Cream One’s Jeans

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Cream one’s jeans: (v) to experience emission of a small amount of semen 

I was twenty-five years old and just smart enough that I seemed like a genius among my peers.

It is a very dangerous supposition—because possessing premature gravitas does not mean you have adequate “salt and pepper” in your philosophy. But my friends—and their friends—trusted me explicitly.

So when a young woman came to me for counseling, I was more than willing to help her through her hour of need. She was very attractive—but I felt that I was mature enough to handle it in a clinical fashion, and would not allow my animal to slink out of the jungle.

It went along pretty well. Unfortunately, the problems she was experiencing were of a sexual nature, with her fiancé. She was very willing to be honest—dare I say, even blatant. I tried not to become emotionally involved in her situation, but she was so doggone pretty that I found myself siding with her rather than actually helping her find the key to her solution.

I thought I was doing more good than harm until after the third session—for when she left, I went into the bathroom, pulled down my underwear to urinate, and there it was: a little deposit of fresh cream in my shorts from my body’s excitement.

I felt stupid.

Aside from being a little bit yucky, it was a piece of evidence which could not be denied. It proved that my mind was moving sexually instead of heavenly.

I was so pissed.

I continued a few more sessions but at the end of each one I found the same surprise. Yes—I was creaming my jeans over a young woman I was supposed to be enriching.

She didn’t know, and she would never know unless I told her or tried to act out my body’s wishes.

At this point I had to decide whether I was just clever or really caring. There is a major difference. People who are just clever don’t really care if it hurts anyone or not, and people who are really caring sometimes have to walk away from their need to appear clever so as to actually be caring.

I explained to the young lady that I was going to send her off to someone who was more suited to her problem, and that she could counsel her better in these matters than I. The young woman was disappointed, but not crestfallen. After all, she was there for help…not foreplay.

I learned that day the difference between just loving yourself and really loving your neighbor just as much.

 

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Cougar

Cougar: (informal) an older woman who seeks sexual relationships with much younger men

What is an older woman?

When I was twelve, I thought my cousin was an older woman. She was nineteen.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

The word “older” is so—well, old.

It doesn’t mean anything.

I will tell you right now what makes a woman attractive. It is not because she has reached her fortieth birthday and still looks like she’s twenty-three. No—the reasons “cougars,” as they fancifully are called, are attractive to younger men are as follow:

  1. They’ve had enough birthdays that they’re no longer fretting over their biological clock—to drop a kid or two before they leave the planet.
  2. They’ve been disappointed enough by men that they have a much better idea of what they want.
  3. They have found their clitoris and are not asking you to go on a quest to locate it.
  4. That means they are able to control their own orgasm without demanding you do something supernatural to acquire it.
  5. They can talk. (And I’m not speaking of chattering. The journey has given them some experiences to share.)
  6. They smell mature. They smell like women instead of honey and flowers. It’s very alluring
  7. And if they are smart, they’ve learned not to bullshit men or pump up their egos, creating monsters.

I’m not so sure I like the term “cougars.” I think it’s rather degrading.

But I think it’s brilliant to distinguish what makes a woman valuable as time passes and realize that she doesn’t have nearly as much to prove—nor as much to complain about.


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Clone

Clone: (v) to make a duplicate

Some people just like to argue. I’m convinced of that.

You could even tell them you agree with what they’re saying, and they will still comment on how poorly you supported the point.

Thus the argument about cloning.

People are very afraid we’re actually going to attempt to clone human beings. That’s not what bothers me. What troubles me is that we want to clone attractive, intelligent, disease-free human beings.

Will they still be assholes?

You see, that’s the problem. I have met people who are supposed to be very appealing, but after spending ten minutes with them, I was grateful that the eleventh minute arrived so I could leave.

They were just too aware of their positive attributes.

There is something sweet in the human spirit about uncertainty–something appealing about an attractive person wondering if you think they look alright.

Do we really want a clone who is not only structured in perfection, but has a receipt to prove it?

I gain strength through my weaknesses. If people do not know this to be true, they will continue to lie and deceive in order to cover up hidden flubs. Are we going to clone flubbed people so they’ll be more real?

Or is the purpose of cloning an attempt to achieve what God was unable to do–and that is make a perfect Adam and Eve.

 

 

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Cheer

Cheer: (n) a shout of encouragement, praise, or joy.

She was so pretty I couldn’t look at her.

Looking at her would mean that I saw her.

Seeing her would connote that I was worthy to drink in her attractiveness.

And there was always the danger that she might see me looking, and be stuck peering at my plainness.

Her name was Deborah Lee. She was a cheerleader.

She was a cheerleader for all the right reasons–not because of school politics or because the advisor decided to grant her the position to fulfill some sort of ethnic or body-type quota.

She was pretty, personable, perky, present, plentiful and … well, perfect.

I don’t think she ever knew I lived or breathed until one day she was sitting in a corner by herself on a chilly morning. It seems that every time she was around the cold, her legs would get red and blotchy. I never noticed. But for some reason, she felt vulnerable and when I asked her what was wrong, she told me she was embarrassed about her funky limbs.

I didn’t know what to say, so as was my custom, I said something stupid. “Deborah Lee, you’re so pretty that no one would ever notice your ugly legs.”

