the hyperbolic

Everyday Phenomena: The Husband and Wife Real Estate Team!

This is what happens when a swinger’s convention and a real estate seminar dovetail into money and success.

Every time I see an ad like this on a bus bench I wonder how the couple got there and the answer is always that they freaked out when their children left home for college, but a trip to Hawaii, some Dr. Phil voodoo, and a little wife-swapping changed them for good. They see a marriage counselor every other week to deal with the godawful horror of working and living with each other 24/7, but generally they’re happy and even get drinks together at TGI Friday’s to celebrate the closing of a sale. I’ll point out the obvious and say that they’re fans of “by couples, for couples” porn erotica and they’ve lasted this long because they never keep secrets from each other, they’re devoted, they’re a TEAM and-

::chokes up, is unable to finish post::

Karen & Andrew, Valerie & Tom, Marti & Bob, Mike & Rhonda— you all make me sick with your beautiful love!!!!

Sometimes I don’t know what’s at the bottom of this fear and loathing of mine….

Coke Nail

This isn’t what I meant. At all. But sometimes a Google Image search does all the work for you. Actually, this picture is way funnier than the ensuing post could ever be and I’m shamed by it.

The most flagrant, balls-out coke nail I ever saw was on a gas station attendant. This guy’s pinky nail took the cake, dehydrated it, pulverized it, scooped it up and snorted it.  The nail was white acrylic—as in “I actually went to a salon and had this done” WITH A RAINBOW AND HAWAIIAN SUNSET PAINTED ON. I don’t remember anything else about him; I was snow-blinded by greatness.

But being blinded by the tropical paradise on this man’s finger doesn’t stop me from having a nearly archetypal figure attached to it: show me the nail, and the details fill in themselves!  In fact, when I conjure Coke Nail Guy, he appears before me piecemeal, like the Cheshire Cat, in the following order; his coke nail, his greasy ponytail, his priors, and his bitchin’ van with a mural painted on.

You know Coke Nail Guy; he used to cruise for poontang (hey, his word, not mine) at the local community college until he met his 17 year old girlfriend, a fellow addict who scratches his face when she gets angry at him, which is often. Sometimes they hang out in the Burger King parking lot for no reason except to use the pay phone, which, to their great and inexplicable dismay, is the last in the neighborhood.

Aside from her scratch attacks, their relationship is marked by an almost comical lack of enthusiasm—they were once in car wreck together and when the girl passed out from a concussion, all Coke Man did was wander to Circle K (they love Circle K), flip through an issue of Barely Legal, chit-chat with the cashier and walk back. The girlfriend was only angry that he didn’t bring her back any Jolly Ranchers when he knows they’re her favorite and he was at the store anyway.

I really wish I’d hopped onto this train of thought days ago, because with a single press-on nail and some talc, I could have had my broke ass a cheap Halloween costume.

Jack!

Now why would I have a problem with there being so many characters on TV and in movies named Jack? Well, because I’m me. But that’s another story for another twisted time. Let’s get back to JACK, because that’s how his Alpha/Everyman ass would want it. 

Jack is slick, and never worries. His only real problem is recurring homoerotic nightmares from which he awakes in a cold sweat, sometimes masturbating, sometimes already finished. His cocktail of choice is vodka and Ambien.

That aside, Jack is everyone you know, have known, or have ever wanted to be. He wears Abercrombie and Fitch cologne and spends a lot of time on his abs. Except you don’t know anyone named Jack, but you sort of wish you did. That’s how Jack perpetuates himself in spite of everything, it’s how he stays normative.

But that’s TV Jack.

Movie Jack tends to be a con man, action hero, or (my favorite) a tortured artist who calmly drinks scotch and water from a perfect highball glass while his wife throws dinner plate after dinner plate at him because he’s so goddamned selfish—a fucking child. You’re a child, Jack.

Motherfucking BOLO TIES!

Bolo ties can say so much:

“Hello, I’m a Southern gentleman with a ball gag fetish. My lady paints vaginas and desert landscapes.” “Sometimes I like things in my butt. I’m mostly OK with it, but there are days where I struggle.” ”Of course I use a Dreamcatcher”, “I wish I owned a sports team”, “homemade beef jerky”, and so on.

Bolo ties are giving me SO much right now, I don’t see an end in sight. Reader- if you send in a picture of anyone wearing a bolo tie, I can tell you everything about the wearer with about 93% accuracy, with one caveat—the tie must be worn sincerely, otherwise I can’t get a reading. They don’t work on young women, either—only older, brassy, “#1 Mary Kay sales rep in the entire state, thank you very much. Let’s have a great year, ladies!” kinds of gals.

But back to the menfolk! Aw, Bolo Tie Man; you’ve worn me down in a single post! You may be an unrepentant smoker with a Wild Turkey ulcer, but damned if you aren’t a great lover and a perfect fucking gentleman! Take me to that dive bar you like so much-the one where two women once fought over you; we’ll slow dance to Day After Day by Badfinger ‘til they throw us out. We’ll get Denver omelets in the morning and scrub our minds clean with a long drive through the New Mexico desert before we say our goodbyes.

Read below and try not to weep (is there a more beautiful word than “lariat”?)

http://www.discount-navajo-arts.com/Navajo_Bolo_Ties_Fashion