Cupid

Cupid: (n) the ancient Roman god of love represented as a winged, naked, infant boy with a bow and arrows.

Romance is idiotic.

This doesn’t mean it’s not amazing.

I’m not trying to tell you there isn’t great joy in the percolation of human sexuality.

Romance is idiotic because the justifications we generate to permit ourselves to “swoon in June by the light of the silvery moon” are downright hilariously ignorant.

I laugh whenever I hear two lovers explain that they can’t help themselves.

“The heart wants what the heart wants.”

I’m not so sure the heart has much to do with it.

But the lust wants what the lust wants.

That’s darned tootin’ true.

To further justify the erratic tendencies of romance, we have borrowed this character from mythology—Cupid.

He shoots arrows, you know.

They are arrows of love.

I think that is definitely an oxymoron.

Or it’s simply a misplacement of a vowel or a consonant, which should actually read:

“The eros of love.”

Eros is the Greek word for sexual intercourse.

So a man with a wife and three children will swear before the Supreme Court that Cupid shot him with an arrow, and that is why he ended up screwing his twenty-two-year-old secretary.

He will be very sincere.

He might even cry about the deep affection he has suddenly acquired.

But one of the greatest truths we can impart to ourselves as men is that having an erect penis is not permission to continue. And as women, getting wet may require going somewhere to dry out.

It is not an issue of decency.

It is an attempt to keep us from acting like rabbits living in a hole, constantly searching for a hole.

We may not like the responsibility of tempering our sexuality—becoming more adept at dodging Cupid’s arrows—but we owe it to ourselves to rationally and purposefully exchange seventy years of peace of mind for seven seconds of juicy pleasure.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Crime Does Not Pay

funny wisdom on words that begin with a CCrime does not pay: A maxim originating as a slogan of the F.B.I. and given wide currency by the cartoon character Dick Tracy.

Have you had the conversation?

I’m speaking of the sit-down you have with yourself, where you ask the all-important question:

Do I want to chase dreams or learn how to enjoy the visions provided?

It is huge.

There are many fine fellow-travelers who lose their way because they answer this question carelessly. They are convinced that more awaits them, that they deserve a better chance, or that the portion presented is insulting to their talent. After all, no one becomes a criminal because they’re overjoyed with their life.

Crime doesn’t even come to play unless you convince yourself that it’s time to take something you haven’t earned. This could be money, position, or even romance with another who is already entwined.

Crime, like every other piece of idiocy, is a bewildering mix of initiative and greed.

Of course, a case can be made that if we continue to accept our lot, we will never be able to ascertain what we might achieve if we were more aggressive.

On the other hand, we certainly know that the root of all fallacy, sin and misconduct is aggression.

The conversation needs to occur.

We have to find peace with our surroundings as we blow bubbles of possibility, hope and curiosity into the surrounding air.


Subscribe to Jonathan’s Weekly Podcast

Good News and Better News

 

Creole

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Creole: (n) a person born in Louisiana but of usually French ancestry.

Sometimes I feel that my life is a series of leaps into quicksand, with the excitement coming from each escape from foolishness.

Would any of us truly have a reason for being if we weren’t finding creative ways to correct our mistakes?

For a very brief time in my life, I thought that because I possessed faith, it was my responsibility to infuse it into others. This misconception led me to make a brief missionary trip to the country of Haiti. Never has one small nation been so inundated with religious propaganda and promises of eternal life with so little prospect for earthly sustenance. Yet I decided to add my own drivel to the propagated myth. I arrived in Haiti convinced that if I preached the Gospel, I could save souls. It didn’t occur to me that there were actually people linked to those souls.

People who got hungry.

People who needed love.

People who valued romance.

People who just thought, felt and dreamed about “people things.”

I was in the middle of my third little sermon in an adobe building, in front of a packed house—eager faces who had obviously been told by their leadership that the arrival of white people from America always offered the possibility of financial relief.

The language was Creole.

I did not take the time to learn the tongue, but over the several days that I had been there, I picked up a word here and there—maybe even a phrase.

I suddenly noticed that my translator, who had a grin foretelling of sin, was not exactly sharing what I was saying to the congregation.

So after I finished my teaching, I cornered him and asked him what he was doing. Never dropping his smile, he looked me right in the eyes and said, “You come from a country where your biggest concern is getting too fat. You are visiting a country where our biggest concern is staying alive. Sometimes you say dumb things that would be offensive, and I just find happier ways to translate them.”

A chill went down my spine. Even though I believed myself to be a plain-spoken individual who always wanted to hear the truth, I kind of wished he’d lied to me.

But I’m glad he didn’t—because he made it clear that my preaching could not be eaten and my Bible verses didn’t provide warmth; that even though I might have good intentions, my efforts were worthless to the needy.

That day I started trying to learn some of the Creole language.

It was literally the least I could do.

 


Subscribe to Jonathan’s Weekly Podcast

Good News and Better News

 

Cosmopolitan

Cosmopolitan: (adj) free from provincial ideas or attachments; at home all over the world

As he sat down, he stared at me.

It was a very small waiting room in a dentist’s office, so what I was doing was noticeable. It was also quite obvious that he found my activityfunny wisdom on words that begin with a C
humorous.

I was reading Cosmopolitan Magazine.

There were three choices: Popular Mechanics, Highlights for Kids, and Cosmopolitan.

I suppose if I were trying to confirm my masculinity, I should have thumbed through Popular Mechanics, though mechanical things have never been particularly popular with me.

I decided to comment since he continued to stare at my magazine. “I’m reading Cosmopolitan because it was here—and I was curious.”

He nodded his head in disdain.

