Ake's Pains debuted in the University of Akron Buchtelite in September of 1977. The school's reputation as an institute of higher learning has still not recovered. Ake's Pains returns after a brief 32 year hiatus. It's back, baby!

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Every Picture Tells A Story – The Blunder Years (Part 1)

When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school --- mama don’t take my Kodachrome away – Paul Simon

In anticipation of our 40th-year high school reunion, Carol thought it would be a swell idea if everyone used their senior yearbook photograph as their Profile Picture on Facebook. I thought this was a horrible, massively horrible, idea.  However, since I was helping organize the reunion, I felt pressured to comply.  Ironic that high school reunions enable us to relive our high school experience and now as a result of this, I was feeling peer pressure. Wonderful!

I actually liked my photo when it was taken, but over the years I had come to find it rather distasteful.  I could never image the circumstance that would cause me to ever post this thing on the Internet, where millions of people around the world could all simultaneously spit out their respective breakfasts’ when this hideous image popped up on their screens.

Maybe no one will actually do this, I hoped.  But then profile pics from dozens of classmates starting hitting my Facebook feed.  Maybe I will not be able to find a photo to post, I reasoned.  I wasn’t going to search the attic, where somewhere there are numerous copies. My best bet was to find a worn, wallet-size version, which I saved in an old manila folder years ago.  I thought it would take some time to search for it, which was fine.  I wanted to be able to tell my classmates, “I tried to find the pic, looked everywhere for over 30 minutes, but no luck.”

I made a big mistake when I asked my wife for help finding that folder. “Why don’t you check the box in the office that has your mother’s old stuff?” she asked.  Three minutes, in three minutes, I was holding a six-by-nine framed copy of the notorious photo.  Now I remember, this photo was always prominently and proudly displayed in her living room until her health deteriorated. The photo most certainly wasn’t hideous to her.  Instead it was tangible proof that I was cherished.  I was her only child, a child she never, ever, thought she would have.  The photo was part of her “shrine” to me.  So while I hated seeing that photo each time I visited, it was actually my mother’s way of telling me how much she loved me.  Why is it that we only see certain messages, long after the messenger is gone?

I carefully remove the photo, scan it, and position it in the Facebook profile, still I am hesitant to post it.  My wife walks by, sees me staring apprehensively at the screen, and asks if everything is alright. “Oh, everything is fine”, fine until …… click.

So here’s the pic.  I thought it might cause a reaction on Facebook, but I wasn’t ready for this. The photo blew up my little section of the Internet.  Here, it was even bigger than Kim Kardashian’s butt.  Okay, nothing is bigger than that, but you get the idea.  I have never posted anything on Facebook that came close to generating this much interest.  The final total: 112 “Likes” and 48 comments.

Of course a popular topic of conversation was the abundant hair of my youth.  People usually don’t believe me when I tell them I once had long, flowing, hair.  Now I do have proof.  My Facebook friends pointed out that I had nice tresses.  Several people questioned whether I was wearing a wig.  Others wondered how it was possible to lose that much hair and still be alive.   One guy sarcastically asked how I managed to create the “side poofs”, this I commented back, was accomplished by the use of something called “an electric comb”.

The haircut was known as a “Dutch Boy”.  This style let me grow my hair long without parting it down the middle.  My hair does, oh excuse me, did not naturally part down the middle.  And guys in the Kenmore class of 1976 did not use hairspray.  If you were ever caught using hairspray, you would have been labeled, excuse my strictly 70’s parlance, a f@g.  All my college photos show my hair parted down the middle, due to a more refined, accepting, environment. 

And yes, the sport coat is ugly by today’s standards, but the 70’s was a decade of horrible clothes. At one time I had a pair of green plaid pants, cuffed, of course.  I even wore platform shoes, and at nearly 6’4”, the last thing I needed was to be any taller.  I still remember banging my head into doorways, hard enough to see stars, because of those ridiculous shoes. But I wore them anyways, because it was the 70’s.  I only could afford a couple sport coats, so this was my best one, and it was considered rather snazzy at the time.

However, I was amazed by the tremendously positive response to the pic from the ladies.  Apparently, I was a stud back then and didn’t even realize it!   The younger women liked the pic, the more seasoned ladies like the pick, even some foreign chicks liked it. Yes, all types of women, many of them who are indeed, “hot”, were grooving to that 70’s guy.

