I'm telling you all right now, and you can look it up here on my writer's profile: My turn-ons do not include crawling on my belly through damp, bushy, dark places with deep, wet holes....
OK, OK, I'll reconsider that.
I do not like crawling under the goddamned house to change air conditioner filters. I'm retired; I make enough money to pay some out-a-work coal miner to do that stuff, but "No-oooo," say the trolls, my sisters.
According to them I need to get off my ass and do some work around the house. I keep telling them that I'm working as hard as I can to get laid before I fucking die, and if they keep this shit up I'm going to put all three of them in "The Home" (the only thing that scares these trolls is The Home).
Is it possible that a woman can reach the ripe old age of 75 and have never, EVER, hung a flipping picture? Is it truly necessary for me to build a picture frame, from scratch, and hang every goddamned crayon scribble drawn by one of their great-great grandchildren, or their fifth cousin's brother's aunt's nephew's 10x13 school picture?
Can it be true that not one of the three of them can change the toilet paper without my help?
Sure I love them; we've stayed together through the good and bad that life can throw at a family. But these God damned Francois-Do lists have gotta stop.
I can't even toss off to a really good porno flick (the really good ones have plots and story-lines to rival True Blood) without one of them banging on my door (or just barging the fuck in) wanting to know if I have time to fetch the doggy's ball out from under a three-ton doll cabinet.
Sixteen times now, I've gotten to the point in the fuck flick where the school bus driver accidentally gets his zipper stuck on the gear-shift knob and the red-headed chick saves everybody's life by using her teeth to... well, I'm not certain how it ends up because that fucking dog keeps rolling his ball under the doll cabinet.
And another thing that pisses me off: Women as barbers.
Women did not use to work in barber shops. Absolutely, macho, heterosexual males cut hair in barber shops (with the obvious exception of Floyd in Andy Griffith's Mayberry). Now, there are three women cutting hair in barber shops this county alone!
Women should stay in beauty shops and those prissy unisex salons. And I'll tell you why: the last time a woman cut my hair in my regular, testosterone filled, NRA-affiliated barber shop, she asked me "how (I) wanted it."
I told her "I'd like a blowjob and take a little off the top." She smiled, unzipped my pants, and circumcised me.
I know I'm old fashioned. But for middle-aged guys like me, there seems to be nothing more to look forward to than dying.