More essay ideas

Oh Great One asked me to describe the Perfect Day. My perfect day has me sleeping the first half of it away! I'm an exponent of the sleep-in; to the extent you've gone without adequate sleep, your the enjoyment of your day plummets. So, I sleep until noon, when I rise to the sun casting beams of light on on my face. Particles of dust hang within the sunbeams, entropy coaxing them to and fro. Their motion hypnotizes me. It centers my thoughts and refreshes my mind. The tranquility of late morning embraces me. Quietude. There is no sound. There is no phone. There are no obligations today, no work, no appointments, no chores. Leisure is the order of the day.

I spend an hour or two on the Internet. I check my emails. I read the news. I read my brilliant bloggers' comments. Then I start a new post which flows from my fingertips. Then I workout at a gymnasium and have one of those workouts where your body never fatigues. You feel superhuman, like Spiderman or that Thing fella. What's his name again? Oh yeah. The Thing.

Then I take the wife out to lunch at our favorite restaurant, On the Border. Today's salsa is a perfectly proportioned concoction of vegetables. And as luck would have it, we arrive just as a fresh batch of homemade chips leaves the oven. We devour our food, converse, nurse several margaritas, and then head home for an afternoon delight.

From there the day descends into a gluttony of more fattening foods, intoxicating liquors, music and SOCOM 3. I kill 3-to-1 with my silenced 552 assault rifle and 4x scope.

After that, things get a little sketchy. Some take-out, a sunset, a still, balmy evening aglow in celestial brilliance, perchance a hand-job under the stars. At some point I learn from the evening news that we've abolished the IRS and that Jon Stewart's show and MTV have both been canceled. Then I read from a fascinating book and sink into a 10-hour slumber. Thus ends my Perfect Day.

Call Me Maniac suggested I discuss the really stupid things you notice people are always saying, mostly to sound cool or more educated than they are, for example: "We protect our own."

Great suggestion, Maniac. First, when did guys start calling each other “Dog?” That's so gay. Why stop there? If we are indeed dogs, how about I come around and dry hump you? Does this mean we can stop walking all the way to the restroom at work? Can I plop one out right on the office floor?

I'd like few things more than seeing guys who call each other “dog” rounded up, neutered and kenneled.

Here's one I hate. You usually hear this one from a middle-aged woman driving a minivan and drinking Starbucks: “You can't put a price on human life.” The hell you can't, lady. I'll gladly choke you for your decaf latte, valued at $4.75, give or take a bitch-slap. The truth is, we put a price on human life every day in every way. Consider life insurance, warfare, dangerous vocations, safety equipment. It all begins with guys in suits sitting around a power point projector, combing over spreadsheets and calculating death rates versus dollar signs.

“You get what you pay for,” is another piece of garbage cliché. No you don't. Our taxes pay for the best, brightest and most honest government employees the country has to offer. How's the return on that investment? We pay a fortune for education (public and private). Kids are dumber than ever. We pay a premium for European cars that break down twice as often. Those poor Englishmen paid like, 70 pounds for Amy Winehouse tickets and all they got was puked on. Evidently, love is a losing game, particularly when you're in the front row without an umbrella or a plastic barrier. If you're going to an Amy Winehouse concert and are seated within puke-shot, wear a raincoat like those poeple who go to Gallagher concerts.

Sometimes you get MORE than you pay for. That's always a nice surprise. I pay for a 9-dollar entree at On the Border and eat that much in freshly fried chips and salsa. Then, for the aforementioned entree, I “build-my-own-combo.” The fools don't know who they're dealing with. I calculate my food items to do maximum financial damage. I go with the two enchiladas (a roasted pork and a chicken, each of which are big enough to make a meal in themselves) a shredded beef taco and a chicken flauta. It's a ton of food for 9 bucks. Itemize these selections and you'll spend well over 20 dollars. Nincompoops! It's the best value in town. Plus, I drink about 19 diet sodas. I gave my waitress carpal tunnel syndrome just from the task of keeping my soda glass full. My secret is, I keep a piss-jug under the table. I'm working them over from both ends: food and beverage.

