Left Of Sean

I awoke this morning to rain.  It has been wet, cold, and dreary for two days now in Bible-land and depression is starting to set in.  I would imagine god is punishing us for allowing homosexuality to exist and that’s why we’re having this bad weather.  How else can you explain crappy weather in a place where morals are so obviously superior to the rest of the world! {fuck I wish you could see the smirk on my face right now!}

The crappy part about this is that I’m having a hard time coming up with blogging topics.  I know you read my blog and think, geez, what a depressing, cynical asshat, but to be honest, I have to be in a good mood to write that cynical, depressing shit.  Call me crazy….wait, I take that back.  Call me….ok, I can’t think of anything.  Just call me something else.

Writer’s block sucks.  It makes you start looking at your surroundings to come up with a topic.  As a blogger/writer, I must write.  I think it’s a law or something.  At the very least it’s an obsession.

My surroundings are shit right now.  I’m sure there’s a story here somewhere but I can’t see it because I’m blinded by The Block.

Here are my surroundings.  There’s a seventy year old child molester sitting across from me.  I’m sure he’s not really a molester, but he has that look.  He’s probably waiting on his seventy year old wife to finish book shopping at B&N.  He’s not shopping with her…or himself…because he’s fat as hell and this is his nap time.  He’s now asleep in his chair.

Next to Lester the Molester is a mom and child.  She’s probably 10, the child that is, not the mom.  I can’t see what they’re doing but I think it has something to do with the kiddo’s homework.

By the way, I can’t hear any conversations either because Rush’s A Show of Hands is blaring through my earbuds right now.  Distant Early Warning is the track.  Yeah, the topic of that song kind of defined the 80s for me: Russians, nukes, and paranoia – all the things that got a moron like Ronald Reagan elected.

There are lots of college kids studying here.  They’re spread throughout the cafe with various textbooks and papers strewn about on their tables.  Unfortunately, there aren’t any hot female co-eds, just a bunch of guys.  Since I’m straight, I’ll ignore them (sorry Michael H.  I know you were hoping for pictures!)

Up to this point, I would imagine you’ve spent about one minute or more reading this blog entry and I really haven’t told you anything.  First, let me say I’m sorry.  That’s a minute of your life you’ll never get back.  Second, did you expect anything more out of LoS?

I’m still on the hunt for something to write about so if there’s something you want me to tussle with, drop a comment and I’ll take it on.  But make it something fun.  I really do need some entertainment in my life after being sick for a freakin’ week.

And lastly, if you understood the post title, hooray for you.  If not, you really should listen to more Rush!

****

I knew it.  Lester’s wife just showed up.  “Come on honey.  Let’s go home so you can take your nap.”

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I know, you’re missing Dear Sean letters.  You’re missing the wonderful, insightful advice I give to so  many tortured souls.  The letters and the advice below are what happens when you allow a guy who failed psychology in college to start a blog and plagiarize another website.

Enjoy…

******

Dear Sean, About a year ago, I started a new job. I had been unemployed for over a year and had already lost my car to repossession, so now I have to use public transportation. There are the same few of us at the bus stop every morning who all take the same bus. One of them is a very nice, older man with poor eyesight. He would always fumble, trying to find the right bills for the bus, so one day I offered to help him. While I was in his wallet, I stole a $20 bill. After the first time, I realized how easy it was and started taking a bill once or twice a week. This has been going on for about seven months. He has never mentioned missing any money, so either he doesn’t miss it or thinks he spent it without realizing what he was doing. I feel terrible but can’t stop myself. It isn’t enough money to make a difference to me in the long run, but I can now have a nice lunch at work instead of bringing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Please, tell me how to stop robbing this dear man and how to make amends.

Dear Scum of the Earth, you should be kicked in the balls and, once you fall over in pain, kicked in the balls again.  Have you ever seen that scene in Casino Royale (the Daniel Craig version) where Bond is stripped naked and tied to a chair that has no seat?  The villain has some kind of heavy ball thing on the end of a massive rope.  He swings it in circles and whips it under the chair to completely destroy Bond’s balls (ironic huh? Bond, the ladies man, gets his balls squashed!) and make him talk.  I was sitting in the theater in total pain watching that scene.  I can’t imagine how much that would hurt in real life.  I’m pretty sure you would never have the ability to reproduce or even masturbate ever again.  Well, that’s too good for you.  When I was done with you, you would be screaming for me to do that to you, you FUCKING SCUMBAG MOTHER FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT ASSWIPE.  Go fuck yourself.

