Clumsy

Clumsy: (adj) awkward in movement or in handling things.

Sexual intercourse looks dumb.

It is so awkward and clumsy that when we first meet a potential mating partner we have to get ourselves all worked up–sometimes drunk--to participate in the ritual, and then, after several months or years of interacting, marriage often occurs, where no one is quite able to get as worked up again, so merely on the stimulus of doing the act, we often find ourselves embarrassed, if not unmotivated.

It’s clumsy.

What makes it even more clumsy are people who think they are adept, talented or professional at it. Then it becomes similar to a bull in the pen, bragging about his graceful ability to take a dump.

What truly makes sex significant and endearing is how clumsy it is. If both parties would submit to the stumbling aspects of the action, giggle a little bit more and listen to one another, it could continue to be pleasurable for a long time.

But we view it with a funeral-home grimness.

How can anything be important if monkeys can do it eight times in an hour? Really??

Is there such a thing as a sacred vagina or a sanctified penis?

It’s clumsy.

And if we discuss it too much as if it’s a pertinent issue, the clumsiness of it becomes ridiculous, and we, fools for approaching the topic with such gravitas.

I’m clumsy. I’ve never been with anyone who isn’t clumsy. Although some people insist they are excellent lovers, the truth of the matter is, they have an over-exaggerated sense of their own prowess, which is not necessarily shared by their bedfellow.

Let’s relax.

Things that should be clumsy, like sex, are regaled as great art forms. Things that should be meaningful, like concern for one another and kindness, are treated as lowly.

This would be a good place to start. Have a serious conversation with your love partner about how to be kind to your neighbors, and when you get done, run to the bedroom and have clumsy sex…and laugh about it.

 

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Cliché

Cliché : (n) a phrase or opinion that is overused and betrays a lack of original thought.

Because I write an essay or two or more every day, I’ve learned to avoid clichés. fiancé

I can say “a penny saved is a penny burned.” That’s making fun of a cliché. But to insist that it’s “earned” makes my penning arcane. (similar to using the word “arcane.”)

Yet there are things that have been proclaimed to be clichés which have recently been abandoned by our culture, and need to be returned quickly–before we come apart at the seams.

“Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Just because it’s been presented for centuries does not mean it has lost the gold in its rule. Simply spoken, the absence of such a cliché is the presence of Earthly mayhem.

How about another one?

“You get more flies with honey than vinegar.”

Have we begun to believe that how we react, think and speak is insignificant? Are we asking the human race that surrounds us to tolerate our mood swings under the guise that if they don’t, they are intolerant? I think there’s a power to being kind. Do you?

“To he who much is given, much is expected.”

Might seem like a cliché–especially since it’s become popular to insist that each of us pull our own load, simulating some sort of unnatural evenness. There are two reasons people don’t have money:

  1. They are poor.
  2. They use money poorly.

It is ludicrous to think they will rise to the occasion and suddenly become prudent with finance. These poor will be with us always and we should do for them what we can–especially if we find that we have a knack of drawing in the bucks.

Yes, there are many clichés that should not be ignored or set aside simply because of their birth date.

They are just old and wizened–not dead and in need of burial.

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Clever

Clever: (adj) quick to understand

I have always contended that the best way to be clever (quick to understand) is to make sure you’re slow to tout your intelligence.

I don’t know why people work so hard to establish that they are smart when being knowledgeable just plays out.

So, avoid making claims in the chill of the moment, which melt in the heat of the day.

I don’t exactly know how to be clever. I get accused of it all the time, and I’ve even had people ask me what the secret is to cleverness. The only response I can give them is, “For God’s sakes–don’t try.

After all, there is nothing that is less clever than trying to be clever.

It’s awkward.

It’s dopey.

It’s like taking a selfie and pointing out to people how cute you are.

It usually fails miserably, especially when you have to explain your cleverness because it has overshot the comprehension of your audience.

I think clever and cleverness is like dew: get there early, make sure you’re frosty and find a nice spot to let the cool that surrounds you “dew” its stuff.

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Blazer

Blazer: (n) a lightweight jacket, typically solid-colored

Dictionary B

In my high school days I was in a music group, a quartet of fellows who were very intrigued with the idea of being famous and not quite so intent on musicality.

We spent most of our rehearsals discussing the clothes we would wear on stage, and also whether we could get a good deal on Beatle Boots. It was very important.

Of these four young men, I was the chubbiest.

So whenever we went clothes shopping and they found something they really liked–something they thought was hot and cute, which would get the girls’ attention–they would discover that it didn’t come in “Porky.”

They pretended not to be disappointed–but I knew I was holding them back from being debonaire.

One day we came across some golden blazers.

They were so cool. Everyone tried one on, and each person looked stunning in his own adolescent, awkward way.

There was one extra-large in the blazer. I tried it on, and it covered most of the terrain of my belly but pinched me at the shoulders and looked a bit ridiculous when I stood in front of the mirror.

