running. I wish I could know what’s going on in her head! … Wait, no I don’t.

***

Here’s to massages: Allowing you to bounce between extreme relaxation and self-conscious inner monologue discussions about your body and casual conversation while a relative stranger soothingly touches your butt.

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L. Ron Hubbard

Under the Black Ensign

And who could resist this galavanting pirate?

Recently I read a “pulp fiction” story by L. Ron Hubbard called Under the Black Ensign. Pulp fiction stories are like Indiana Jones movies – fast-paced, fun adventure stories with usually a hero and a predictable love story. If you want to read something fun, and don’t feel like thinking, pulp fiction is there to satisfy that need.

I did not pick up the book because I wanted to read some golden age pulp fiction, but instead because it was written by L. Ron Hubbard. If he’s good enough to start a religion, he’s good enough to warrant reading a 50 page story.

The story was pretty decent – I think if I was 10 and it was a cartoon I would’ve enjoyed it. And I certainly read it very quickly, which is another good sign. The most interesting part of the book was the brief biographical piece about L. Ron Hubbard at the end of the book.

Pulp Fiction's Golden Age

Gotta catch ’em all!

This book was published along with a number of other classic L. Ron Hubbard pulp fiction pieces. I would imagine each of them has this same amazing biographical note.

Instead of reviewing the book, I will review the biographical note.

“L. Ron Hubbard and American Pulp Fiction”

If you are familiar with The Office and Michael Scott’s fictional and idealized version of himself, Michael Scarn, you may have an idea how this “biographical” piece will read.

While it is understandable to have self-congratulations in a brief author bio, this one comes on a little strong. For example, most author bios are a paragraph or two, and this one is nine pages.

Maybe it is a bad idea to criticize him, because other critics have been addressed:

“His [L. Ron’s] first Westerns were soundly rejected as lacking the authenticity of a Max Brand yarn (a particularly frustrating comment given L. Ron Hubbard’s Westerns came straight from his Montana homeland, while Max Brand was a mediocre New York poet named Frederick Schiller Faust, who turned out implausible six-shooter tales from the terrace of an Italian villa.)”

I feel it is only fair to turn a fairly critical eye to the founder of a religion. Other religions should be glad that figures who authored such important pieces were alive so much longer ago, so that followers of those religions wouldn’t have to think, “sure, the religion stuff is good – but their romance novels are what I really like!”

This reviewers conclusion is that L. Ron Hubbard probably masturbated while staring at one or more mirrors.

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Not Really a Car Guy

I am taking my car in to be looked at soon and as someone who knows little to nothing about cars I have a feeling I will look like an idiot. (In the words of Mitch Hedburg: “I know a lot about cars. I can can look at a car’s headlights and tell you exactly which way it’s coming.”)

Here are a few possible conversational snippits:

Mechanic: And when’s the last time you got your tires rotated?
Me: Well … On the drive in here? I mean, every time I drive they get rotated, right?

 

Me: I am not sure why I’m here really … I mean, my car is an automatic, shouldn’t it be taking care of all this stuff by itself?

 

Mechanic: We’ve got a number of things we’d like to do: first we’re going to –
Me: Let me guess, give my car some pasta?
Mechanic: …What?
Me: I mean, why else would it need a carb-orator unless it eats a lot of carbs?! Huh? Amiright?
Mechanic: …
Me: Because it’s like a refrigerator but just for carbs.
Mechanic: Yeah …
Me: So … that’s funny …
Mechanic: … Right. We’ve got a number of things we’d like to do: first we’re going (etc, etc, stuff I don’t understand)

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