On the Habits of Men

It’s an idea whose time has come. But who has nerve to write it? Clearly, only someone with a reputation of questionable repute. Some men will sink low to rise high.

**********

It begins as a tongue-in-cheek suggestion with my editor. Journalistic balance is paramount. I’m persuasive. Trump taught me. She puts both her job and the Friday fish-wrapper of a newspaper’s fortunes on the line and accepts this scalding topic. Here’s how it goes.

I pop the question. She laughs hysterically at such absurdity. I tell her it might be a career maker for her. She laughs even harder. She knows hacks when she hears ‘em.

“Who could possibly be offended?” I ask.

She stops laughing. I seize the opportunity to slide in the obvious, “Certainly not women. They’ve endured men’s foul habits for ages.” Besides, men only read Sports Illustrated. Pictures suffice.

She asks about credible research material and copious annotations. I sidestep the questions. No writer reveals their sources. I want to tell her I studied the characteristics of mules for similarities, but she’s in no mood for levity, despite the significant parallels.

She pushes the issue. I demur. She’s relentless. I capitulate. “Friends in low places,” I tell her, “but I’m not naming names.” Autobiographical data needs disguising. She wants more information.

“I need examples of this cockamamie thesis,” she murmurs. “In my experience men’s traits fit into four distinct categories: Ignorance, Stupidity, Annoying and Disgusting. Which category is your basis?” Her assessment is harsh, true as it may be.

I admit men do have certain idiosyncrasies when it comes to seeing. I tell her of the friend who never saw his birthday present, a grand piano, in his living room until his wife pointed it out. “Typical, but boring,” she says.

I dig deeper into the data bag, pull out the one where men are like little boys who often pout and attempt to justify their infantile actions. Her ears perk up. “Specifics,” she demands.

“Simple. Men always have important meetings. Making up beds is not one.” She wants me to define ‘important.’ “Does coffee at Starbucks count?” She’s not amused.

“Here’s a couple for you,” I say. What man doesn’t have the primal ‘fear of dishwasher-unloading’? Or, shading the truth of their whereabouts? Significant hyperbole hides in these rituals. “Go on, I’m listening,” she says with resignation.

I sling her a zinger about a fellow who has the bed-time habits of a barbarian. I hit a nerve. Cave men content sells magazines. “Explain,” she says.

I set the scene. “His wife’s asleep, right? He comes in, fluffs the feathers of three pillows and bounces onto the bed. The mattress becomes a catapult. His sleeping spouse is sent airborne.”

Finally she smiles. “I want to meet this savage,” she says. “Anything as stupid as this is a cover story. But I need more.”

“Easy,” I say. “I’ll bet even your father never read an expiration date on foods, and ate Ben and Jerry’s out of the container. He probably even drank orange juice right from the bottle, correct?” I explain it’s a covert male nocturnal proclivity. I leave out the part where they never bother to wipe off the lid.

“Gross,” she says, “a disgusting trait.”

“You want more?” I ask. “I’m just getting wound up.”

She pushes back in her chair. “OK, I’m intrigued, but what’s the article’s hidden theme?” I’m trapped. With editors, intuition is a finely-tuned instrument.

I come clean. “OK, it’s a ruse. The surreptitious issue is that women have concocted a vast, feminist conspiracy to discredit men. They’ve set us up to fail.”

“Ludicrous,” she says.

“They ask questions, like, do you like my new haircut? Or, do I look frumpy in this new dress? There are no right answers to these questions. Do you agree?”

“No comment,” she says, grinning.

“Otherwise, then what do you think about the article?” I ask.

She pauses. After a long moment of silence she resurrects an old Lincoln quote, “Your thesis is about as thin as the homeopathic soup that was made by boiling the shadow of a pigeon that had starved to death.”

**********

Alas, gentlemen, it’s sad but true…women still rule in the affairs of men. The next Weakly Post will be about a subjugated man’s recipe for shadow-of-pigeon soup.

Bud Hearn
September 15, 2015

The Cheater's List

Ashley Madison. Just like a woman, can’t keep her secrets to herself. Divorce courts are jammed. Lawyers are getting rich. Jerry Springer is making a comeback. All my friends are running for cover.

