Compulsion

Compulsion: (n) forced to do something through an irresistible urge

At one time I had a compulsion to be noticed. Now I like to notice.

I had a compulsion to be sexy. Now I’m extremely grateful if anyone is willing to have sex with me.

Also, there was a great compulsion in me to have money. Now I like to high-five myself when I find a clever way to use leftovers.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

I had a compulsion to be famous. Now it’s exciting to be well-thought-of.

I had a compulsion to yell at other people I felt were idiots daring to drive cars around me. Now I ignore my horn–we haven’t interacted for weeks.

I had a compulsion to be spiritual. Now I’m lavishing in the joy of being real.

I had a compulsion to see my children do well. I woke up and realized it’s their lives.

I had a compulsion to participate in politics. Now I pop some corn and watch it.

I had a compulsion to be thinner. Now I work on trying not to be fatter.

I had a compulsion to be healthy. Now I cross my fingers and thank God for His grace.

I had a compulsion to be compulsive. Now I’ve learned the victory, the peace of mind and the utter bliss of “taking no thought.”

 

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Communion

Communion: (n) the service of Christian worship at which bread and wine are consecrated and shared.

I get the same sensation when I go to Red Lobster with a friend and he or she insists, with a giggle, as the cheddar bay biscuits arrive, and they gleefully take one from the basket, that, “This is what Red Lobster is all about!”

I nod (knowing that soon I will probably nod off.)

Red Lobster is not about the cheddar bay biscuits. It’s about the seafood.

Just like baseball games are not about the peanuts and the Cracker Jacks. There’s a ball, a bat and a game.

And marriage is not about starting a family. It’s really about how much you enjoy having sex with this one person and hope you can keep it up for the rest of your life while you have a family.

I find myself going to church from time to time–reluctantly.

I don’t like that about me. It seems jaded. In this season of agnosticism it smacks of the predictable.

But you see, in church there’s just too much emphasis on the cheddar bay biscuits, the Cracker Jacks and the family.

Many of them center their whole agenda around communion–a symbolistic representation of the blood and body of Jesus Christ, which he gave for the sins of mankind.

It’s disconcerting to me.

First there’s the thought that I am such a piece of shit that God had to kill His own kid to try to make up for my buffoonery.

Then there’s the notion that a dynamic spirit which walked in the flesh among us for thirty-three years only gained significance in the last few hours that he hung, as an alleged criminal, on a cross.

What an insult to all things loving and eternal.

Yet if you lodge an objection, somehow or another you become apostate–which, if you don’t know what that means, is the religious system’s way of telling you that you don’t belong.

The truth of the matter is, I admire the hell out of Jesus.

Long before he bled, he led me into an understanding of how we might begin to see God’s will done on Earth as it is in heaven.

 

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Cold-call

Cold-call: (n) an unsolicited visit or telephone call made by someone trying to sell goods or services.

“Good morning! My name is…”

I immediately could tell that the person on the other end of the line was not convinced of the goodness of the morning, and did not give one flying Frito pie as to what my name was.

In baseball that’s called Strike Two.

What I did next would determine whether I would immediately go to Strike Three in the first twenty seconds, or survive, crossing thirty seconds–or the amazing possibility of a minute.

Cold-calling.

So referred to because it is calling that is made to human icebergs.

Usually when I realized that the person I was speaking to was not convinced of the beauty of the day, and was not impressed with my name, I would unfortunately have that two-second gulp in my throat.

This was always the length of time it took the individual who had already expressed indifference, to come in and close the deal on me.

“Listen, I don’t need anything. Bye.”

My supervisor in the company pointed out to me that when I was doing the cold-calling–the phone solicitation–I had deprived this individual of the benefit–dare he say, blessing?–of hearing about the terrific product.

All of this done through a misplaced gulp.

I got better. Sometimes I survived past the first gulp and got all the way to this phrase:

“What I’m calling you about today…”

Then a second wall, needing to hurdled, standing tall, wide and thick, suddenly rose before my nose–and once again, was terminated with the party on the other line (who, by the way, was not having a party) excusing him or herself and hanging up.

If I could get to the one-minute mark, where I explained how the product I was offering was not only beneficial but terribly inexpensive, I found that one out of four times I actually made a sale.

Let’s analyze the numbers:

Ninety percent of the people cut me off at my first gulp.

Five percent of the people stopped me with “the great wall.”

This means that five out of every one hundred people became my potential market of sales. I would have to ask you (and myself) what I would do in life if the potential for it only rallied five out of every one hundred times?

Honest to God, I think I would give up sex over that.

Cold-calling is something that many adults in the past experienced in an attempt to escape being criticized for not having a job.

And by itself–with its trials, its rejection and its nastiness–it nearly turned all of us into vagrants.