Someday, On the Border executives will get wise and they'll withdraw the 4-item combo from the menu. Until then, I'll enjoy sticking it to El Hombre.

Ari asked me to compare/contrast Star Trek versus Star Wars.

One featured a fat, bloated, disgusting creature with a darting tongue, bulging eyes and oozing flesh and who lounged around with a slave girl chained to his side. The other featured Jabba the Hut. (My apologies to William Shatner and that hot black lady who played Uhura. You know I love you both!)

Ari also asked me about any role-playing experience, a la Dungeons & Dragons. As I explained in my last post, Ari, I'm not at liberty to post the details of my sex life. But I appreciate your interest.

Midas asked about my favorite recipe. Here's my favorite recipe for the Perfect Blog:

  • 3 parts sarcasm
  • 2 parts irreverence
  • A dash of sexual innuendo
  • Several bunches of political commentary
  • 4 ounces of your favorite liquor (let simmer inside author)
  • A dozen entries from your old high school creative writing notebook
  • 8 or 9 large anecdotes about your crappy day at work and your jerkoff of a boss
  • A shoutout to your blogger buddies
  • Photos of your pets looking their cutest
  • An open letter to an ex who fucked you over
  • A pinch of potty humor (use “cunt” sparingly for best effect)
  • An essay on why Mac is better than PC -- or vice versa
  • A vignette on a childhood trauma that made you a stronger person
Mix above ingredients together in a blog template. Season with song lyrics to taste and garnish with a personal photo showcasing your cleavage. Enjoy!


Where the hell are you, LBB?

I'm glad you asked.

I got in a car accident last weekend. I'm OK. But I'm up to my whiplashed neck in bullcrap. Plus, I've been popping pills like Elvis on his birthday. My neck smarts something awful. One might think opiate drugs enhance blogging. But my blog is alcohol-fueled. And I don't mix booze and drugs. I'm not Amy Winehouse, for God's sake. Hey, speaking of her, wouldn't that be a great name for a drink? Bartender, make me an "Amy Winehouse." What's in that? First, make a sloe gin fizz and then add a shot of vodka and a couple Vicodin pills. Garnish with a No-Doze tablet.

What happened? I'm glad you asked. An unlicensed driver cut me off on the express way. I subsequently became a party in a 3-car pileup. My life didn't pass before my eyes and I didn't have a spiritual awakening as a result of my near-death experience. But I did get to see the business-end of an airbag. Get this. Milliseconds before my airbag deployed, a preliminary pop-up airbag discharged with an advertisement for the personal injury law firm, Goldberg and Osborne. Damn the commercialism.

The appraiser informed my my car was a total loss. So I've been shopping for a new, sweet-ass sweet 'Yota! The one I bought was even sweeter than the last 'Yota. Toyota's are the Macs of the automobile world. Not only do you enjoy owning a superior product, you get to look down your nose at everybody else. I rolled by a rube in a Ford Focus and rolled my eyes at him even as I rolled up my tinted, power window. How dare a commoner make eye contact with a royal?

Anyway, I haven't forgotten your topic suggestions. I'm working on them even now.

Here are a few things I've conceived under the influence of my medication:

***Here's a great name for a tattoo parlor: "At-Tattooed."

***The reason so many of our workmates are jerks is because of Human Resources. HR hires people with the comfort of knowing they'll never have work with the candidate again. Think about it. Have you ever seen HR personnel after your interview? I think they hire the biggest train-wrecks they can find -- just for the fun of it. I know I would.

***I think the Nobel Prize people should make a category for Military Science. The winner would be the guy who killed the most enemies that year, or maybe the soldier who made the most brutal killing, something in the way of a Rambo-knife gutting while under enemy fire. Wouldn't this be a nice balance to the Peace Prize?

