Honesty is the best fallacy

Anybody who says “honesty is the best policy” has never been married. Did you know honesty and the divorce rate are directly proportional? It’s true. So if you love your spouse, then it's time to fall in love with the art of lying.

I shouldn’t pick on marriage. Many things in life necessitate lying. It all starts when you're a kid and your mom brings you to the movie theater that offers a discount to children under 8 years. I remember standing in line for E.T., The Extra-Terrestrial. My mom had been coaching me for how things would go down at the box office: “If they ask you how old you are, remember you're 7, almost 8.” “OK, mom. But do you think we'll have a problem with the fact that I'm 6 feet tall and almost out of high school? You know, I really should have shaved before we pulled this caper.”

I was the biggest 7-year-old on the planet. Look it up in The Guinness Book of World's Records, under the “oldest kid to trying to scam child admission prices at a movie theater.”

What about the doctor's office questionnaire that asks how many alcoholic beverages you drink per day? There’s a lie looking for a place to happen! “Three sounds reasonable. I'll put ‘three.’ That’ll make me sound honest without drawing too much suspicion. Three’s good. Three 64-ounce margaritas.”

I think they should have an alternate question where you get to check a box if you're sober right now. That should count for something. Why should it matter if I was drunk 4 nights last week when all I need are some pills for the uncontrollable shakes I'm having right now? Nosey bastards.

Job applications will get even the most honest person to embellish: “List all employers within the last 7 years and your reason for leaving.

I usually leave out that summer I was Ricky Martin's personal ball-washer. I don't want them to think I'm a job-hopper. And why else would we leave other than “my previous employer became such an unbearable jerk I finally decided to get the hell out of there.”

Here‘s a common interview question: “What did you like best about your last employer?

“The fact that they didn’t audit the time clock very closely nor remember to lock the petty cash box.”

Do you have any conditions which would prevent you from performing your assigned duties?

“Does contempt for authority count? How about the sudden urge I feel to throw my boss down the elevator shaft? Oh, I do have a compulsion to take a dump in my co-workers cubicles, but my psychologists is confident he can control it with the right medication.”

Should your lying succeed and you land the job, you must immediately become an even bigger liar. Now you have to convince your new employers that you give a damn (about something more than the paycheck and free dental). What an exhausting task that is: pretending you give a crap. Oh, golly gee whiz! You say I didn’t use form AX-473b to document our annual widget budget expenditure? I violated protocol? Well, right after I jump off a cliff, I’ll dust myself off and get right to work on filling out the right form, because I truly give a good goddamn. You can’t count on me, sir.”

I loath myself when I’m on the job because I’m perpetually full of crap. We all are. As if we’d really wear pressed shirts, slacks and neckties if left to our own devices. I’d come to work in a wife-beater tee and soiled boxers if I had any integrity. But the pussy-boy in me insists that I “look the part.”

And how about these customers? They actually expect us to give shit about their problems. I don’t even give a shit about my own problems most of the time. “The customer’s always right.” That’s what they tell me. Well, if that’s the case, why did the customer chose me? I don‘t give a damn. And even if I did I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to help. This place confuses me. The only things I’m sure of are where the cafeteria is and where to pick up my paycheck. The very fact that a customer expects me to give a damn is proof that they can be wrong.

First dates are a liar’s haven. Ladies, did you ever notice how many kick boxers and marathon runners who had to “hit the gym for a workout” before your date? Oh, and they’re all on a partnership track at their firm and write poetry in their spare time. And by the way, what you do for a living is terribly fascinating. Please, tell me more about it.

It’s standard first-date stuff.

Stopped by the police, you’re obliged to lie. “Do you have any idea how fast you were going?” You know it was close to mach 2, but you're not going to confess to anything on the off-chance he didn't hear the sonic boom. “Nah. My speedometer's broke.”

Do you know what the speed limit is here, sir?

“I'm not exactly sure, officer. It's been a while since drivers-ed but I'm pretty sure it's 85 in a school zone. Right?”

Did you ever “thank” an officer for pulling you over? That’s a heart-felt appreciation. Thanks for being a busy-body jerk with no manners. And thanks especially for choosing me instead of the thousand other pricks driving recklessly at this very moment. Don’t you have a wife to get home to and abuse?

Do you have any outstanding warrants for your arrest, sir?

“No. Do you have any citizen complaints on your Internal Affairs Record? I figured I’d ask seems how we’re nosing around in each other’s business.”

But we don’t say that. We say “thank you, officer.”

Honesty is the best fallacy.


