Drivel, Chapter 1

My God, People! I once made payments on vacuum cleaner. But I have not fucked it. No! Seriously, the powerfully motor and micron level filtration worries me more than it turns me on. I have thing about vacuum cleaners.

Won $33 on the lottery the other day; reinvested in more tickets. Back down to $15. You see folks, that's how you make money. If I don't when some damn lottery money soon, all hell is gonna break loose.

I know a guy that might train me to do stained glass work. I'd be more excited if I could make money doing that. Nobody will hire me because I am simultaneously over and under qualified. It gets confusing for me.

I am not sure what you would call how I make a living. It's like a career, only it pays less.

There is, however, a steady source of beer and liquor. I am on a first name basis with clerks at two liquor stores. In Tennessee, you must be 21 to sell alcohol. At the food mart, all the clerks are high schoolers. To scan beer, checkers call the dreaded "Code 2" over the PA system. Then an adult comes, checks my ID and scans my beer. Last week, I walked into the food mart, only one register was open and nobody was in line. Barely 30 feet into the store when I hear "Code 2 on register 1" The girl looked at me and said "You always get beer."

Currently I am considering taking back up smoking, stopping brushing my teeth and moving my family into a trailer. Then I'll scatter trash and random shit all over my yard and the front of the "manufactured home." Perhaps then, I can split my time between sitting in front of the TV and in the ER waiting room (watching TV). I could get excited about the first Thursday of the month; that's when the government checks come in the mail.

I feel myself being sucked into a stereotype.

Send me pictures of your vacuum cleaners.

Dirty Ert

Relationships: A man needs an indicator

I was thinking about the relationship between a man and a woman. At the same time, beer was migrating from the refrigerator to my belly and on to the grassy spot in the back yard.

The general consensus among couple's therapy books seems to be: men need sex the most and women need attention the most. This I pondered deeply.

How does a woman know when her man has had the sex need fulfilled? It is obvious to even the most casual of observer. A man's cock pukes up the fluid from below. If a woman provokes this response in a man, one to three times a week, ole boy has his need met.

But what about a woman? How does a man know?

Questions were rolling in my head when my wife came home from work. She finds me in the back yard. I've got a beer in one hand and my penis in the other. I am putting an application of urine on a rose bush.

I look at my wife and ask my nagging question.

"Honey, could I get you to spit on me when you've had enough attention?"

The combination of the question itself and my watering of the flora throws her into a loop. She gives me the most quizzical face. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

"Well," as I zip up my pants. "I got to thinking. It is easy for you to tell when I have had enough sex."

"Yes, you fall asleep."

"Exactly! You have an indicator. I need a way to tell when you have gotten enough attention from me."

"You want me to spit?"

"My dick spits at you when I've had enough. Baby, when you think about it, equality in our relationship can only be achieved if you spit on me like a llama."

"When I have had enough attention, you want me to spit on you like a pack animal from South America?"

"It's only fair!"

She lights a cigarette and shakes her head in disbelief. "You're taking me out to dinner; try that on for an indicator."

Dirty Ert