***My Barack-Obometer reads high marks for presidential hopeful Barack Obama. Things don't look good for Hillary. Anyway you slice it, one of them has to lose. I personally can't wait to discover whether democrat voters are more racist than sexist, or vice versa.

***I read that Cuban President Fidel Castro is retiring. I wonder what the want ad reads for the vacant position.

Wanted: Ruthless, conniving dictator sought to administrate small, ass-backward, 3rd world country with remnant communist and anti-American sentiments. Spanish-speaker preferred. Camouflaged uniforms a must. We're looking for a multi-tasker with ability to dodge multiple assassination attempts. This position may require overtime.

Duties include oppressing millions of freedom-starved Cubans, sinking rafts and makeshift boats headed for Florida, hobnobbing with other Communist dictator assholes, and bamboozling Hollywood simpletons into thinking you're a swell guy. Will oversee the finest healthcare system in the world.

George Bush sympathizers need not apply.

***If you swallowed a 1.5-inch diameter jawbreaker whole, what size would the parcel be when it evacuated out as a candied, Willy Wonka turd? I've always had a scientific inquisitiveness about me.

***When I was kid, struggling with my multiplication tables, I entreated the teacher to allow us to use calculators instead of memorizing the tedious tables. Her rejoinder was that we won't always have a calculator when we need it. But this was back in the 1970s when a calculator cost $14,000. Nowadays, you do indeed always have a calculator handy either on your computer or in your cell phone. She was wrong! Up yours, Mrs. Daniels. In her defense, she also counseled me that I was a juvenile delinquent who wouldn't amount to anything when I grew up. Fifty-fifty.

***Why is it that the center of a sweet roll is the tastiest part of the pastry, but the center of a donut, namely, the donut hole, is lackluster?


You picked it (part 1)

You picked the subjects. Your wishes are my commands. Here we go:

Bella suggested good book titles.

That's easy enough. My favorite novel is The Great Gatsby. Those of you who blew off the reading assignment in high school “just cheated yourself.” The teacher was right! So make amends. Read this wonderful tome chock full of unrequited love, unchecked ambition, friendship, bittersweet sentiment and disillusionment vis-a-vis the American Dream.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance was great, too. Atlas Shrugged is a literary masterpiece that will keep you flipping through 1100 pages. Both of these feature some heavy philosophical stuff that will appeal to niche readers.

I read a few psychology books that changed my life: Stumbling on Happiness, The Psychology of Self-Esteem, The Peter Prescription, Your Erroneous Zones. These books go beyond pop psych and delve into the science of thought. Interesting reads, all, even if you're already deliriously happy and fulfilled.

Animal Farm and Brave, New World are incredible satires.

The Bell Curve is the best sociology book I've ever read (send hate mail to: eightinches4real@yahoo.com). Don't believe the critics. Read the book and decide whether it has merit.

I can recommend tons of political thought and current events books, but they'll only appeal to readers who already believe what the author writes before the reader reads it. That's how politics is: we look for affirmation, not clarification.

Hammer asked how I chose my blog name.

I love the sight of lightning bugs in the evening. I wanted my blog to evoke the same feeling in my readers as I have when I watch those little lightning bugs float and beam in the distance. I figured my blog was just little flashes of insight that don't mean much, but that, hopefully, induce a sense of joy, delight and mystery, just like those little lightning bugs.

Random Moments suggested a bad date story.

I never had a bad date. Some were lackluster. But most went well. But I have something close to a bad date – I planned to ask a girl on a date, but I committed the biggest faux pas conceivable and consequently aborted mission. I still cringe when I think about this.

I liked a girl who worked at a fried chicken restaurant. I popped in with plans of asking her out. With some subtle maneuvering and a bit of conniving, I got her sitting at my table. We talked. The conversation flowed like Mozart concerto. She had a sparkle in her eye. I had this girl stuck in my tractor beam. The poor thing had no chance of escape. In a few short hours, I'd be boarding her “Milennium Falcon,” if you know what I mean. What I mean is, I'd be fucking her soon, for those of you slow on the uptake.