My former classmate Mike claimed that the reason he couldn’t get a date in high school was because all the hotties were only interested in me. Someone else compared me to Prince, Prince Valiant.  Gail posted that “Kim had the biggest crush on you”.  That one actually brought a tear to my eye. Kim was a sweet, pretty, girl and I had no idea she liked me, but sadly  she was one of the first of our classmates to pass away. 

 And not only was I a stud, I was also a rock star.  Several people asked if I was one of the Beatles.  Yes, I was the fifth Beatle, the one who couldn’t sing or play guitar.  Another person thought I was in the Partridge Family.  Yeah, that’s it, I was Donny Partridge.  Unfortunately, I got kicked out of the group after I was caught “practicing” in the back of the road van with Susan Dey – ba- ba, ba, ba - ba,ba - ba,ba,ba.  But by far the strangest comment was that I had the Justin Bieber look down, years before he did.  But if that were true, there would have been girls swooning over me in high school and I’m sure I would
Donnie Bieber?
have remembered that. If Bieber did steal my look and make millions, he will soon be hearing from my attorney.

The marvelous response on Facebook caused me to take a new look at this photo from a detached, more objective, perspective.  Well, the kid looks much more handsome than I ever remember seeing in any mirror.  I guess teenage girls aren’t the only ones with appearance image issues.  The kid also appears very happy, but that is partially an illusion. I was happy, but not “that” happy.  I remember the photographer being smokin’ hot and when she smiled at me and told me to smile back, this is the look you got. You see, some things never change.

I also see a young man with tremendous potential, something I never realized at that time.  I had a lot more going for me, than I ever knew.  This lack of confidence did hinder me some, but I have still done very well.  No one ever achieves their full potential, but over the last three years I’ve accomplished much. So it took the kid a long time, but he finally got there, and getting there is what matters most.

And after all those admiring comments from the ladies, I am considering losing 80 pounds and growing my hair back out into that Dutch Boy.  I think I’ll skip the jacket, though. Shouldn’t take me that long …. 

Monday, October 3, 2016

I Will Not Duck This 2016 Presidential Endorsement

It’s time boys and girls to confirm what they taught us in school, about how great democracy truly is.  We have skillfully utilized our primary elections to provide two outstanding candidates for our voting enjoyment.  HA, HA, HA, HA -  and that laughter is coming from Karl Marx’s grave – you silly proletarians you.

The Republicans who offered up a big Richie Rich-type failure four years ago, decided to nominate someone this time who is even richer – a richer Richie Rich.  This guy often blurts stuff out without thinking and then spends the next week trying to explain what he said. He also has the worst hair since Martin Van Buren.  The Democrats have countered by nominating a sickly, Richard Nixon in a pantsuit. HA, HA, HA, HA!  Shut up Karl! Shut your commie pie hole, right now!

People are very upset at the establishment and the elites this election cycle and I can see why.  You may get to vote, but then these high-falutin’ graduates of that extremely elite school, The Electoral College, actually get to pick whomever they want for president!  The school doesn’t even have a football team.  That’s right, your president gets selected by people whose college has no sports teams and no cheerleaders. This is just wrong.

But it is important to vote.  Because if you don’t and the other candidate is elected, there will be a huge disaster!  There will be plagues, an economic collapse, inter-species marriages, space aliens nominated to the Supreme Court, fire from heaven, tremendous destruction and a massive outbreak of the heebee jeebees. And this is just on the Wednesday after the election.  After that, it gets really bad.  – Or not, since Congress can still block heebee jeebee causing actions.

By far, the biggest reason to vote is so you have the right to bitch for four years if your candidate loses.  You can say “If only Ray had been elected, he would be making tremendous decisions and governing perfectly, not like the current douche-bag.  This right is given to us in Amendment 1-B, the right to bitchy-like speech. 

Well I know all my readers greatly respect my keen insight and expert analysis on all things political, therefore I am going to make my much anticipated presidential endorsement.

The most important thing is that we have the opportunity to elect a trailblazer, someone who is the first person of their type to reach the White House.  Electing someone as president due to being the “first” instead of those stupid, over-rated, “presidential qualifications”, makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  And people, that’s what’s truly most important here, how you feel about your president – not what they actually do.

Just think, last time we did elect a “first” type of president, who was able to heal the  divisiveness in this country by his mere presence.  We have blended together  into one huge, sweet, Milky Way bar and now you never hear of any disharmony or conflict at all.