Rest in Peace

I'm sure you've heard of college professors assigning their students the task of writing their own eulogies. Here's a twist on that assignment, much like the game show, Jeopardy, only without the pretentious Canadian ass and the 3 sickeningly bright contestans. Oh, and it's an imaginary funeral, not trivia. Come to think of it, just forget about the Jeopardy analogy altogether.

Anyway, here are some things you WON'T read on my tombstone. I hope you enjoy them. And please, if you'd like to share, leave a few of your own tombstone inscriptions for the rest of us to read.

Here Lies
Lightning Bug's Butt
Husband, Father, Blogger
1971 -- 2070

  • I wish I would have spent more time working. I wish I would have taken my job more seriously, done whatever it took to please the boss, and fought to get ahead in my career. Looking back, I see that your job is what makes or breaks you. All the other stuff is trivial.
  • I wish I would have accumulated more stuff. If I only had more stuff, I would have been happy.
  • I’m glad I took other people’s shit gracefully, stifled my wants and needs, and censored my sense of humor. Otherwise, I might have offended somebody -- and that would have been disastrous.
  • I’m glad I passed on all that delicious junk food. Those health experts knew what they were talking about; they always have. It’s a miracle I ever died. I avoided everything they said would kill me.
  • I’m glad I scrimped and saved my money. I’m in a much better position to enjoy it now that I’m dead.
  • I’m glad I squandered my money on non-essential things. It turns out money DOES grow on trees!
  • I’m glad I didn’t just walk away from those petty annoyances. The anger and frustration raging inside me conjured my best game. I showed all those faulty computers, damaged appliances, household repairs and inconsiderate people who the boss is.


Two duds and a doozie

  • Sarcasm is merely a jackhammer for penetrating a head made of stone.
  • Putting more letters after your name doesn’t necessarily put more dollars in your wallet.

    If you’re a guy, you have two ways to attract the girl of you dreams: 1) You can make the most of yourself, cultivate a dynamite career, stay in shape, and be kind, loving and humorous. Or 2) you can spray down your junk with Axe Body Spray. At least that’s what getting from the commercial. When did men start wearing body scents? Sweet Juniper! It’s not enough I have to shower every other day? Now I’ve got to immerse my “hot-spots” (genitalia, I presume) with aerosol reeking of equal parts pine needles and mule piss? My scrotum retains the faint and pleasant residue of Dial Soap. That’s as far as I’m going. And one more thing: I’m not paying 16 bucks for a pair of designer boxer-brief underwear. I’ve got designer jeans that don’t cost that much. If my wife wants her man in designer underwear, she’s welcome to close her eyes and picture Markie Mark showcasing his bulge on a billboard above Manhattan while I’m making love to her. That's what I do. And no earrings, either. I still can’t get used to guys wearing earrings. And nowadays, they overdo it. Twenty years ago, it was a diamond stud. Now these guys look like queer fishing lures with all that jewelry. In fact, I hope the next fella these guys go down on jolts their earlobes with a defibrillator. That’ll teach them.


It's glandular

I feel sorry for glands. We blame all our problems and ailments on them. It's not fair.

"I'm overweight because of my glands. It's glandular. I have a gland disorder. That's why I'm such a fat pig. It's not me. It's my glands."

"I'm cranky because of my glands."
"I've got a hyper-active thyroid."
"I've got a lazy ovary."
"I produce too much testosterone."
"My pituitary gland is on the fritz."
"My dick wants to buy you a drink."

If you're bald, fat, skinny, cranky, anxious, hairy, smelly, discolored, impotent, over-sexed, forgetful or just a pain in the ass to the rest of us, it's because of your glands.

I don't buy it. Glands aren't to blame for all that ails us! Glands are the Kunta Kinte of the body. They do all the work and get a beating for it. I say we give them a break. In fact, I think glands should get their own ACLU -- or GCLU -- to represent them.

Here's a good slogan: Stop glandular oppression! If you're overweight, don't blame your glands. Blame your stomach, fatty.


