Monthly Archives: November 2012
I would have a lot of nerve complaining. The truth is, aside from the occasional bump along life’s highway, I have it pretty good.
And I’m told that I should be “thankful”.
But exactly to whom should I be thankful? An invisible deity who I don’t believe in, and yet has still decided to bestow such good fortune upon me? Did he give me all of this cool stuff? Was he the one who gave me the big house and the wife with the gravity defying knockers? It wasn’t my work ethic, the decisions I’ve made, or the associations I’ve chosen? It was god? I must be pretty damn wonderful.
This is the common thread I hear from good Christian folk as they go about their annual day of repressing guilt with gluttony. God is good. Just look at all he’s provided. “Thanks, lord, for making us middle class American suburbanites… the iPad and flat screen TV really come in handy… and thanks for NOT having us born into a part of the world that’s ravaged by war, hunger, disease or poverty… whoever those people are, they must have really pissed you off… But mostly, thanks god, for giving us the ability to rationalize what awful human beings we all are… and for giving us the ability to invoke your name so that we can make it easier to live with ourselves despite not having any real empathy.” Who wants gravy on their turkey?
The narcissistic self indulgence it takes to believe that an omnipotent creator had you singled out for a divine birthright into a wealthy country that happens to favor your religion –while simultaneously gifting you with carpeting, and high speed internet access– while preborn souls less favored were slotted for lives of pain and anguish shows an utter indifference to human suffering. But who are we to question god’s will? Apparently, god plays favorites, and obviously, you’re among the chosen. Now who wants some apple pie?
As a self indulgent narcissist, even I am staggered by that degree of self aggrandizing egomania.
If one is to credit god by giving thanks for all that one has, then by extension they must acknowledge that there is pain and misery that their all powerful, omnipotent deity could quell with the snap of his almighty fingers. If their god does exist, then he is either omnipotent, and is control of everything, or he is not. Either can help the unfortunate, but chooses not to (which would make him a sick, twisted sadist), or he is unable to (which would make him impotent, rather than omnipotent). They see the good, and never the bad. Their job promotion was part of god’s plan, while the next door neighbors kid with leukemia is something else. It’s like Christian America is suffering from celestial Stockholm syndrome.
So as Christians feign humility for their fortuitousness, while simultaneously doing the equivalent to an ethereal end zone dance… they more often than not neglect a few misdeeds of their god. Roughly fifty thousand people will die today of starvation after having needlessly suffered for years. People live in parts of the world where negotiating land mines a part of their daily routine. Women around the world are beaten and raped based on the precepts of religious patriarchy. America is the richest country in the world, yet has the second highest rate of child poverty. Good, hard working people have had their lives torn apart for multiple reasons, many of which are out of their control.
But you have it pretty good, especially compared to others, so you give thanks. “Thanks god, for this table full of food. You’re really a swell deity. By the way, can you do something about my electric bill”? And as we roll into the annual retail celebration of baby Jesus, consider this: If you were an unfeeling, unsympathetic asshole yesterday –regardless of whether or not you’re legitimately humbled by your good fortune today– You’ll still be an asshole tomorrow. Believing in god doesn’t make you a good person.
Your actions do.
My wife Jane and I love Las Vegas, and consider it our home away from home. We go there as often as we can, and one day plan to make our permanent residence there. It is a city built on the premise of doing everything that we were told is naughty growing up. It is the perfect place for us.
Some people like to skydive… while others prefer to scuba dive. We have close friends who love to hop on their Harleys and ride through the countryside. As for Jane and myself, we love to collect movie memorabilia. We also enjoy finding quaint little towns and go antiquing. Still, other times, we like to travel the country, meet new and interesting people, and if the planets align and the chemistry is right, we’ll engage in consensual, extra marital carnal indulgences.
It’s not for everyone, but as hobbies go, it sure beats stamp collecting.
A while back, we were in Sin City for a soiree that catered to libidinous hobbyists such as ourselves. Jane and I have attended our share of these events, I can say that these gatherings are almost always a lot of fun. Normally swinger conventions involve several days and nights of interacting with great looking, friendly people, attending wild parties, and relaxing by the pool during the day… But not this time. Without going into unnecessary detail, let’s just say that upon entering the ballroom for the first night’s festivities, Jane & I knew that this party wasn’t going to meet our expectations. Rather than the room full of sexy we were hoping for, we walked into what more closely resembled a co-workers wedding reception, with scattered clusters of people eating hor d’oeuvres and a Beatles cover band. Worse yet, the median body mass index wasn’t what we were hoping for either. We were actually un-horny.
But rather than sulk, we decided to bail on the bru-ho-hum and make our own good time. Hell, we were all dressed up, and as the old saying goes, “When the going gets tough, the tough go to Vegas and party”… or something like that. So we called a couple of non-swinger friends who happen to be in town that week and downshifted our goal for the evening from procreating with strangers to finding a good Mojito. Either way, we were on a noble quest, and as anyone outside of Miami knows… decent Mojitos are hard to come by. So we ventured over to the MGM Grand, where our Vanilla friends had already began their own night of Vegas debauchery.