******

Dear Sean, This past weekend, I had my third date with a guy. It went really well, and I had a nice time. He then invited me back to his place, and things went a little farther than I was expecting. I had never gone as far as we went that night. Now, I regret what happened. I still like him, but I am uncomfortable with the level of intimacy that occurred. Do I tell him? How do I proceed because I feel pretty low about myself now?

Dear Soon to be Single, this is why guys fuck you and leave you.  We’re sick of this emotional bullshit.  Look, if you’re going to fuck us, at least be ready for it.  You unmade this bed now shut the fuck up and sleep in it.  God, I hate chicks like you.  I bet you wear granny panties, don’t you?

******

Dear Sean, I am a 50-year-old married man with children. Recently I was out with my wife, two other couples who are friends, and another couple who I do not know very well. Suddenly one of my friends started to reminisce about how we had all met. When he came to me, he recounted how limp-wristed I had been and how everybody was grateful how my wife had “straightened” me out. This man and his wife have a history of making snide remarks (not about my sexuality) about me, however it was few and far between, so I had chosen to ignore it. In this case, I felt humiliated and speechless. What should I have done?

Dear Closet Queer, if the glove fits….. Yada yada yada.  You know the rest.  You’re obviously a closet homosexual and these kind people are smart enough to figure it out.  Ok, let’s get serious for a minute.  Are you really this much of a pussy?  Jesus H. Fucking Christ on a Popsicle Stick, they’re fucking with you.  It’s called teasing.  It’s called buy-a-fucking-sense-of-humor-you-fudge-packin’-cocksucker!  Oh, I’m sorry, did that humiliate you?

Here’s what you should have done butt munch: agreed with them and played along instead of getting your precious feelings hurt.  It’s a fucking joke.  I have an idea, why don’t you hook up with that tard from the last letter who fucked her boyfriend.  Closet Queer, meet Soon to be Single.  I hope you live an emotionally draining, and fucked up, life!

******

That’s it people.  Only three letters this week.  I think people are getting scared to write in to me.  I don’t know why.

Credentials:  Left Of Sean has an 8th grade education.  He has spent most of his life in therapy for one addiction or another; most recently masturbation.  Because he has been in therapy for so many years he feels it is proper that he share his experiences with the world.  By the way, he learned everything he knows from Dr. Laura and Rush Limbaugh…..seeing a patter of stupidity here?

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When I was in kindergarten in Houston, Texas, I went to a private, church school.  They were pretty pathetic and for some reason I was roaming around by myself one day heading in and out of various classrooms.  I know what you’re thinking, why was a 5 year old roaming by himself through the halls of the school? I’m pretty sure the word “accreditation” wasn’t part of the the school’s charter!  But that’s neither here nor there.

The important part is that I was by myself and I accidentally slammed my right thumb in a doorjamb.  It hurt like a mother-fucker….although I’m sure I wasn’t screaming obscenities at 5 years old.  I waited until I was 8 to scream the work “fuck” in times of stress.  I must thank Tim Hardin for teaching me that word.

Actually, let’s get a little sidetracked here for another story.  This story is the reason you should always look up the meaning of a word…or at least ask someone you absolutely know understands the meaning of the word!

Sidebar Story:  When I was in 3rd grade, I was coming home in the carpool and we stopped at my best friend’s house to let him out.  My best friend was Tim Hardin.  Another girl in the car had to get out of the car to let Tim out.  When she got back in the car she screamed to her mother, who was driving the carpool that day, one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard:

“Mom!  Tim called me a fuck!”

A fuck?  Hmm, that’s strange.  I just couldn’t put my finger on it but something just didn’t sit right with that word in that context.  The word fuck seemed like it should be a verb (You know, I would really like to fuck her!), not a noun, even though I had never heard that word before and had no idea the meaning.

So, I let it go and headed on home.  I put up my books, probably got something to eat, and ran back out the door to head back to Tim’s house.  There was only one thing on my mind and I wanted to ask Tim before I moved on to a higher authority: Mom!

Once Tim was outside I asked Tim the meaning of the word.  Here’s the conversation, exactly as it happened.  I will never in my life forget this.

Sean:  Tim, what’s a fuck?
Tim:  It’s a nigger!

You know, I’m not the smartest guy in the world.  I think I’m pretty average.  But the meaning of the word fuck that Tim provided just didn’t seem right.  Why would you use the word fuck to describe the word nigger?

This was 1975.  Tim’s parent’s were young and hot.  His mother looked like Farrah Fawcett (trust me, Farrah AND Mrs. Hardin were babes in 1975) and his dad looked like the star quarterback of a college superpower.  They were young, hip, and threw OUTRAGEOUS parties at their house.  I’m guessing that Tim heard that word, more than once, from the various parties that were thrown at that house.  I would also be willing to bet that a handful of orgies were thrown at that house in the 70s!  But I have no proof…damnit.