Flashes from the lightning bug

  • OsBasso promotes HNT with the subtlety of a boner in a Speedo. Hey, that would make a great HNT picture. (Just kidding, BaseBone. You know I’m just jealous).
  • I know it‘s impossible, but I believe every dog owner who tells me he or she has “the best dog in the world.” Incidentally, I believe if you examined dog-lovers as a class, you’d find a disproportionately high grade of people -- the heartiest among us. How strange that one’s love for dogs reveals one’s love for man.
  • I saw a sign in a convenience store that read “No lottery ticket purchases with credit card.” I hope I don’t come off as preachy when I write that if you’re buying lottery tickets with credit, you need a new financial adviser. It’s a cinch you’re no E.F. Hutton. These are the same people who purchase extended warranties and Thigh Masters.
  • I find it fun and amusing to call my wife “numb nuts” when she says something silly or makes a mistake. Ironically, she responds by hurling a hard, dense object at my groin.
  • When people need to urinate, they utter the cute little phrase “Excuse me, but nature calls.” Nature, huh? You need to watch the Discovery Channel more closely. If we relieved ourselves by the dictates of nature, we’d whip the thing out and whiz on the restaurant floor -- or perhaps the maitre d’s leg, just to show him who the top dog is.
  • I recently visited the Sears Tower in Chicago. It’s the tallest building in the world. I like to think of it as Earth’s penis, which makes the surrounding metropolis the ball sack -- a fair analogy, let me assure the reader. Actually, Chicago is a delightful city. It enjoys international repute for its food and dining. I ate a hamburger at a north-side deli that was nothing short of miraculous. Some 18 hours later, I took a crap that was nothing short of disastrous. Alright, no more dick and poo poo jokes. I promise.
  • I also visited a theme park, Six Flags Great America. I’m never going back. In fact, I’ll never go to another theme park. Waiting around for an hour and forty minutes for a ride that lasts 100 seconds is lunacy. Of course if women thought like that, we’d never have sex again.
  • My grandparents have a bird feeder which dispenses fluid below the perch. Therefore, the only way a bird can drink is by hanging upside down. The feeder attracts only those birds that have the ability to feed while hanging upside-down. The only species in their area that can do this is the finch. And, of course, college frat boys. That’s what grandma’s BB gun is for.
  • Speaking of drinking at grandma’s house, I had to conceal a bottle of hooch and drink late at night, after my grandparents went to sleep, because in their eyes I’ll always be an 8-year-old angel. I noticed something. Booze tastes a little better when you have to hide it from others. Maybe that’s why so many minors drink.


Innocents Abroad

I’ve returned. And how I’ve missed you all. Lacking a computer, I had to pilfer through newspapers and classic literature instead of your blogs. Despair!

As you know, traveling books are all the rage. Everybody loves a good traveling book. It gives the reader a vicarious glimpse into the splendor, tedium and misery of travel. I figured I’d write a travel blog entry in which I regale you with tales of my adventures.

Mark Twain wrote a travel book, Innocents Abroad, which revealed the consummate ass one becomes while traveling. I’m happy to report I upheld this tradition diligently. I never missed an opportunity to make an ass of myself. While visiting Six Flags Great America, I forgot where I parked and spent a good hour reconnoitering the parking lot, hunting for my car. Agitating matters were the African-Americans harassing me in the parking lot (Great America has a culturally diverse patronage). I feared a violent exchange until I eased the tension by asking indignantly and with much gesticulation, “Can a cracker get a break up in this muthafucka?” With that remark I earned my due respect and at once felt a kinship between me and my potential assailants, who labor under the delusion that slavery is still practiced in parts of the country and that their vote is counted at the rate of three-fifths.

Great America was a blast, notwithstanding the parking lot incident above. I rode several roller coasters. A new coaster, Superman, was very entertaining. And it gave me quite a fright! I highly recommend this attraction should you find yourself at Six Flags. But please make every effort to avoid the center seat in the back row. I soiled it. I confess to depositing a little bar of “kryptonite” during the 185 foot ascent. My apologies to the ride operators.

I immersed myself in Chicago culture. I visited several museums and ate more food than Marlon Brando on a marijuana binge. Chicagoans have 3 food groups: pizza, bar food and cheesecake. I hope that with time this bit of culture trickles down to Tucson. I ate a hamburger from a North-side deli that I’m still thinking about 8 days later. The pizzas are legendary. Even the Chinese food is better, which is strange because Chicago has a city ordinance banning Asians from the city proper. Regarding the ban, I attempted to register a complaint with the Chamber of Commerce, but the clerk told me to “hop in your rice-burner and drive the fuck back to San Fag-cisco, hippie!” You’ve got to love Chicago’s hometown pride. I also got into an argument with some Polish bitch cashier over what flavor of sundae I ordered. I clearly said “chocolate,” but she evidently heard “hot fudge.” Cunt!

My old neighborhood sure has changed. It’s doubled in size and population. New buildings are popping up everywhere. When I write “new buildings,” I mean either car dealerships or restaurants. Evidently the only two things to do in the suburbs are buy new cars and eat out (I just conceived a new theme restaurant!). Everywhere in Chicago one can see evidence of gentrification, which is a shame because a slum is the only place I can afford to live. Chicagoland is one thriving economic powerhouse, benefiting all those who don’t own their own home, run their own business, park their cars (roughly $15 -- $20 per day), pay Illinois income taxes, drive the highways or visit. That’s progress!