**********

You knew, right? Hackers exposed her ‘secure’ web site. Over 32 million ‘clients’ were disclosed in July. What were they doing there? Guess. Matchups for sex. Yes, these things still happen, grandma.

Hacking ‘secure’ data is commonplace. The IRS opened its doors to hell and data was extracted. Closer to home, former Governor Barnes and his cronies attacked Home Depot’s lapse with a class action lawsuit. Small potatoes, really. Who cares who bought some hoes or other gardening supplies?

But marriage these days? So many lonely, sordid souls seeking companionship and entertainment in someone else’s Garden of Eden.

Horrors, you say. This is the Bible Belt. We adhere to the 10 C’s, at least in public, even though the stone reminders no longer grace the court houses of the South. As you may remember, there were once 20 Commandments. Moses bargained God down to 10, but, alas, adultery is still in there.

Of course, preachers know this, which accounts for a large percentage of tithes, I’m told. The conscience is like the tell-tale heart…it needs to come clean early and often. Money is one means of absolution. Emasculation is another.

In the South we’re burdened by more than the weather. Licentiousness breeds like mosquitoes and fleas during Dog Days. Comfort is sought somewhere. South Georgians have always known that heavy breathing can be caused by more than humidity. And infidelity is just a wink and a nod away.

Like Home Depot, but in the common gutter vernacular, Ashley sells a lot of ‘hoes,’ so to speak. Which is why fear is gripping South Georgia. We’re a culture of gardeners, enjoying the cultivation of many and various varieties of cross-breeds. It’s a family tradition, as it were. Our gardens have been invaded.

Billboards are now springing up next to the dilapidated ones, ‘Who is John Galt.’ Ludowici, Georgia, was once the Georgia capital for nocturnal activities-for-fee business, better known as ‘The Best for Less.’ Former governor Maddox ended that. But now bill boards appear, ‘Honk if you know Ashley.’

Curiosity gets the better of us sometimes. I open the web site to see what the attraction is. Wow, what a menu it offers. I scroll down the offerings to get an overview of what millions found interesting.

The heading, ‘Spanking,’ intrigues me. What does it have to do with sexual exploits, I wonder? I remember being spanked as a child. I know how it felt. Believe me, erotica was not one of the by-products. I try to imagine just how something like this would work out in actual practice. I draw a blank.

Then there’s ‘Role Playing.’ Now, that’s a situation we all practice. But just how it adds to any erogenous playfulness escapes me. I picture myself wearing a Superman suit, cape and all, and bounding into some sleazy motel room. Hilarious laughter would be the consequence of that foreplay.

There’s the ‘Submissive Slave’ item to order. How would that work? Would chains be involved, whips, floggings? Who would find such carnal thrashing pleasant, much less amatory?

Then there’s the item on ‘Fetishes.’ Now I know all about fetishes. I have a manic obsession for them. For shirts, that is. I know the arousal one can get from buying a new Robert Graham, or a Bonobos. Nothing is steamier the first time they’re worn. Unfortunately, the lust soon fades into ho hum. Could this be what ‘Fetishes’ means?

I run on down the list: Sex Talk, Threesomes, Dominant Master, Bondage, Leather and others. Something for everybody. Clearly, there are sick minds out there in the internet world.

**********

Down here on the coast we don’t need Ashley’s sleazy internet seductions with a Cheater’s List. We have our own.

Honeysuckle, swamp flowers, magnolia and the mystery smell of the marshes is aphrodisiac enough, soft and violate at the same time. Heavy breathing is everywhere.

Bud Hearn
September 10, 2015

Dangerous Thoughts

Presidential politics…a blood sport, an evil trade, a strange, seedy world of misfits, blowhards and charlatans. A politician’s smile worms its way into your wallet.

**********

All alone. White computer screen.
Noise outside. A door slams. Footsteps approach.
A knock at the door. It’s a Thought.
Harmless enough. Come in, I say. It does.

It has family, friends, clingers, handlers.
They pour in, take up residence.
Oops. ‘Politician,’ a pernicious thought.
Thoughts morph into words. Words become flesh.


