Category Archives: Opinion

Opinion and commentary

Dry Tortuga

I’m not the most religious of souls, although I was raised catholic, and I’m giving my kids a taste of the same. However, this photo got me thinking about the current state of America, which is governed in large part by christian values. It was taken at Dry Tortugas National Park last summer. We were fortunate to go there via seaplane, spending several hours in the sand, the water, and walking the grounds of an unfinished military fort, a prison, a lighthouse, at present a National Monument. At the very top of the fort, the views are magnificent. there amid the retired cannons and relics. The photo is of the dock ruins. It’s a Godly image. How can you not see hope and beauty and light? There is much of the same beneath the surface, this complex network of sea life, the fish so dense at times it seems there is no water. Larger fish, much larger, give perspective to our own insignificance. And through it all, if one wishes to remain submerged, if only for another glimpse of something beautiful, there are jellyfish, these tiny creatures getting wholly intimate. The photo, the image, is rather perfect, even taken on an old iPhone 5s, but there beneath the surface it isn’t always so. Whether we rise above in the afterlife is something we pray to do, we hope, we have faith. This world, as beautiful as it is, and as grateful as we should be to live in America, has pain for us, and imperfections. Do we eradicate the jellyfish, for even they have a purpose, and in themselves beauty? We cannot alter the state of life, not through policy, political correctness, but we can swim gracefully amid the sea, we can rise for air, look to the heavens in awe and with hope, even though the little bastards are at present stinging on our private parts. Amen.



Political Madness


There is no greater theater; no greater folly. The Left. The Right. They are actors on stage, well paid, well kept, professing to care about the good of the public, the good of the country, the best in mankind. Greed. Wealth. Corruption proves them otherwise.

We have O’Reilly on Fox News, where so-called spin is disallowed. And over on MSNBC we have Al Sharpton, vilifying viewpoints other than his own. Jon Stewart is a predicable lackey, mining for humor in the fields of Republican folly. Like our elected officials, this is all for show, and we, the viewing public, gladly pay admission.

Granted, involved citizens are rightly concerned for the sanctity of our families and homes, the security of our country. We fear the unknown, the threats toward our very livelihood. We vote for the lesser of evils. But one man’s demons are another man’s angels.
We pray for gotcha’s, pointing out cheats on the other side when both teams are guilty. Yet, our team cheats for the sake of righteousness; to compete, to stay in the game. We wouldn’t have to if you guys played by the rules.

Politics has become a shell game, now you see it, now you don’t. From congressmen up to the President, they are nothing if not adept at avoiding the scandal.

Opinion Creep, that which compels reporters to bias the news, further polarizing the parties, isolating the moderates. But what does this say of the human spirit as the Independent Party grows? Collectively, we maintain freewill. At heart, we are stubborn pissants that refuse to be pigeonholed. We are insolent children, or that breath of fresh air. Reasonable, compromising, not only seeing both sides of the debate, but emphatic to each, and in this, pray God, there is hope.

Naked Men

Okay.  I just looked at myself in the mirror, and I’m not that far gone … yet!  I was standing there naked, my hair wet (at both ends, boom!) because I had just stepped out of the shower.  Pecs aren’t bad, gut’s not offensive, and I’m relatively well proportioned (wink wink).

So why am I not comfortable being naked?

I went to the YMCA today in Boise, Idaho.  Did a little cardio and lifted some weights.  All of which was great.

The downtown Y here is well equipped, happy people coming and going.  But there’s an entire other world inside the men’s locker room.

A naked world.

Of naked men.

And it’s not a pretty sight.

Recently, I read an article on the benefits of a dry sauna (it’s good for you skin and liver, among other things), and it just so happens that the Boise Y has one inside of the men’s locker room.  So what the hell, right, why not give it a try?

I stripped down to my shorts, grabbed a towel, and entered.

Four elderly men were sitting there naked.  Two with their legs spread unnaturally wide.  One guy had his knees hiked up to his chin.  Another was sitting crisscross apple sauce, and what was I supposed to do?  Turn around and leave?  I certainly should have, but damn if those health benefits didn’t sound appealing.

I sat as far away from the spectacle as space allowed.

Naked men came and went, one after another, young and old, and I’m telling myself not to look.  For the love of God, don’t do it.  But then boom, there’s a thin and shriveled penis sauntering in without a care in the world.  And I ask myself why?  Why doesn’t he have any shame or sense of decency?  Am I the only modest man left in this world?

They wanted to know how I was doing, and I hadn’t the nerve to tell them that I was doing poorly, uncomfortable having a conversation with a man whose hairy, limp penis is resting between his pasty, meaty thighs on the sweaty wooden bench.

“So, how about them Boise State Broncos?  That was quite the game the other night.”

“How about putting some shorts on?  Or covering yourself with a towel?  At the very least, how about hacking some of the rain forest away, I mean Jesus, just look at that mess.”

I didn’t say that, of course.  Simply agreed that the Broncos might have a good team this year as hairy penises and even hairier balls paraded before me.

There’s a market out there for manscaping, and perhaps I should get on the cutting edge, so to speak.  Not the grooming, per say, as I hardly groom myself; perhaps own a shop, employ attractive women with sharp blades, write a jingle to stir up business.  Bieber cut or shiny, clean cut man or slimy, come on in, we’ll try not to grin, even if you’re tiny.   No good?  How about this:  We don’t care if you got the drip, come on in and we’ll give you a clip.  Still no good?  Okay, here: Standing tall or feeling limp, girl’s don’t want no hairy chimp!  Now get your ass in here, and we’ll shave your balls!