It was time for me to leave so she could finish the end of her shift. She stood up. I stood up. I followed her down the aisle. Then, a bizarre cataclysmic anomaly of physics manifested and arrested fate. I still don't understand this phenomenon. I doubt Carl Sagan could explain it. Anyway, I punched the girl. Hard. Imagine something on the order of a prime Mike Tyson after his opponent mocked his speech impediment. Now multiply that punch by the speed of light. That's how hard I decked this poor bitch.

Here's how it happened. Like I wrote, I was following her. She stopped to get my food tray. I raised my hand to execute a patented shoulder embrace, a soft gesture meant to say, don't worry; I'll get it; you just keep moving your fine self along your original trajectory and let ole LBB take care of that tray. A subtle touch here and there is the difference between “just friends” and “tits-and-ass soup.” One can use the touch to either set the mood, or assess conditions and plan accordingly. Then again, what do I know about romance? I punched a girl out while trying to seduce her.

Anyway, she stopped abruptly. The calculations for my shoulder-caressing gesture, therefore, were off by several inches. Instead of my open hand meeting ever-so-delicately with her shoulder, the punching side of my hand whacked the living crap out of her scapula. It was a haymaker. The impulse force was immense. It was one of those hits were all the kinetic energy transfers from the striker to the object. Baseball players and golfers call it the “sweet spot.” I literally couldn't have hit this girl any harder if I'd tried. The whole restaurant heard the punch as it reverberated off the walls and from plates of friend chicken and rolls. The next day, the local newspaper featured a story about an anomalous reading on a seismograph outside of Las Angeles, California.

She was in pain for like, 10 minutes. She was rubbing her shoulder and wincing. I stood there, speechless and sniveling, at the zenith of my douchebaggery. She realized it was accidental. But that didn't make it any less painful. Do you know how hard it is to recover a romantic interlude after you punch the girl out? Let me assure you, my friend, that it's almost impossible. I apologized about 56 times and bid the poor thing goodnight. I never disclosed my intent that evening to ask her for a date.

Ms. Puddin requested I write about the craziest place I had sex and the craziest place I farted.

I had sex with my future wife in the basement of the business at which we both worked. Neither of us works for that organization anymore. So I suppose I can disclose the fact that we engaged in sexual congress while on the clock. Because I'm still married to the girl, I can't disclose further details. Let me assure the reader that nothing is more thrilling than both parties getting paid while in sexual congress.

I let a fart rip at work a couple years ago, but I played it off beautifully. I was terribly embarrassed, but to the several ladies within earshot, I appeared to be deliberately flatulating for comedic effect. I had them convinced I was proud of it. I had only milliseconds to pose as a comedic farter. In that time I recovered from the shock, collected myself and hit my mark. It was brilliant. Sir Lawrence Olivier couldn't have cuddled one out with more poise and grace than I.

RoxRocks asked me to write about my biggest regret.

Great question. Let me see. My biggest regret is letting shyness rob me of a robust childhood. I wish I would have realized that shyness was a form of selfishness in time to enjoy the thousands of kids I ignored and shunned at school. Instead, I drudged my way through school speaking with few, knowing even fewer, joining virtually nothing, and cheating myself of what would have been some amazing times. I checked my shyness at the door years ago and simultaneously discovered the joy of other people – even though most people suck. I have no tolerance for shy people. My shyness derived from self-centeredness and conceit. It's the same with others, I suspect.

R.E.H. invited me to write about the deep meaning of sexual intercourse in all it's different forms.

