If You Got an Orgasm from Other than Sex

Oh Yeah!  Oh Yeah!  That's it! 

Evolution knows what it’s doing.

Orgasms in human beings evolved so that the planet could be repopulated. If there were no such thing as the orgasm, people would find breeding about as exciting as The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon, and Earth would be as barren as Mars.

The orgasm is such a good idea it’s a shame that evolution did not imbue it in other important endeavors to incent people to do them as well.

Paying bills for example:

“Crap, I’ve got to pay the PECO, PGW, and Mastercard bills.

This first one is from the PECO.  OMG, it's 135 dollars for the month!  Screw me, PECO! Screw me!   

Now you, PGW! ... Oh yeah, bill me, bill me good!  I just can't resist you!  I’m writing the check now... That's write! That's write! 

I’M CUMMING  ... TO THE MASTERCARD BILL! 

Wait a minute! What is this charge for a hot tub? And an accordion? And a vacation in France? I’ve been hacked!

OH, shit. Billius interruptus!"

On second thought, maybe orgasms for everyday endeavors isn’t such a good idea.

If mundane tasks like opening the pickle jar or making toast brought on a crushing orgasm then who’d want to bother to have sex with all the attendant hassle involved?

In that case there would be about 14 people left on earth, most of them about as exciting as Jimmy Fallon.

Then again all of our bills would be promptly paid. 

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The Implied Thank You

From the time we are small children we are taught that the magic words are "please” and “thank you.” We are also taught that you can hardly say these words enough times in the course of a day if you are a nice person.

You have been taught LIES!

Almost every day I go into my local Wawa convenience store to buy coffee.

When I enter I hold the door for someone exiting with coffee.

“Thank you,” they say.

“You’re welcome,” I reply.

When I leave someone holds the door for me.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” they reply.

If I go several times to the convenience store in the course of a day that can equal three or four “thank yous” I’ve had to muster. Not to mention the “you’re welcomes” that must inevitably follow.

What a ridiculous waste of time and energy!

Why not simply imply a "thank you” whenever the door is held for you rather than your having to verbalize it?

Wawa could post a sign in the entrance:

“ONE ‘THANK YOU’ IMPLIED PER CUSTOMER PER EXIT.”

Then you and the door holder could remain blissfully silent while gratitude and acknowledgment of same would yet be warmly and fully pulsating between you.

The only time you would have to speak is when some asshole doesn’t hold the door. Then, and only then, you would be required to move your lips, exercise your larynx, and pronounce:

“You fucking piece of shit!”

Unfortunately this can’t be implied.

But people are pretty nice. The times you’ll have to go to this extreme are few and far between.

Pretty good idea, don’t you think?  You don’t have to thank me.

Your ‘thank you’ is implied.

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A Serious Case of Premature Bonging

Simply lovely. 

Except when there's premature bonging!

I tend to be late sometimes.

Oh, let’s be honest. I’m chronically, perpetually, pathologically late almost all the time.

But even when I'm not late for yoga at 12:00 P.M. three days a week, there’s a sound that fills the air that fills me with dread that I am late and about to get yelled at. Of course everyone’s mellow at yoga and nobody has yelled at me yet, but there’s always a first time.

That sound is church bells bonging from a nearby church that bong two minutes before the hour.

It's a serious case of premature bonging!  

I know. Premature bonging sounds dirty.

Not only does the premature bonging terrify me that I’m at late for yoga when I’ve still got two leisurely minutes left, I'll bet it scares the crap out of everyone for miles around that they’re late for wherever they’re headed too. And that's every hour on the hour, not just 12 P.M!

So I went to see Reverend Trumble, top guy at the church in question to complain. I think “top guy at the church” might not be his official title.

“Reverend Trumble,” I said, “I want to talk to you about a case of premature bonging.”

“Premature bonging, Mr. Block? That sounds dirty.”

“That’s exactly what I thought! I hesitated to say that to you because as a man of God, I thought you might damn me to hell.”

“No, I generally don’t do that kind of thing anymore.”

“Things really have liberalized with you guys lately, haven’t they?”

“Tell me about the premature bonging.”

"Your bell tower bongs routinely at two minutes before the hour. It makes me feel like I’m late for yoga and I panic and desperately start to think of excuses for being late when I’ve still got two glorious minutes left to get there!”

“Seems to me it serves as a worthwhile notice to you that you’ve got to hurry to get to yoga.”

“If it bonged a half hour in advance it would! That would tell me to turn off Let's Make a Deal, grab my yoga pants, and get out of the house! At two minutes to the hour all it does is give me a shrek!”

“I know the term. All right, Mr. Block, we’ll adjust the premature bong to a timely bong if you'll do one thing.”

"What's that?"

"Be a little early from now on. For everything."

"Right! I've been meaning to do that ever since I was 37."

"Good deal."

“Thank you for handling the problem, Reverend! Thank Jesus too.”

“I don’t think Jesus had much to do with the premature bonging, Mr. Block.”

“Y’know, I didn’t think he did either.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it sounds dirty.”

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I Love the Seagulls

I was walking by the bay and there she was:   slender, pretty, and not a day past 35. She was sitting with her sketch book, drawing multiple poses of the seagulls as they splashed and stretched near the shore.

“I love the seagulls,” I said softly as I walked by, hoping for a response.

"Oh, yes, the seagulls are positively enchanting!"' she replied, jumping up and extending her hand.

"Enchanting,” I repeated warmly. “Yes, they are.”

She held my hand and squeezed it.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” she said.

"And I, you!"

Still got it, I thought!  

“May I see your drawings of the seagulls?” I asked.

“Oh, sorry, I don’t have any drawings of my grandparents, just of these ocean birds.”

“Your grandparents?”

"Yes, Herbert and Elsie Siegel. I’m Jane, I’m visiting this week.

“Jane?”

“You must be one of Grampy's oldest and dearest friends!  I’ll tell him I saw you schlepping down the beach."

Know what?

I hate the fucking seagulls. 

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