 

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Colander

Colander: (n) a perforated bowl used to strain off liquid

The key is in finding the secret.

For instance, the secret to good lasagna is the cheese blend.

The secret to good pizza is a toss-up between the crust and the sweetness of the sauce.

The secret to good sex is to make sure the woman has an orgasm before the man pursues his.

The secret to spirituality is to read less, be more.

The secret to politics is to tell the truth.

Which brings me to the secret for spaghetti. (You may not see any particular clarity in the path I’ve taken, but here we are.)

The secret to spaghetti is the colander.

Some would insist it is the texture–preferring al dente–but spaghetti can have perfect texture, but still cling to too much water, making the sauce ineffective.

The colander allows you to shake off the extra moisture, which puts the spaghetti on your plate drier and more able to make love with the cheese and tomatoes. Anybody who has ever tried to make spaghetti without a colander always finds that at the bottom of the pan is a whole bunch of liquid that hangs around to steal the taste.

Sometimes I wish I could be thrown into a colander and shaken around–just to get rid of all the extra meaningless residue. Of course, I would never fit into a colander, and the shaking would probably kill me.

So I shall not do that. I promise.

 

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Coddle

Coddle: (v) to treat in an indulgent or overprotective way.

What a difference a vowel makes.

If we cuddle, it’s a good thing. If we coddle, it’s over-indulgent and ridiculous. So…

When do I know that my cuddling has become coddling?

It is a standard joke in relationships–that women like to cuddle after sex. Actually, if a woman has had a full workout and an orgasm, she wants to pant for a few moments, roll over on her side and go to sleep.

Women who want to cuddle need to be coddled. They need to be reassured that they’re still loved even though they’ve been cheated out of a full sexual experience. They need to be shown that they’re appreciated for being submissive enough to be used for pleasure, with only limited gyrations tossed their way.

So I think I’ve got it.

We actually cuddle until we’ve done it so often that it’s predictable, and also a little bit condescending, and therefore, turns into coddling.

We can do it with our children; we can do it with our government.

We can even do it with God, as we apologize on His behalf for all the destruction in the world.

What a difference a vowel makes…

So should I be careful with my cuddling, since it can so easily turn into coddling?

Maybe I should just make sure that the people around me are so overjoyed in what they’re doing that they don’t need to be petted. Like dogs.

 

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Cocaine

Cocaine: (n) an addictive drug derived from coca

Some folks might find me very interesting if I talked about my use of cocaine or my addiction. But even though it was plentiful in Nashville, Tennessee, in the 1970s, and I was offered the white dust frequently, I passed.

Now, I did not decline because I was self-righteous or anti-drugs. I passed because of the reasons I was given to snort.

“You’ve gotta try it, man. It makes you more creative, it makes you more horny and it makes sex feel twice as good.”

That’s some pretty heavy-duty advertising. But I went down the list:

I did not want to be creative because a drug expanded the walls of my arteries and forced blood to my brain. I wanted creativity to come from a different place in me. I wanted it to be real. I wanted it to be mine. I was jealous. I didn’t want cocaine taking credit for my writing.

I didn’t want to be more horny. The danger of being more horny is that you start screwing people you don’t care for all that much. I like a little romance with my sex, if you don’t mind. I did not want cocaine picking out my sex partners.

And you can call me conventional, or too well-satisfied, but I have found that the big bang available at the culmination of the sex act is quite enough for me.

Of course, the danger is that if you convince yourself that you need cocaine to have good sex, the intercourse, which would be very beneficial to your health, might be greatly diminished by the cocaine, which is similar to setting off a hand-grenade near your heart.

Beware of those who always want more.

Honestly, I don’t settle for anything–but I do have the capability of “gettin’ my own” without taking a hit from anyone or anything.

 

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Clitoris

Clitoris: (n) a small sensitive and erectile part of the female genitals

Honestly, I think Webster should have defined “clitoris” as “women’s intuition.”

For years we have touted that the female of the human species seems to possess some great insight or sensibility about coming affairs. Although I, for one, do not believe that such a premonition exists, I will tell you that women become dynamic, strong, confident and completely self-reliant when the clitoris is not ignored, set to the side, mocked or even, in savage nations, cut out.

I just don’t think people can have sex without the assurance that it will culminate in orgasm. And if mommies and grandmothers feel it’s their duty to portray that sometimes women have to “put up with sex,” even though they don’t want to do so, that foolish acquiescence has, does and will forever render a woman a second-class citizen.

The clitoris is small–hidden away under a little hood, but is well worth finding. And women who think they can empower themselves without taking authority over their own sexual pleasure usually end up yelling more than telling.

So what can be done?

Men everywhere need to admit that whatever it takes to get the “little lady” within the bigger lady to come to life is important to create the equality that will make us all better people, and stop the gender war which should never have started.

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