And now once again we have the opportunity to put a new “first” in the White House.  You know it’s time, people.  This group has been downtrodden, discriminated against, held back, ridiculed, disparaged.  We should all feel a tremendous amount of shame that it has taken this long for a person to be considered for this honored position.  Now this group stands on the edge of greatness and it is our honor, our responsibility, and our duty, to elect one of them as President of these great United States.

This is a cause that I support 100%, I am convicted to the core of my very soul.  It is time to stop holding these people back!  I wholehearted support these people, because I personally have experienced the utter pain and humiliation they have suffered.  These people happen to be my people, and that is why we need to elect someone named “Donald” as President of the United States of America!

Of course this is very personal for me.  This is my name and these are truly my people.  We have been persecuted and discriminated against for too long.  Up to now, our most prominent standard bearer has been a duck.  A moronic duck, with a bizarre voice and no pants - and I emphasize, no pants.
I am not a duck!

There has never been a president named Donald.  We had had a Zachary, Millard, Ulysses, Chester, Grover and Rutherford.  That’s right a Rutherford. Rutherford B. Hayes (why the hell is the “B” even necessary, if your name is Rutherford?) and he was a bad president, very, very bad. Just awful, a total loser.

If you have followed this campaign, you may think that all men named Donald are egotistical, blowhard, maniacs, who make outrageous statements that offend and hurt people.  However, readers of my blog know that there is nothing further from the tr…. Okay, um, bad example. All right, maybe the worst example ever.

And I will admit that over my business career at several companies, that the Donalds who I have worked with have been some of the biggest idiot, arrogant, a$$holes that I have ever encountered.  You may think that I exaggerate, but I know my former co-workers at these companies would wholeheartedly agree with that statement.  But please just ignore that.

You may vote on the basis of a candidate’s geopolitical strategy or their microeconomic plan, but that is way too confusing for me.  This time, I’m only voting for a name – the first name, and this reason trumps all others. 

And if you criticize me for my choice, you are a name bigot. You are a deplorable namist and are discriminating against Donalds everywhere, including little children named Donald in third-world countries. You horrible, piece of slime, you.

So this election, I am endorsing Donald for President of the United States and voting a straight Donald ticket.

Monday, September 19, 2016

I Have Tweeted My Wiener

The summer of 2016 is coming to an end, with several strange people making bad decisions. (All these news items are real)

News Item: Man Dressed as Zorro Incites Panic at LAX

Thousands of panicked travelers rushed out of Los Angeles International Airport in late August as a result of security officers confronting a man dressed as Zorro, seated just outside the terminal.

Of course the concern was needless because Zorro only combats criminals and ne’er do wells.  There was no chance their designer L.A.-duds were going to get marked with the sign of the “Z”.

There was criticism that it took six officers to detain Zorro (which accentuated the panic), but this is understandable considering how skilled the masked guy is with a bullwhip and sword. Security was able to de-mask him and determine he was just an impostor, not the real Zorro, waiting to pick up a friend – and his sword was made of plastic.

The guy was extremely irritated at being detained.  “I was just there to pick someone up and the next thing I know, LAPD is all over me”, he reportedly said.  Hey Zorro, Black Lives Matter, but not Black-Masked Lives.  You wore that costume in the airport to pick someone up? What??? Were you going to whisk them away on your horse?

This dude playing Halloween in summer, caused five terminals to be evacuated, 280 flights to be delayed, 27 flights to be diverted and some passengers to get trampled in the melee. And they released him without being charged, because unfortunately you cannot arrest someone for just being a freakin’ idiot.

Going to a busy airport dressed as Zorro, carrying a plastic sword? Bad idea! Bad, bad, idea! (couldn’t you have just left the sword, mask and hat in your bleeping car?)

News Item: A Woman Fugitive Posts a More Attractive Mugshot on Facebook

An 18-year old saucy, Aussie, woman escaped from a police station after being arrested for theft.  Police then issued two mugs shots and a media alert in an attempt to recapture her.

However, the fugitive took strong exception to these photos as being “very unflattering” when she saw them on television. She got on the station’s Facebook page and posted a more attractive selfie, asking “Can you use this photo please?”

That is one spunky women with a bad-a$$ attitude.  Commits a crime, busts out of jail and yet is feminine enough to care enough about the quality of her appearance in the mugshot! And did I mention – the new photo is hot!  I do have to admit, that I am a bit turned on by this – except for the fact that she is 18, she lives in Australia, and I’m married.