And we’ll have coupons, two for the price of one.

You don’t like the blades, we’ll give you wax!  You don’t like the wax, we’ll give you the laser.  You don’t like to sag, we’ll give you a lift.  You’re balls are too small for the sac, we’ll give you replacements.  A ball job, kind of like a boob job, only sexier.

Imagine the locker room conversations then, everyone so clipped up and neat, sophisticated, uptight scrotums.  Instead of underbrush, we’d have fashion statements, our initials shaved above our genitals so that our loved ones won’t forget our names, not that they would be able to say our names at the time … am I right, or am I right?

At Junk Clips Unlimited ,our mission is to make the world a better place, one dick at at time.







Dear Diary

I’ve run a few marathons.  I’ve done a million pushups, and twice as many sit-ups.  I’ve hiked a few mountains.  I joined the Marine Corps, and thrived.  I went to Pensacola and flew navy airplanes, and even went to war.  I ate shit out of a plastic bag, and had a navy doc shoot me up with Anthrax vaccine.  I’ve seen the enemy, and they have seen me.

I’ve had the flu, and had it coming out both ends.  I’ve had broken bones, had surgery, a broken heart, and watched my dad slowly die.

I did calculus and advanced physics, aeronautical engineering, stuff that I still don’t fully understand.

I’ve had conversations with irrational women, but are there any other kind?  Boom!

But nothing, nothing, is harder than being a parent.  It kicks my ass and warms my heart.  I laugh and cry, and wonder how in the hell those three little creatures have come from my loins?  I want to hug them, and then sneak up behind them, and strangle them.  I can’t imagine my life without them, but when I do … I smile.  Bliss!

I want to be a better man, and husband, and especialy father, but oftentimes I fall short of these expectations.  I try, and won’t give up.

Mostly, I’m there for them, screaming for them to clean up their goddamn bedrooms.  To pick up after themselves.  Seriously.  What’s so hard about picking up your underwear … Gabi?  Yeah, you!  I love you, now turn off that damn computer and go to bed.  And laugh all you want Matthew, Chloe, ha-freaking-ha!  What with the Legos all over the place and sneaking rolos from the candy jar, running around the store like freaking lunatics.  Does this look like an insane asylum to you?  No?  That’s because it’s the produce aisle.

I don’t read the books on parenting; I trust my instincts, but not always.  Sometimes my instincts tell me to drop them off at the bus stop with twenty bucks and a crisp salute.  Horrible, I know.  That’s ten bucks too much.

I see their flaws, realize they are my own, and here I thought that I was perfect.  I’m not.  I’m a writer, pilot, and a United States Marine.  I’m a husband, and especially a father.  I’m the bigger lunatic in the produce aisle, chasing three crazy kids with carrots in my hands.  No, it’s not the insane asylum.  That’s our house, and I can’t imagine it any other way.

Moving up

Okay. I’ve had four views since publishing my first missive, which I consider pretty damn good (the views, not the missive, although that wasn’t bad, either). I’m hoping for five by the time Christmas arrives.
A few folks contacted me and said that my Thanksgiving post was rather crude. I informed them that It was nothing more than irreverent satire, which can at times be crude, and they received no apologies. Hey, I’m just another internet blogger with four viewers spouting off on everyday matters. My wife wanted to know who Becky is, and so I pulled down my pants, bent over, and showed her. Boom! Okay, that didn’t happen, because I seriously don’t have hemorrhoids. And there was/is no Becky. I don’t think I’ve ever dated a Becky, let alone had a Becky blow me. Her loss.
So we just watched Charlie Brown’s Thanksgiving, and why did the young Mr. Brown have to give Franklin, the gratuitous black kid, a hip and groovy handshake? For that matter why did Franklin get the crappy chair at the dinner table? And what’s up with Woodstock giggling his ass off while eating another bird with Snoopy at the dinner table?
I’d like to write here once or twice a week, possibly more, with hopes of avoiding politics. Honestly, there are enough folks out there talking about the sad state of our union. I’ll leave that to the so-called experts (blowhards).
Currently, I’m reading Bad Monkey, by Carl Hiaasen. It’s a rather funny novel about a cop demoted to food inspector in the Florida Keys. Every time I go into Barnes and Nobles I grab a cup of coffee and read a chapter, and so I’m not that far along. Chapter eight, I think. Bookmarks don’t work so well in this scenario. (I was going to use the word scheme, but that denotes an air of underhandedness.) Hey, at least I’m buying coffee. Beside, it’s a good book, so I’m the one getting cheated here. Regardless, I set a goal and I intend to keep it. I’ll let you know when I’m done.
On the television front I’m on season eight of Dexter, which is about two seasons too many. I hate this weepy Debra Morgan. But then again, I didn’t like her much in season one, when she was awkward and insecure. And then she found some confidence, took her top off, and became hot. Now, not so much, and I’m looking forward to it being over.  (Unless she starts taking her top off again!)
Tomorrow we bake a Turkey, and then we’re going to put together a little Holiday video for the family. We’ll post it on Youtube. Should be fun.
That’s all for now.
Goodnight my four viewers (I wonder if that’s four separate viewers or if someone has read it four times).