Tag Archives: bottom

Bottom

Bottom: (n) the buttocks

Perhaps one of the more unnerving parts of the human journey is deciding to admit one’s silly inner thoughts, hoping that others will be equally as candid–thus creating a giggling fellowship.Dictionary B

Of course, there always is the chance that people will button up their collars and look on you as a freak.

For instance, when I was ten years old, I saw a television program where a doctor proclaimed a man died because he swallowed his tongue.

This scared the uvula out of me. Matter of fact, I stayed awake all night, afraid that if I went to sleep, my tongue would no longer be in my cheek.

I also had a brief period when I was convinced that my lips were too big. I don’t know what brought this on, but I was certain that everyone who met me thought that I had some African-American in my bloodline and that my lips were much too large for Caucasian consideration.

And of course, then there was my bottom. My bottom has annoyed me in many ways. Being a big man, I often thought it was huge. Then I decided it was too flat. Overall, I was concerned about its natural aroma.

Human behavior is so bizarre.

We want to be unique–except for the majority of the time, when we want to blend Because being too different makes us appear an outsider. If for some reason, we fit in, we might become invisible.

So since I never swallowed my tongue, and my lips proved to be quite average, I guess, in the long run, nobody really cares about my posterior.

But I am relieved that we got to the bottom of this.

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Anchor

dictionary with letter A

Anchor: (n) a heavy object attached to a rope or chain and used to moor a vessel to the bottom.

It was made of aluminum, about twelve feet long, with three wooden, bench seats inside, one of the perches broken.

It was my dad’s boat.

It more resembled a canoe with a thyroid problem.

But whenever my dad launched his vessel onto the great and mighty waters of Hoover Lake, he suddenly transformed into some sort of John Paul Jones, which to me as a boy, appeared as a nautical monster.

He began using the lingo of the sea and was perpetually angry with his crew–embodied solely in myself.

He explained that the best way to fish was to find a quiet, deep lagoon and drop your anchor so your boat wouldn’t move, and you would be present with your bait, to lure in the schools of fish. (Often we often must have arrived during some sort of fish holiday–because the schools were usually out.)

Nevertheless, he yelled at me to drop anchor, which was a forty pound cube of cement block, which he had put together by pouring it into a plastic bucket and then destroying the bucket to free the cement once it had hardened. Attached to this heavy clump was a rope.

Now, you must realize–we only had twenty-five feet of rope on our anchor–which is fine is you happen to be perched in twenty-three feet of water. But as I lifted the huge mass over the side of the boat and dropped it into the water, I was never sure if it actually hit the bottom.

So after an hour or so, my dad would look up from his fishing pole, where he had frozen his eyes intently, and realize that we had floated far from our desired spot.

This initiated a whole new tirade of “captain-to-deck-swab” complaints. I tried to defend myself by explaining that we did not have enough rope to reach the bottom of the lake, but he never seemed to quite comprehend that if the anchor doesn’t land on the bottom, it really doesn’t keep you in place.

What great symbolism.

After all, if our anchor is floating along with society’s ideas and standards instead of landing firmly on solid ground, we, too, tend to drift from our preferred placement.

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