My travels reminded me of the consummate ass I can become while traveling. But I had to stand back in awe of my own stupidity upon my trip home. The following was my coup de grace of asininity: I had to park my car at the airport. I accidentally left my dome light on. After nine days I returned to find my battery dead. My trunk wouldn’t open by remote (because of the dead battery) so I set my luggage down and chased the tram driver for a jump. I should add that I had packed a huge, 9-pound, six ounce bottle of Open Pit barbecue sauce in my luggage, a brand you can’t buy in Tucson). The tram driver jumped my car and drove off. I backed out -- and rolled over the luggage that I forgot to put in the trunk! In my bag were my digital camera, a Sonicare electric toothbrush, a brand new electric razor and new Nike gym shoes, along with some of my favorite clothing.

So, it was a plastic bottle of barbecue sauce versus 4000 pounds of Chevy Lumina. Care to guess who won? Luckily my camera and other items were O.K. But several articles of clothing succumbed to the BBQ sauce. As I rifled through the saucy luggage to assess the damage, I could only pray a surveillance camera didn’t capture this episode of stupidity. If it did, I’m sure it’s making is way across the Internet via email attachments everywhere. I’m not making this up, folks. I really backed up over my own luggage and detonated a 2-gallon bottle of barbecue sauce in my travel bag. Kinda makes you reconsider those flattering comments of "genius" you may have left on my blog, doesn't it?

Oh, in case you’re wondering what my favorite part of the trip was, I’ll tell you. It was sitting on my grandma’s porch, just after sunset, watching the lightning bugs flash and glow in the night air. I hadn’t seen a lightning bug in 17 years, since I moved away. Those little pulses of light brought me back to the wonderment of childhood, if only for a short while. Heaven.


Vacation Notice

Lightning Bug’s Butt will spread his wings and fly all the way to Chicago beginning Friday. His return flight will have him returning Tuesday, July 19th. Unfortunately, LBB will not have access to a computer as he’ll be lodging with his grandparents, who still remained baffled by their Betamax and see no need for “those damn computers.” Were it not for their estates, I’d have no use for old people at all.

I want to leave my loyal readers with some crap to sift through while I’m gone that I hope will help you get to know me better. Please know you’ll all be in my thoughts. See you next week. In the meantime…

Some Fascinating Lightning Bug Facts:

Editor’s Note: For those of you who’d like to learn about Lightning Bugs, I’ve copied this article. I’ve added my own commentary (emboldened) for clarity.

New research finds that females of the firefly species Photinus ignitus choose males based on flash pattern in their taillights. A long burning flash means the male can offer a high quality nuptial gift – a sperm package high in nutrients

[The long-burning flash is roughly the equivalent of a sports car and a healthy dose of Axe Body Spray.]

"Females that receive high quality nuptial gifts lay lots more eggs," Tufts University firefly researcher Sara Lewis told LiveScience. "So there is a benefit for females that choose one of these males."

[Although we lightning bugs withdraw early on occasion. The last thing we need is a bug catcher shaking us down for larva-support.]

But males of a related species, Photinus greeni, may not be so honest. The greeni males with the most desirable flash pattern do not provide the best nuptial gift.

[In other words, the above species may drive a cool sports car, but it’s about to get repossessed because he lost his second job as an Arby’s shift supervisor. He also has a tiny penis and a toupee.]

"The question now is whether the males are being purposely dishonest or signaling something else," Lewis said. "Females definitely notice the variation. They're still being choosey"

[I doubt males are being dishonest. When has a male of any species ever lied just to attain sex? This scientist is clearly being reckless with his hypothesis.]

Male fireflies are built to mate [True, dat! The lightning bug is the Ron Jeremy of the insect world] – basically their whole anatomy is dedicated to producing the sperm package [You mean they‘re just one giant ball? How do they fly?]. Making a good sperm package requires loads of energy [not as much as ejaculating it, certainly!] and most males can only produce about 10 in their short lifetime [Poor bastards. I can produce 10 in a good week]. The entire purpose of a male firefly's life is to mate, pretty much with any female that will accept them [Are we talking about lightning bugs, or Charlie Sheen?].

But female fireflies need to be choosey [not after a few mint juleps (rim shot!)] – they only live for two weeks in their adult stage and need to make those two weeks count. The small window of time is like firefly spring break [Yeah, if you show a female firefly some beads, she'll flash her bug titties and then puke peppermint schnapps from the balcony] – females will mate with multiple males and lay about 100 eggs.