The problem of course is that when you are trying to evade capture, you do not want to look like your mugshot.  You want to change your appearance to not look like your mugshot.  The LAST THING YOU WANT TO DO IS SEND THE POLICE A BETTER MUGSHOT, THAT LOOKS MORE LIKE YOU!  That’s just more stupid, than it is vain.

Sending the police a more accurate mugshot when you are a fugitive?  Bad idea. Bad, bad, idea! (She was soon recaptured – imagine that!)    

News Item: Anthony Weiner Caught Tweeting His Wiener Again

Incredibly, former congressman Anthony Weiner tweeted his wiener to a gal pal in California. Weiner was first outed as a wiener tweeter in 2011.  I stated then, it is never acceptable to tweet your wiener.  The purpose of Twitter is not to tweet wieners.

Most disturbing, is that one of the wiener tweets showed Anthony on his bed, with his toddler son.  I guess he wanted to show the woman that not only did he have a nice wiener, but that the wiener was capable of producing offspring, if that was her desire.  Regardless, the photo captures a father-son bonding moment, which I’m sure they will cherish many years from now.

This tweet even protruded into the presidential race, since Weiner’s wife is an aide for one of the candidates. Concerns were raised that the tweeted wiener posed a national security risk if it fell into the wrong hands.  I’m sure the North Koreans were giddy with excitement when they hacked the tweet. “Look emperor, we have captured large, American, wiener!”  

I do understand that tweeting and texting your junk has become a somewhat common practice.  My friend Becki is on Internet dating sites and she says a common greeting is “Hi, my name is Phil and this is my friend “Dick”!”

Now I may be a bit hypocritical here.  If the Internet existed when I was 16, I probably would have tweeted my wiener to Sally McMurphy. 

To truly understand this practice, I decided to tweet my wiener (well, more like my lunch, see photo) to see what reaction I would get, with hopes it would go viral.  This is literally food porn at its finest!

Sadly, my wiener tweet was largely ignored which was a real blow to my male ego. However, Barsha, a woman from Bangladesh did comment “I am hungry for this”.  I wrote back “Hungry for my love, baby?” She replied “No, just hungry. The harvest was poor this year”.

Letting Anthony have a Twitter account after his past problems? Bad idea!

Tweeting your wiener again with your son in the photo and your wife in a high-profile position? Bad idea, extremely bad idea!

Let’s hope everyone makes better decisions the rest of this year!

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Tim McGraw is a Foreign Country Singer (Summer of Country Music – Part 2)

It was a strange circumstance indeed for me to attend a Tim McGraw concert, more uncommon than watching a Quick Draw McGraw marathon on Cartoon Network.  But I had purchased an expensive ticket for my daughter and when she couldn’t go, I had to extrude as much value out of this audacious purchase as I could, being the cheap bastard that I am.

The ticket, by the way, costed $230.  Of course the concert didn’t cost that much, I figure the actual concert was around ten bucks.  But then they added in all the fees, including:

The Convenience Fee -  It is very convenient for someone to extract more cash from you after you have already bought the ticket.

The Printing Fee – I am using my paper, my ink and my printer to do the actual printing and they do not need to process or mail the ticket.  Shouldn’t they be paying me to do this?

The Government Fee – Otherwise known as taxes. What possible involvement or interest does the government have in a concert and where does this money go?

I had no interest in this concert, except to salvage some of my $230.  I know that Tim McGraw is married to that hot chick who used to sing before Sunday Night Football and I’ve probably heard some of his songs, but I couldn’t tell him apart from other country stars such as Blake Shelton, Luke Bryan or Drake.
Is this Drake?

So I headed off to the concert that night at the Pro Football Hall of Fame stadium.  The concert is part of the Hall of Fame induction weekend in August.  My wife and I arrived well before the concert to soak up the great atmosphere.  Thousands of football fans were on the grounds and there was a couple of local bands providing entertainment.

I ran into my friend Fulton at one of the pre-concerts and he pointed out to me that I was dressed improperly for the evening.  It was sweltering hot and I selected a jersey that was loose-fitting and comfortable in the heat – a baseball jersey.  So at football Mecca, among thousands of people wearing football jerseys, I am walking around in a Dodgers shirt.  This is the equivalent to wearing a hijab to church.