So, onto a higher authority.

The next conversation I remember is the one I had with my mother about this word (I’m guessing about an hour later.  Tim and I still had to play in the tree house!  Hey, that deathtrap was cool as hell for a bunch of 8 year olds!):

Sean:  Mom, what does fuck mean?
Mom (eyes bulging, hair standing on end, her cup of iced tea drops to the floor in astonishment – obviously freaked out that her 8 year old is asking the question): WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT WORD?
Sean:  Tim.  He told me it was a nigger but I don’t think that’s right.

I’ll spare you the nauseating details of mom’s description.  Mom handled it in her usual way.  She told me the truth.  My mother ALWAYS told me the truth when it came to difficult explanations like dirty words and sex.  I was going to find out anyway so why bullshit the kid?  It would have just created confusion.

Ok, back to our original story….

So, I’m screaming bloody fucking murder in the Baptist kindergarten because I slammed my right thumb in a doorjamb because the staff was too busy demonizing homosexuals and wasn’t watching after a certain precocious 5 year old.

Let’s skip ahead about 4 months.  Damn, I really fucked up that thumbnail.  I mean I REALLY fucked up that thumbnail.  My nail has now grown back split!  Not split down the middle, split as in two nails.  Here’s how my dermatologist explained it:

Try to imagine the most boring human being you can, wearing a light attached to a headband around his noggin, white lab coat, sensible loafers.

Doc: You see Sean, your nails are formed from two places: the cuticle and the bed.  They merge to form one hardened nail.

For 37 years, my nail has been split because I fucked up something where the cuticle and bed are supposed to merge.  Most people can’t tell, until recently!  It has started to get brittle and yellow.  GROSS!

Sean:  So Doc, here’s the dilly….yo ( I always like to speak gangsta to a man with 400 years of education).  The upper nail is beginning to get brittle and it’s cracking.  That means that I have a messed up nail that is always cracked and snagging on stuff.  What can we do to fix it?
Doc: Nothing.  You’re stuck with it.  We could operate and completely remove your nail, but I don’t think you want to that.  I suggest you get some Nailtiques to harden it up so it will stop cracking.

Damn, bad news.  I mean, this is going to be something I have to deal with for the rest of my life.  I’m a man.  I don’t DO NAILS!!  But I do scratch, and this little ailment could cause major problems when I go to scratch certain places.

So off I went to the beauty supply store.  I needed a nail file; a hardcore nail file.  I found one I could live with.  Now I needed to pick up the Nailtiques.  Who knew there are 2,736 types of Nailtiques that do everything from harden nails to tell you that your hair looks pretty today.  I don’t care how my hair looks.  I just needed the one that will make my nail look less icky.  That’s the technical term, by the way.

Here’s what I ended up with:  Nailtiques Formula 2 Treatment.  Nail Protein for Soft, Peeling, Bitten, Weak or Thin Nails.

For six months I’ve been using this stuff on my thumbnail every two days.  I look very manly when applying it and I even drop my voice a couple of octaves just to increase the testosterone flow throughout my aging body.  But it’s a necessity.

Friday afternoon I was sitting at my desk, applying my Nailtiques when a co-worker, Amber,  commented on how ridiculous I look filing my nail and applying the Nailtiques.  What the hell am I supposed to do?  I HAVE to put this stuff on or the nail will get all cracked up and stuff and snag on stuff!

Amber: You should just get a nail transplant.
Me: Right, like I could find one that matched my other nails.  Besides, insurance wouldn’t pay for the procedure.
Amber: They could take a nail from your big toe and put it on your thumb.  Although, there could be crazy side effects.
Me:  Like?
Amber:  You might start walking on all fours!
Me:  Or I might try to kick the cat with my thumb!  What if I get a transplant from someone else?
Amber:  Ewww, then you’d have some stranger’s toenail on your thumb.  What if you accidentally (on purpose she meant to say) pick your nose with your thumb.  It would be like you had that stranger’s big toe up your nose!
Me:  Hey, I wash my hands!
Amber:  Doesn’t matter.  You’re picking by proxy!  Every time that ThumbToe would go into your mouth or your nose or, well, you know where….you’d have to think that the strangers big toe was violating you somehow!
Me:  Stop sucking the fun out of my new ThumbToe!…no pun intended!

I think I”m just going to have to live with the Nailtiques and the every-other-day application for the rest of my life.  I don’t think insurance will pay for the operation anyway.

Plus, could you imagine having to apply Fast Actin’ Tinactin’ on your thumb for the rest of your life?

Damn, that’s a LONG way to go for a John Madden joke, huh?

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