The Kind of Control that Chickens Should Have

You gotta love the control you get with a DVR.  You can pause at the sound of nonsense, speed through it, and get to the good stuff when you return with a coke and snacks. Judging from the age of the commercial actors, I don’t need Cymbalta.  I don’t have that many wrinkles.  But, if their aged similarities are my litmus, I need Allstate Insurance and Phillips stool softener.

I’ll just breeze over to the HLN coverage of the Sandusky case.  Yuck.  Is it possible that homosexual acts are so taboo that paid custodians and guardians can’t say “That ain’t right” and then protect their wards?  Yep.   But in America where people are too respectful to confront a peer for pedophilia, the They-Them twins speak openly against the US Constitution and protest rights of adults, effectively denying taxation with representation.  Yep.  That’s our world of disharmony and incongruities.  What am I going to do about it?  I’ll get back to you.

In the meantime, let’s talk about the higher intelligence, Seth, who said it would be better if we weren’t homo or heterosexual. See: “When There’s No Way, Find a Way,” : http://www.twogirlsarebetterthanone.blogspot.com/2012/10/when-theres-no-way-find-it-some-way.html    

If we forget about never having sex or the impracticality of sex with two organs (for the common person), Seth has a point.  (If you have already figured out the configuration of sex with two organs at one time and would like to provide a hand-sketched graphic, please send it to Love Heroine.) Maybe Seth meant that humans need to be free in their sexual expression.  I can’t remember.  It’s been so long, and the book is back on the shelf.  I do remember It's position about acceptance.  The They-Them twins need a greater awareness about other human's natural desires (sex drives).  This would reduce frustration that is often alleviated by the “other” option—homosexuality.  And no where in here does this higher intelligence call for Cymbalta, Phillips, or Allstate. The solution is organic, provided by our creator.  Wasn't she thoughtful, ").

(Most) People don't need drugs to talk to girls on barstools. And, Seth has assured us that we don't need permission.  We have to remember that when the They-Them twins harness pressure and it so difficult to do what should come natural.  Sandusky, Aiport-bathroom Senators and others who are seeking sex that They-Them wouldn't approve could have had honest lives if only they themselves (not to be confused with They-Them) could get honest. So much angst could have been avoided across the globe and throughout human history with a little, maybe a lot of, honesty.

There are legions of consenting adults, out there and out of the closet, who want to have reciprocal (loving) relationships. But, as a collective we retreat in our minds to before the Renaissance (a species wide awakening but mostly in parts of Europe with great artists) when humans were suppose to use their sex organs only for procreation.  Listen. Here's a truth—the They-Them twins didn't restrict their own sexual expressions then and they aren't doing it now.

Does it strike you as odd that all of society is steered toward heterosexual mating, as if it is natural to customize civilizations around one primary theme—procreation?  In a dark cave where a male is blind, stranded, and bound by a three-headed sea monster that is wrapped around his pelvis like a chastity belt, he is going to figure how to escape and mate.  It’s lesbians who need help with swapping love energy.  Where are prompts for my—I mean, our—needs?

The truth is, in my case and so many other open and honest homosexual states of existences, life isn’t so hard that a person becomes a sexual deviant.  It’s a matter of acknowledging an innate desire that begins to announce itself around the time that Santa stops bringing really great gifts.  We get a therapist and/or get honest. Puberty happens.  In honest communities and families, non-They-Them thunkers acknowledge the different sexual drive in my minority.   

The problem is with post-pubescents (adults) who aren’t honest and then manifest drives in unwelcomed and unlawful ways.  That settles that.  Case closed. Gays can marry for the perpetuation of evolution of the one-human constitution!

Now that we’ve solved that 10,000 year old conundrum—the history books can begin to record the solution.  Here it is:  “Studies have found that people are whack'd.  Particular ones need to be identified, restrained, and counseled.  Leave the rest alone, or invite them over for tea and bisquits.”   That’s for the history books to record. 

This scene, after only 7 minutes of mainstream television, is too much for my recently bruised and abused psyche. I FF to Man-Versus-Things-that-Used-to-Have-Faces.  That child actor is cooking whole chickens in a deep fryer pressure cooker.  He’ll pull the skin off and suck in the escaping hot oils, and then he'll inhale a few slices of pie before he travels somewhere to eat twenty-four burritos because someone before him holds the record at twenty-three burritos.

After twenty+ years in this adult reality, I don’t know how to find the road back to basics.  How do I get to the fantastical, magical Straight Land path?  I need to find gumdrop alley where the bonus prizes won’t give me diabetes or a false sense of security.

I’m not going to use this blog as my soap box.  That would be wrong.  I’m going to rise above and say, “When I live in a land of decadence and over-indulgence, maybe loving someone isn’t so horrible that I should be embarrassed, not make friends with straight strangers, and not feel good about saying to mom at holiday, ‘I’m sleeping with my lover in my old bed.  So, Suck it.’” And then, “Sorry.  Did you take down my poster of Kelly McGillis, yet?” 

Gotta love the power of contributing to your own oh-so-necessary sense of reality.  You can pause nonsense, speed through it, and get to the good stuff when you return with good stuff to offer to your friends.  (I like jalapenos on my tv snack nachos.)  This sitting around and asking permission to be whole is for the birds—obviously, this cliché doesn’t have the same sense of empowerment for the chickens who were mercilessly placed in the deep-fry pressure cooker.

Here ye, Hear me—I don’t need someone else’s life, while I sit on my hands and create wrinkles.  Someday, some producer may come, grab me by the neck, and start plucking my feathers for a pressure cooker called hell. (But, it’s not likely. I’m a good hen).  In the meantime, save the Cymbalta and Phillips stool softener. I’ve got just enough time to not miss my life.