But the guys were so intent on purchasing the garment that they convinced me I was passable.

Back home, I tried it on again and again and again. Each time it looked worse and worse and worse–especially when I wore it with the accompanying black turtleneck.

I looked like a bumblebee with a glandular problem.

So I set out to address the situation by soaking my blazer in water and then going out to my mother’s clothesline in the back yard, hanging it up with pairs of boots dangling from the inseams, so as to stretch it.

Do you get the picture?

After it dried out, I discovered that it still failed to cover my midriff–but nearly reached to my knees.

For the next year and a half, whenever it was “golden blazer time,” the other guys looked nifty and keen–and I resembled a monk who had recently acquired a beer gut.

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Birthday

Birthday: (n) the anniversary of the day on which a person was born

Find the reason.Dictionary B

There are too many things we do in life that are either absent purpose or have lost direction, but continue to be honored in some awkward way.

Because we do not understand the true value of a birthday, we come up with cakes, cards, silly gifts, and nervous congratulatory statements to cruise through the twenty-four hours, relieved that it only happens once a year.

The reason for a birthday is to establish how well we have used the blessing of 365 days.

If you find yourself discontented or embarrassed to look back on the activities of the previous year, then you know the greatest gift you can be given on your birthday is a gentle kick in the “assaroni” to do better.

Our lives should mean something.

They should not be apologies for the activity level we have selected, based upon our circumstances.

They should not be a listing of the people who love us because we have decided to love them.

A birthday is a celebration of growth in the passing of a year, instead of passing a year with no growth.

There are three things I want to hear on my birthday:

1. We’re glad you’re here.

2. You make our lives better and easier.

3. We are astounded at how many of the things you wanted to do this year that you were able to accomplish.

Now, that is a Happy Birthday.

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Besmirch

Besmirch: (v) to damage the reputation of someone or something in the opinion of others.

Dictionary B

I don’t often take the liberty of addressing contemporary issues in these essays, but I am greatly troubled by the way our society is handling a particular human being.

Yes, I may be the singular person in America who feels sorry for Donald Trump. He possibly is the only truly innocent person in this whole cavalcade of ridiculous parading around, while turning our Democratic system into a clown act gigging at a whore house.

After all, Donald Trump has always made it clear who he is.

One can watch three episodes of The Apprentice and understand the man. He has two personas: an entertainer who acts as a salesman, or a salesman who greatly enjoys entertaining. Therefore he has dual goals:

  1.  To garner emotion from you
  2. To get you to buy something.

Unfortunately, he has tapped a bitter well in the American culture which spews poison. Once he realized there was a great flow from this poisonous digging, he pursued it–being the salesman that he is. The fact that we are unable to cap it is our problem, not his.

Of all the candidates running for President, Donald Trump is the most transparent.

The problem lies in our own secret rooms, where we still maintain a vigil of prejudice, but try to act embarrassed because this New York billionaire thespian acts it out for us.

So be careful when besmirching the reputation of this awkward soul.

He is what he is, and by the way … that’s all that he is.

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Ball

Ball: (n) a solid or hollow sphere or ovoid, especially one that is kicked, thrown, or hit in a game.Dictionary B

Thirteen years old is such a fussy, giggly time.

I was at church camp and one of the counselors had forgotten to bring balls for us to play.

First of all, being thirteen years of age, when the counselor announced that we didn’t have balls for us to play with, we all had to giggle uncontrollably. (You see, that’s the problem with the word “ball.” It has so many meanings that it’s nearly meaningless.)

But anyway, back to my story.

So when it was announced that we were “balless” (hee-hee) we thought that this adult standing in front of us was going to go out and acquire us … balls. (This article is doubling over with double-entendres…)

Anyway, he didn’t.

I don’t know whether he was lazy, or figured there would be some sort of other entertainment for us that wouldn’t require balls. (Oh, my God…)

So in frustration we began a great search across the campgrounds. After about an hour and a half, in a ditch outside of the cafeteria, we found an old basketball that obviously had been discarded, which was about halfway filled with air.

In other words, it was still round, but did not bounce. When we tried to bounce it, it more or less splatted.

But this became our ball for the week.

Since no other circular objects of play were afforded us, we changed the rules of every sport to use what was provided.

So our basketball game, rather than being a dribbling affair, became more like football, where one would run toward the goal, knocking people over, and then shoot it and try to rebound and catch it before it haplessly squatted to the earth.

So by the end of the week, we had discovered that the most logical way to use our hampered ball was to play game after game of kickball.

I cannot tell you how sad we were on Day Four, when the kicked and abused sphere sported a gash and lost its remaining air of life.

As important as it is to have a ball, it is much more important to have air in it.

Somewhere within, there’s a lesson for life, but since I am desperately trying to get out of this awkward column … I will let you draw your own conclusions.

 

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