Now for those of you who aren’t familiar with my wife, Jane, she is proportioned similarly to Jessica Rabbit… which is to say that she is the proud owner of a pair of gigantic, surgically enhanced, projectile intumescences. As such, the purple dress she was wearing, she left little to anyone’s imagination. So when we ambled into one of the casino bars, her mammalian cantilever had caught the attention of more than a few fellow travelers, and as circumstance would have, there was a couple of dashing urban gentlemen who were seated at one of the tables we passed by.
Being the insightful guy that I am, I got the impression that one fella was slightly taken with my wife’s silhouette. Years of training have taught me to pick up on subtle signs, like, for instance, when this young man –upon making eye contact with Jane– stood up and yelled “YO YO! WUT UP WIT DOZE BOOBIES YO!” …my razor sharp instincts immediately told me that there may have been an attraction. So being the friendly sort that I am, I went over and introduced myself. The conversation went something like this:
“Hey fellas, what’s up? I’m Rich. Nice to meet you.”
“DeShawn…Yo dawg, No disrepeck au nuthin’… but yo wife, she bangin’ yo.”
“Thank you man, that’s a really nice thing to say.”
I surely wasn’t upset because someone thought my wife was hot, and frankly, I never understood how anyone could become bent out of shape over something like that. Could he have been more discreet? Sure. But we were in Vegas, not the Vatican…and you don’t often see women with figures like Jane’s shopping at a Walmart in Des Moine.
It was then that I noticed there were a few women seated at the table with these guys, so I reciprocally offered, “Well, you fellas seem to be keeping some nice company yourselves” To which my new best friend DeShawn replied, “Yo Dawg, Day ain’t wit us, an one a dem ain’t a woman!” …Hmmm… Well, that was certainly an interesting piece of information.
Now I’m a NYC boy, and I’ve seen more than most simply by a matter of birth, and geography. Anyone who has ridden the subway or has had a beer in Greenwich Village can usually tell a transsexual a mile away. To us, it’s no big deal… like seeing a midget. Even convincing, post-op trannies leave tell tale signs, like an Adams apple, man hands, or being the most fun and fashion coordinated person in the room… But I have to admit, that upon looking at the three women sitting at the table, I was completely at a loss determining which one of these three ladies possessed a Y chromosome. Jane was sure it was the brunette… “Facia brute”.
As it was revealed with urban eloquence, “It’s da hot one, Yo.”.
Upon receiving both this inside knowledge and our drinks, we left our new inner city pals and sat down at our table, when almost immediately we noticed the aforementioned “hot one” giving me the “come hither” finger roll. Now it’s not that I wasn’t flattered… I was. It’s just that for reasons inexplicable, I tend to be very popular among the 300 lb plus, and the “take a walk on the wild side” crowds. If I was stuck in an elevator with Mabel King and RuPaul they’d undoubtedly fight to death over my affections. So at Jane’s twisted urgence, “Oh you *have to* go see what she wants” I went over to say “Hi”.
She replied in a voice that seemed a mixture of Cher and Charro. “I gambled tonight and won, and you’re my prize.”
Well knock me over with a feather…I had just been given the best pick-up line of my life. Damn that “she’s got a penis” hitch… To be completely honest, if I had not had prior anatomical knowledge as to whom I was speaking, I most certainly would have wound up with a face full of tran-bag before night’s end. So I politely declined her generous advances, explaining that I was a happily married man simply out for a drink with my wife. And although she graciously extended the invitation for Jane to join us in what would have undoubtedly become a genital jambalaya, she seemed cool with “No, but thanks.”
A quick note to my Midwestern readers, should they ever find themselves in a similar situation; Never piss off a transgendered person. It’s like fighting a bobcat in closet. Besides, it’s always good form to be polite. And if you’re about to get on a moral high horse, just realize that we were in a city based on the premise of sin, and vice. The hottest chick in the bar had a sack. Get over it.
Regardless, after I got back to our table we four sat last supper style so that we could watch the would be object of everyone’s affections make her rounds around the bar. “Would you like to buy me a drink?” To which every guy in the bar –thinking they’ve just struck Vegas gold– replied in semi-intelligible, oafish affirmative. As she engaged her admirers in small talk and sipped her Cosmopolitan, she would demurely hang her leg over one of the arms of the bar stool, giving her suitors a chance to take a gander at the goods before they closed the deal. Unfortunately, there was still no one willing to let what would happen in Vegas, stay there. But it was still early.
By the time our mediocre Mojitos expedited our departure, our lady tenor had yet to coerce anyone to defy Leviticus. Still, I hope things worked out for her, and that she found someone to have some fun with before night’s end. But I would be lying if I said that I did not have a smug sense of satisfaction knowing that she had propositioned me first. I knew that Dolce hadn’t been a waste of money. For one night, I was the sexiest schmuck in the MGM casino bar and I was the first choice of the sexiest woman I’d ever seen who was once a boy. Eat your hearts out, fellas.
So Jane and I bar-hopped with our friends for the rest of the night, found a place worthy of a second Mojito, and then went back to our hotel and made love as the sun rose. And as many wild sex and booze night as we’ve had in Sin City … this one counts among our favorites. Damn I love Las Vegas.