[this is a writing exercise I do, wherein I take a list of unrelated subjects and phrases in my files (or through suggestions from readers) and try to connect them in prose…and it’s usually humorous. It also teaches you how to construct segues. The items in this list are, Pariahs, Torches, Movies & Sex Toys.] so…here we go….
I am a pariah. I know this, though the usual response from my friends to this proclamation is a dismissive, “No you’re not…you’re just rare and wonderful.” Like a good steak. So I’m only good for a food source.
One of my biggest fears is that I’m going to die alone in my home, and my cats will eat me because I am too dead to open their food cans. I have three (cats, not food cans…this is The Crazy Cat Lady Starter Kit). I might have a chance to avoid that fate, because one of my cats, Monkey, happens to be polydactyl–she has 22 fingers–to include thumbs. As in Opposable Thumbs. A higher life form. Who can, perhaps, manipulate things like can openers.
If I am lucky enough to avoid the death-by-cat-consumption, it’s a distinct possibility that I might be ostracized by my community…I keep waiting for a bunch of torch-carrying village people to come get me…I don’t mean VILLAGE PEOPLE…like [singing] Yyyyyyy–M–C–Aaaaaa. I don’t know what those guys might carry. KY, perhaps [singing: Kaaaaaay—yyy——-] okay, not enough letters for that to fit the timing of the song…. Anyway, no, Not Village People, Villagers. Torch-carrying Villagers. Hillary Clinton said it takes a village. But nothing is said of the Villagers themselves. Do they all carry torches? Or just the ones who are intolerant pyromaniacs?
I have been guilty of intolerance myself, when it’s warranted. But I don’t pursue pariahs with a burning torch in my hand. I can live vicariously through books and movies. Though, perhaps my reticence to be part of the torching mob is because I don’t much like horror movies. Like, Nightmare on the Village People Street. Must be about hate crimes, not sure.
I just finished reviewing that horror flick, The Descent, and I liked it in spite of its horribleness, though I didn’t envy those women who had to defend themselves against subterranean carnivorous humanoids. I usually enjoy tamer fare. Like Sleepless in Seattle, or You’ve Got Mail.
Speaking of which, I just got some mail that made my day. It was a gadget called the Eroscillator. I’ve asked it to marry me. I told my best friend about it, but she wasn’t quite clear what eroscillating might be. She said, “Is it like an oscillating heater?”
“Well, maybe more like an Oscillating Peter. But yeah, it does create some heat.”
I don’t think I want an Oscillating Peter in a theater near me.