I ventured one more sentence of explanation. “Don’t you ever wonder what women are thinking about us?”

He didn’t even look up for this question—just shook his head.

While I was waiting my turn to be drilled, I learned three things about women of this day and age, from perusing Cosmopolitan.

  1. Women are much more concerned about what men think and feel than men seem to be about women.
  2. For some reason, a woman thinks it is her fault in some way when she ends up with a man who is unable to communicate or seems to have “lost interest.”
  3. Women feel they can pursue a five-point plan to transform their hopeless situations to better, more romantic results.

I simultaneously was filled with admiration and sadness.

I found the pursuit placed in this magazine to be far from cosmopolitan, since “cosmopolitan” is the ability to function and be successful in any culture or environment at any time.

This magazine more or less was a handbook to explain to women why they are not crazy, insecure or extreme in their misgivings.

What the magazine was trying to impress upon its readership—mainly female—is that men are waiting for the right signals to become objective, interesting and involved.

When it came my time to head for the dentist’s chair, I closed the magazine and thought, I could probably make a million dollars by printing a magazine that encouraged women to be themselves and realize that men will eventually come in their direction since the alternatives are limited…and they do get horny and hungry.


Donate Button


Subscribe to Jonathan’s Weekly Podcast

Good News and Better News

 

Corvette

Corvette: (n) brand name for a type of sports car made by Chevrolet

I think the correct term for it is “urban legend,” although, since I grew up in a town of only fifteen hundred people, it may be a rural legend.

When I was a boy there was a man-made lake near our town which had several back roads along the banks, which were often impassable funny wisdom on words that begin with a C
because they were covered with water if the lake was particularly bloated by rains.

I was familiar with the roads because sometimes it was fun to go down them to park with your lady, or to scare your girlfriend because it was so spooky at night. (Everyone knows that teenage lasses who are frightened are much more susceptible to romance.)

On one of these roads, a gentleman took his 1969 bright-red Corvette Stingray, parked it, took out a shotgun and blew his head off.

It did no physical damage to the car whatsoever, so after he was removed and the remaining parts of him were cleaned out, his family tried to sell the car. The problem was, it was nearly a week before anyone found the body in the car, so the stench of the corpse had settled into the upholstery, and it was necessary to pull out all the seats, the dashboard, and start from scratch. They did this, figuring it would still be cost-effective to sell the automobile.

But even after all the fastidious effort, the smell of the dead man’s remains lingered—because a Corvette is made of fiberglass and is much more porous than metal. Therefore, it retained the stench.

Try as they would to deodorize, they were unable to get the odor out of that beautiful red Corvette.

It had to be junked.

I was present for this event, but I would understand if you wanted to question the authenticity or validity of the tale, and I do realize that at this point I should come up with a moral for the story or a clever closing for this essay, to make you yearn to come back for more.

But the best I can muster is, if you’re going to kill yourself, don’t do it in an expensive sports car, because no one will be able to “vette” your stink.


Donate Button


Subscribe to Jonathan’s Weekly Podcast

Good News and Better News

 

Coquette

Coquette: (n) a woman who flirts lightheartedly with men 

Jill liked men.

Or was it that Jill liked to flirt?

Perhaps Jill liked romance.

But Jill was one of those human beings–who happened to be female—who really embraced the notion of being desired, and raising the lust levels of all the men in the room.

I remember when I first met her, we were on our way to a business meeting and I noticed that a lot of guys waved at her from a distance or stopped to chat for a moment as we eased our way down the road. I thought to myself, Gee, whiz. I’m working with somebody who’s very popular, and that might come in handy funny wisdom on words that begin with a C
later if we need contacts.

What I soon discovered was that Jill was coquettish—or a coquette. She was one of those individuals who loved to be pursued and who pursued to be loved—and was even willing, as I found out later, to follow through on many an offer. I suppose jealous females or very religious people would have horrible names for her, like “whore,” but that’s because we still live in a Victorian age when attractive fellows who yearn for physical contact are called “ladies’ men,” and women who chase the same activities are called “sluts.”

It is not only unfair—it is a misrepresentation of facts. Because Jill was a delightful girl who was even a person of faith.

She just had a much broader definition for “love thy neighbor.”


Donate Button


Subscribe to Jonathan’s Weekly Podcast

Good News and Better News

 

Contaminate

Contaminate: (v) to make something impure

The first time I said a prayer my soul merged with God.

Then I went to prayer meetings. Now a sense of loss floods my heart every time I listen to over-exsggerated supplications.

The first time a woman kissed my lips and touched my face I thought I was going to melt like butter on a hot waffle.

Then came television, movies, and all sorts of insidious representations of romance, which make me sometimes wonder why in the hell we’re attracted to each funny wisdom on words that begin with a Cother.

The first time I voted I believed I was accompanied to the polls by George Washington himself.

Now, through the disappointment of the Electoral College and the tainting of civil discourse, I would rather have a 24-hour stomach virus. (Well, maybe not.)

The first time I stood onstage and sang a song for an audience, and had chills go up and down my spine as I harmonized with my friends, I thought I had pierced the heavenly gates and joined the supernal chorus.

Now I feel perplexed at a musical cacophony that shouts, screams and contorts without ever touching the human heart.

I remember the first time for many beautiful things.

And then humanity tried to contaminate the simplicity, insisting that the complexity brought deeper meaning.

It didn’t.

I have taken a brief season of my life to debug myself from the infection of religious fanaticism, entertainment porn, political grappling and music composed with a tin ear.

I feel good.

I feel simple.

I no longer feel contaminated.

Donate Button


Subscribe to Jonathan’s Weekly Podcast

Good News and Better News