I don’t know whether she just felt generous, but she laughed and she laughed and she laughed.

From that day forward, she actually smiled at me in the hallway and would occasionally make eye contact across the width of the cafeteria.

At least I thought she did.

I was playing on the basketball team. I wasn’t the best player. I wasn’t even friends with the best player. But I started because I was big and they thought I would scare the opposing team and get rebounds.

One day I actually got the courage to shoot at the basket instead of retrieving it and handing it off to Billy, our star player. After I made my second basket, I heard Deborah Lee’s voice, chorusing with the other cheerleaders, “That’s okay, that’s alright. Come on, Big Jon–fight, fight, fight!”

I didn’t know whether to cry or wet my pants, but water was definitely going to come out somewhere.

I was so distracted by this cheer of approval that I didn’t score another point and dribbled the ball off my foot three times.

I never went on a date with Deborah Lee. We just remained friends. She never got to cheer for me again because I never achieved that level of excellence.

I concluded that there are people who do better if their work is not cheered on and applauded.

The appreciation is too much to handle and becomes a distraction.

 

Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix 

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Charming

Charming: (adj) pleasant or attractive.

Mr. Webster, please make up your mind.

Is it pleasant, or attractive? Truthfully, the two rarely run races together.

Those who are attractive don’t necessarily feel the need to be pleasant. The absence of pimples and the presence of dimples grants them
license to be just as snooty as they deem necessary.

And those who are not attractive often don the apparel of “pleasant,” to clothe themselves in a righteousness that should be suitable for the runway of life.

So which is it?

I suppose there might be a tiny handful of humans who are attractive and pleasant–which enables them to go into a bar and get a date without buying her a drink.

So I disagree that charming has anything to do with pleasant or attractive. Charming is just damn smart. It’s the realization that not everyone will find you attractive, no matter how much you primp, and being pleasant may be suspicious rather than advantageous.

My definition for charming is finding a way to be sensitive to the moment.

Weep with those who are weeping, rejoice with those who are rejoicing. And stop thinking that God has voted you to be in charge of all moods.

If you are able to sensitize yourself to the situations around you, granting a bit of grace to the emotions that crop up, you will bear fruit in the human family.

 

 

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Buff

j-r-practix-with-border-2

Buff: (adj) being in good physical shape with fine muscle tone.

Although I agree that sexual purity is a noble state, sexual deprivation more resembles North Dakota.

What I mean is, as we try to avoid promiscuity, we need to consider the fact that all of us require some sensation Dictionary Bof being attractive.

I was kind of born fat.

I know that sounds like a cop-out, and it probably is–but since I was twelve-and-a-half pounds when I popped out of my mother, and three hundred pounds by the time I reached the 7th grade, it is safe to say there were not many intervals of “lean” in between.

So even though I worked on a good personality, a generous spirit and nourishing my talent, I have traveled the Earth with what appears to be a spare belly. I don’t know what it would ever be used for–it just seems to take up space, unexplained.

Recently, one of my dear friends, who happens to be female, told me that another friend saw me about twenty years back, when I was deeply absorbed, or perhaps even possessed, in the notion of exercise, and described me as “buff.”

I almost wet my pants.

The notion of me being buff, or considered buff, or even curiously perceived buff by a near-sighted man, gave me an uncontrollable tingle down my spine.

For a moment, I felt alluring, without feeling the need to allure.

I was appealing, without needing to pursue pleasant dialogue which might make me seem interesting.

There is an old saying that we are “fearfully and wonderfully made.” If by that the writer intended to express that we are crazy and bonkers, then I agree.

But if we don’t feel presentable, we don’t feel happy.

And if we don’t feel happy, we try to make other people’s lives miserable.

And once miserable, they will certainly find us even more unappealing.

 

Donate ButtonThank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix 

 

 

Bracelet

j-r-practix-with-border-2

Bracelet: (n) an ornamental band or chain worn on the wrist or arm

I have never been satisfied with my appearance, yet oddly, I have never been dissatisfied.

I have always landed in the “midlands” of being curious about improving my package.Dictionary B

This has caused me to do many interesting things.

When I was much younger I grew my hair out very long. I did it because I thought it made me look cool–and I could. Another wonderful byproduct of having flowing locks was that it seemed to make older folks really pissy.

For awhile I wore jewelry around my neck. I liked the way it flew around when I was walking fast, and it popped and bounced against my pecs, making me feel macho (since I left two buttons unfastened at the top of my shirt).

But most of all, I made a decision to wear an ID bracelet. I forget who purchased it–obviously someone who could afford the adornment, promising that it was gold plated. It is possible that it was, but whatever gold was on my ID bracelet quickly headed for “them thar hills.”

I was left with a two-tone piece of metal dangling from my arm, causing my skin to turn green.

I didn’t care. I continued to wear it because I believed it made me look more attractive.

Then one day I was sitting on a bench and a young lady moved to sit down next to me, and pulled back in horror, exclaiming, “Ooh! Your arm is green!”

She decided to seek a perch elsewhere.

So I scrubbed my arm and returned it to its former beige condition, and stopped wearing my bracelet–reluctantly. I did not feel nearly as appealing.

I realized that I was trusting my two-tone, green-spreading-on-your-skin piece of jewelry to be the spokesman …  for my true beauty.

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