If the greeni females aren't choosing based on signals indicating quality of the sperm package, which also contains proteins that will provide nutrients for her eggs, then what are they selecting for [I don‘t know. Maybe he has a great sense of humor (and an inheritance)]?

"One possibility is that greeni females are not as concerned about the nuptial gift but more concerned about male genetic quality," Lewis said. "Maybe males with certain flash patterns have good genes [Think Brad Pitt with a tiny pecker]."

Lewis is currently looking into whether there is sperm competition in fireflies – whether female fireflies can choose not only which males to mate with, but which males she will actually allow to fertilize her eggs [I hope he has a powerful microscope and a proclivity to watch].

This research, which the National Science Foundation partly funds, may further our understanding of human communication, signal evolution, and biomedicine.

[Frankly, I believe it has already, indeed!]


The Greatest Feeling in the World

Editor’s note: Some readers, especially women, will find the following essay offensive, crude, crass, juvenile and beyond the limits of good taste.

The greatest feeling in the world.

It’s not what you think. Well, you’re close. Allow me to specify.

Every new relationship between a boy and a girl progresses to the physical expression of love. It begins with touching, moves to handholding. Then come the embrace and the kiss. Shortly thereafter, articles of clothing shed from the body. Alcohol often lubricates this process. In my youth, I discovered Walgreen’s Premium Vodka was the WD-40 of the clothing-removal machine. Thank you, Jungle Juice.

When you’re in high school, the day you first remove a girl’s bra becomes your own, private national holiday. But like so many things in life, getting some just makes you want more. The line of want extends into infinity, or, in the case of physical love, to the nether regions of the opposite sex. But I digress.

The courtship ritual is a very stressful, nerve-racking affair. You want it badly, But you’re not sure you’re going to get it. And the wrong gesture could snuff the possibility entirely, at least for the length of an evening. It’s a delicate dance. Women are fickle and fanciful. A kiss doesn’t necessarily mean a touch. An embrace doesn’t necessarily promise a stroke. And a pair of knockers bouncing in your face doesn’t necessarily mean intercourse. Think of foreplay as an escrow account; it can fall through for any number of reasons and you usually can’t keep the earnest money.

Consider how many times you’ve been at a particular stage of physical love only to learn it wasn’t going to conclude in intercourse. This brings me to my point: the greatest feeling in the world. When exactly do you know when it’s going to go all the way? If kissing, touching, removing articles of clothing and stroking naughty parts aren’t reliable predictors of intercourse, what is?

I’ll tell you what is. And I’ll describe the circumstance conjuring the greatest feeling in the world.

Every romantic throe eventually reaches a moment of truth when you learn for certain whether you’re going to be knee-deep in ass, or if you’ll become familiar with your hand later that evening. That moment of truth happens when you slide your trembling hand down the side of her half-naked body and hook the string of her thong with your thumb. Once your thumb secures the strap, you give it a gentle tug…

Suspense! At this point, one of two things will happen. Either she blocks you at the wrist and tilts her hips away (damn!), or her ass raises up in the air, allowing you to tug her panties down to her ankles, where they belong. And on the occasion her ass elevates, it’s the greatest feeling in the world. Until her ass lifts up off the bed (or countertop, driver’s seat, park bench, etc.) you don’t know anything for certain. Until you have “lift-off” your romantic escapade could be “everything but.”

You see, women have a variety of reasons for doing “everything but.” For example, some women labor under the delusion that we men will “like them more” if they make us wait. I’ll pause until the laughter subsides. Others believe they’re being “cheap” or “too fast” if they engage in intercourse early in the relationship. If women only understood how deeply and thoroughly we respect a girl with enough self-confidence to put out on the first date. It’s the best-kept secret in the world.

Of course, they have other, more practical reasons for failing the elevate the ass when they feel the tug. Sometimes the moon is in the wrong phase (if you take my meaning). I actually appreciate this a great deal. Keep that ass in the hanger on those days.

Anyway, there you have it -- the greatest feeling in the world, when she lifts her ass when you tug at the strap.


Just for the Ladies

To my female readers -- please take caution when hearing a man make the following claims:

  1. I’m a kick boxer by trade, but I write poetry in my spare time.
  2. Relax, baby. There’s no film in this camera. And I wouldn’t know how to put pictures on the Internet anyway.
  3. I don’t usually drink. Once in a great while, I’ll have some wine with dinner.
  4. You should really consider a career in modeling. In fact, I’m a modeling agent myself.
  5. Don’t worry about your friends. They won‘t miss you. Tonight it’ll be just you, me and the beautiful beaches of Aruba.
  6. I don't mean to brag, but I do quite well for myself. I’m a consultant.