August 2, 2003
TRADING SPIT SPACES
I got the okay from The Bride to redo the Bat Cave. Well, actually, I got a look of bemusement and an eyeroll, which I construed as approval per UN Declaration of Human Rights Designatum 227, the Free Womens' Corollary On Having To Heed Their Misogynist Husbands. So there.
The Bat Cave, of course, is the foul, dank, musty bonus room I inhabit 24/7. It's the 11 x 20 room that should have been the third bay of my garage, but which I had the builder finish off for the remarkable sum of $1300. Now, a real man would have insisted on a 3 car garage, because garage space = willie length in these parts, and a real man would have set up his computer in the garage and blogged through sweltering heat and frostbitten fingers. But I grow old, alas, and take solace in my creature comforts, so I had the Bat Cave constructed. Modest by normal standards. 27-inch TV, DVD/VCR, 100-watt stereo, computer station, sleeper sofa, my library, my Kunstler print, my Oscar Merte hunting print, and a kick-ass Oreck XL air purifier. I normally don't smoke in the house, but the creative juices demand the occasional Marlboro or Habana Monte Cristo. Also, my feet begin to smell after a while.
But I digress.
For my makeover I want Paige Davis and the other hotties at Trading Spaces to give me the makeover. Yes, I know, that violates the compact they have contrived, which involves the element of surprise, but once they see me in the leather codpiece my wish will be their command. I'm thinking an Africa theme. Not the Great White Hunter, Bwana Don theme, though. More like Mandingo (memo to self: buy that damned picture of an enraged Cassius Clay standing over Sonny Liston's carcass. It's only 300 dollars).
So we're talking leopard skin cape and cheetah skull headdress. Zebra-striped recliner and Hottentot artwork. If anyone has a bootleg AP picture of a Congolese rebel eating a Pygmy's spleen, I'm in the market.
I want them to replace my carpeting with bullrush mats, and slather my walls in wildebeest blood. I want Gordon's head on a pike in the corner. Neck-stretcher rings and lip-enlarger disks. Is there a Moroccan separatist movement art coven somewhere? I'm down. Any pictures of Charles Taylor eating Samuel Doe's recently removed penis? I've got your back. When the girls are finished, I'll be cool. No second-guessing.
THEN maybe I can get some blogging done.
Studmuffin said to keep some Cohiba Robusto(s) on hand too....
Posted by: Laura at August 2, 2003 11:17 PMNot to nitpick, (yeah, right!) but I'm pretty sure lip stretcher discs are South American.
Anyhoo, that room sounds like what I need to do with my garage. It's not like I'm keeping an automobile out there or anything.
Posted by: Eichra Oren at August 3, 2003 10:45 PMWhat is going on over at TLC? - as if I didn't know. The Liberals are at it again. I took the quiz on "faking it", but still never found out what kind of fake I was trying to fake. I missed a couple on purpose, but passed the methane enough to be on the next show of fakers, while deftly processing Huey Piano Smith singing "Don't You Just Know It", and considering fondly the upcoming "Dolly Parton's Tits", performed by George Jones and Sonny Liston. I can't explain further what's going on at TLC. Let the mystery persist, because "My Boy Lollipop" by Millie Small just erupted from the illegal files on my PC. This was my girlfriend's defiant war song back in 1961, though she wound up more favoring Jimmy Reed's "Caress Me Baby": "like the wind caress the trees. I want you to blow, blow [me] gently like a soft soft summer breeze." I don't understand why no one now seems to know that a blow-job involves blowing. Her blowing was a warm embalming caress so gentle it could not be felt at skin level. I felt it from the waist down to my knees, I think. I never knew where the effluent went, until it dawned on me that she was heavy into "no trace" car camping, except for the lipstick traces accenting my white boxer underpants, which my mother dutifully bleached out. Then I seriously worried that the little tadpoles could migrate from "BD's" alimentary canal into her fallopian tubes to reinact the Virgin Birth. It did happen, didn't it? God at least got head once, the Infidel. It Is Written. Nunwe [Lakota Sioux --"Let it be so."] On another occasion I did something I swore I would never do: honk the horn in the middle of the night while having sex in the front seat, parked in her driveway almost right next to her parents' bedroom. Exactly at the low and low points of the 69 my foot slipped off the steering wheel, where it was for some reason resting, and onto the horn -- which in that day was a semi-circular piece of metal a few inches inside the lower 1/3 of the wheel -- where it got stuck for several seconds. I suggest listening to Howling Wolf's "Killing Floor", and "Meet Me The Bottom": "bring me my running shoes. She's got bad old man, no I'm too young to die." The thing was that I knew my foot was in a dangerous position, but thought I had it under control. I was pissed, really because my girlfriend was starting to softly groan and I screwed it up for her by sounding the alarm.
Posted by: Strong Buffalo Boy at August 4, 2003 1:55 AM