I don't believe sex has a deep meaning. I believe it's a simple act. I also believe it triggers physiological events, such as pleasure-inducing hormones, that trick us into thinking something profound has taken place, much like hallucinogenic drugs do. It's evolution. Sex is important business in biological terms. So is sticking around to care for offspring. The way to trick humans into having sex often – and with a single partner, ideally – is to give them the vague sense that sexual intercourse is a profound act transcending biology and delving into love, spirituality, etc. As cynical as I may sound, I LOVE this effect. But I know Darwin is bamboozling me.

NWJR requested embedded microprocessor design.

That subject exceeds my scope of expertise. In fact, I'm void of expertise in any variety. But I can't let a great blogger and loyal reader leave empty handed. So I'll offer this. I'm fascinated by Moore's Law, a mathematical relationship between microchip processing power versus time (at ideal production cost), that has proved remarkably accurate over the last 40 years of computer science. Moore postulated that microchip processors double in power every 18 months. I have my own law regarding computer power, and I thank NWJR for giving me the opportunity to publish it. It goes like this:

Programmers will negate the gains quantified in Moore's Law by inflating code inefficiency to outstrip processing power such that (exempting improvements in graphics), computer users will become no more productive than at any previous time, and such that the likelihood of an application either freezing or pissing off the user remains constant. As with girls, programs get prettier with time, but they remain just as illogical and aggravating.

The Peanut Queen requested a sex story. I have several, but the worthwhile ones involve the wife. As I don't have her expressed written consent to publish our sexual adventures, I must pass on this request.

For Tornwordo: How much puke could a spook gook puke if a spook gook could puke puke?

I'm still working on the rest. Please know I'll address all of your fine picks. Thanks to all of you for your input.

Much love and regards,



You pick it!

Pick it!

Fellow Blogger, you get to pick the next topic. Make my next subject anything you please. I'm at your command.

I look forward to all your ideas. Thanks in advance!



  • If Jesus really was a Jew, why didn't he try bargaining with the Romans? Crucifixion, he says? How about 15 public floggings and a nominal fine? Plus, I'll throw in an open-faced corned beef sandwich for the executioner.
  • Did you read about that dog who ate the Superbowl tickets? I just read a follow-up story on the same dog. Evidently, the dog ran away, only to be caught on game day taking a dump in Section 16, Row 23, Seat # 9. When challenged by security, the dog gestured to his feces which bore fragments of the ticket. Nice try, Fido. Now get the hell out of University of Phoenix Stadium before I FedEx you to Michael Vick's house.
  • I was playing Texas Hold'em next to a guy who was so fat that it was a geometric impossibility for him to see his own penis. I think a reliable indicator of needing to go on a diet is, when you have you have to take a leak, you first have to win a game of Blind Man's Bluff with your pecker.
  • Did you hear they're bringing back the television show “Knight Rider?” It's set the year 2008. Benefiting from today's computer technology, the KITT car has an arsenal of new functions. Among them is the ability to eat and dispose of a Wendy's hamburger for that middle-aged drunkard, David Hasselhoff. Michael, I said hold the onions. Also on the new KITT, a breathalyzer ignition system. Court order.
  • We all experience the phenomenon where we awake from a trance while driving, only to realize we have no idea how we made it to our current location. I always wonder whether when I was driving in that trance, if I ran over a guy on a bike. I'm a worrier. That's what I do.
  • If truckers put naked-lady mud flaps on their trucks, what do she-male truckers put on their mud flaps? I wonder if there's a shop that sells little chrome penises you can retrofit on the naked-lady mud flap. There's a million-dollar idea for you entrepreneurial types.
  • For the last several months I've been training my dog to use various tools so that I can win the prize money on that Funniest Animals show. He's getting pretty good with a hammer, so-so with a wrench, but he's all thumbs with a lathe. He just needs more practice. Last night, he says to me, “Why don't you teach me about the can opener so I can get at the Alpo?” Look, Keegan Key doesn't give a damn if you can feed yourself. I need you to build a birdhouse to lock in the prize money. Try thinking about someone other than yourself, Maxwell.