I type. The words propagate wildly upon the blank computer screen. Their relatives begin to show up. Voices everywhere. Who’s saying what, to whom, about what? A merry-go-round of confusion.

Thoughts are dangerous. They dwell in dark canyons, dead-end alleys, in dungeons without windows, with door signs, ‘No Exit.’ Thoughts deceive.

The carnival of presidential candidates stake tents on the front lawn. They set up sound stages and side-show antics. The campaigns are beginning. The once-pristine landscape becomes a cheesy amusement park. Vendors of cheap elixirs, bit coins, lapel pins and lotto tickets, all promising free money, follow the court jesters.

A rock-star bus arrives. It’s gilded, shimmering in 24 karat, emblazoned with gigantic red ‘T’s.’ The door bursts open. A long red carpet rolls out. A man in Armani steps off wearing a red baseball cap. It reads, “The Anointed.”

He’s wrapped in a purple cape. It’s trimmed with diamonds. His coiffeur carries the cape’s train. An audible gasp emanates from the assembled crowd. A loudspeaker blasts, “Behold, your king, your king.” People bow.

He twirls an emerald-encrusted mahogany cane and gestures benevolently to the throng, flinging gold key chains to the hysterical crowd of voters.

From the shadows the Evangelical apparition emerges, shouting, “Blasphemy, blasphemy.” He’s subdued by goons in black suits and returned to Arkansas in a box.

Scattered throughout are scores of candidates with small tents, garish facades and smaller bankrolls. Combined, their poll ratings register the IQ of a tadpole.

The Low Country candidate gasps fumes of the past. He even looks guilty, like he just kicked his grandmother.

The IRS pariah? He has a long practice of doing the wrong thing and has the voice the size of a marble. He consoles the Wisconsin Wizard who has fallen flat like an old tire.

The Ohio wannabe? Ha. What good can possibly come from a state that boasts Harding and Grant? C’mon, folks.

Listen, the show’s getting good. Tickets are still cheap. Buy one, take the ride. It’s a guarantee of a front-row seat to view the decadent display of human degradation called a presidential campaign.

The Anointed King eyes the ‘man of low energy’ and, his counterpart, The Cuban. Misery loves company. His Elvis-like lips hurl angry expletives at them. He sneers his contempt for the dead air that surrounds them. They stand stunned, emasculated.

Look, fresh from the bayous. It’s Bobby, riding in on an elephant, tossing peanuts to the men in the rear who scoop up the mess. His bullhorn screams, ‘Katrina, Katrina,’ reminding the would-be Dynasty Maker of his brother’s torrid affair with the Cajun lady. Louisiana is famous for femme fatales.

New Jersey’s choice leans on a weak reed. The NJ Housewives have better odds. The Kentucky senator stands in the shadows with cheat sheets. He’s memorizing ideology which, according to most, is thinner than the gold on a Vegas weekend wedding ring. The Anointed ignores them.

The Anointed swaggers over to the two cowboys from Texas. They’re anxious to reconcile differences, talk deals. A pair of buzzards circles silently overhead. Such creatures can smell carrion before it even dies. The men irritate The Anointed slightly less than a gnat.

Whipped up by media hype, the crowd goes ballistic when The Anointed struts into the center ring of the circus. Joe B, the clown and equivocating contender, tongue-lashes the Socialist but suddenly discovers he has again impaled himself on his own tongue.

Quietly crawling up from the smoldering ruins of Secrets of State is the Queen of Duplicity, smug with hubris and a face as expressionless as dough. She’s dressed in a gold lame pants suit from Goodwill, looking tired and old and not much use to anybody.

The two square off. The Anointed snarls. The Queen smirks. Her fangs flash. The pair’s nouns and verbs explode with venom and rage, mano a mano combat.

Somehow my words stop flowing. The final details remain shrouded in mystery.

**********

Thinking about politics is dangerous. So are predictions. Will it be a King, a Queen or a Doctor? You decide.

My opinion? Not enough buzzards to go around.


Bud Hearn
September 1, 2015