I felt like such a dweeb, very nerdy.  I couldn’t be the only one stupid enough to do this, so as I walked around I searched for anyone else wearing a baseball jersey.  And I finally found one! “Ha I thought, I’m not the only one!  Yeah, whoa, that guy sure looks like a total loser in that baseball garb! --- Oh crap, never mind ……..”

I was still not dressed appropriately when I entered the stadium for the concert.  It was like entering a foreign country.  Everyone was wearing cowboy boots.  This alarmed me and I was careful wear I stepped because I was sure the ground was covered in goose poop. I mean why else would people be wearing boots in 90- degree weather?

However, this concert was becoming much more tolerable due to the abundance of young women pairing their boots with Daisy Dukes.  Now this wasn’t totally enjoyable.  These shorts were made popular by actress Catherine Bach who had world-class thighs.  Some of those women sporting Daisy Dukes that night had world-wide thighs.  You could call them Daisy Delusionals, if they believed that was a good fashion choice.  I don’t like excessive government regulations, but if Congress wrote a law limiting the size of Daisy Dukes that could be sold, I think I would have to get behind it, I mean support it.

But I’m sure all these ladies are sweethearts, no matter their size.  My single friend Ben tells me all the time how much he enjoys dating country girls.  But he doesn’t date them exclusively, because he likes city girls too. Just the other day he told me he loves cowgirls, but said sometimes he enjoys reverse cowgirl too.

One thing I couldn’t understand were the people going for beers constantly throughout the concert.  First you miss half the concert, then you end up drunk and can’t enjoy the rest of it. Um, you could have just gone to a bar that night and saved $230.

Now I did leave my seat once to get a large, thick, milkshake. I guess all those thick thighs were making me thirsty.  However, on my way back, one of those drunken cowboys crashed into me and I spilled my milkshake all over the field.  Now I quickly took my foot and smoothed it around so it blended into the painting done for the upcoming Hall of Fame Game.  I think I hid it very well and I’m sure no one even noticed it.

The concert actually was very enjoyable, with the added entertainment of with a very inebriated cowgirl arguing loudly with the authorities about the location of her seat.  And I did recognize some of the songs including “I Like It, I Love It” (I want some more of it) which has to be the greatest song ever written about mashed potatoes.

Now I do admit that I was unable to extract the full $230 out of the experience, but I’m still glad I went.  I do believe it is beneficial to expand my horizons and once the news gets out, it could get me a second chance with Taylor Swift – well as soon as she dumps her current boyfriend. (Which incidentally, just happened after I wrote this and before I posted!)

Monday, August 29, 2016

I Love Shania Twain – And Her Music’s Okay, I Guess (The Summer of County Music - Part 1)

Got in my car, turned on the radio, and ---- heard something very disturbing blasting through my Dolby, it was, it was …. country music.  This was odd since I have my radio pre-sets carefully coordinated and none, none of the six buttons, are programmed for country.

It seemed that one of my favorite stations had changed its format from 60’s and 70’s classics, to modern country.  Of course any sudden change is extremely irritating to a middle-age guy.  This totally fizzed me off and ruined my whole day. My classic station was so dear to me that it occupied my second pre-set button, a very esteemed position, indeed. 

I loved my classic station because its music made me feel young again.  Of course this causes some problems.  This station played a healthy dose of The Stones. Instinctively, I hit the gas whenever The Stones come on.  It is literally impossible for me to maintain the speed limit. This is particularly troubling when the Stones come on in a school zone.

“Get the hell out of road kiddies. Here comes a child of the 70’s and Jumpin’ Jack Flash got his foot on the gas, gas, gas ….”

Now most sane people would have just found a new station to program in the #2 button, or at least pushed another button, but not a stubborn middle-aged guy.  I let the country music play, just to make me even more miserable. Now I don’t hate country music, but I don’t have the “country music gene”.  It somehow skipped a generation.  My dad was a huge country music fan, as is one of my daughters.  And love of NASCAR is also bundled in that very gene.  If you give me the choice between watching a NASCAR race and a curling match, I will ask you which one will be over first, however my daughter, as my dad was, is a big fan.

But I learned something unexpected by listening to these country tunes.  It used to be county music was ridiculed because the lyrics were stupid and predictable, but my, my, has this ever changed.  I found that the lyrics were usually well composed, covering a wide scope of human situations and emotions.

This is in stark contrast to today’s pop music, dominated by chicky-babes with heaving breasts, wailing about overcoming tremendous obstacles.  Of course you can’t help but think they used their boobs in some way to achieve these mighty victories.  This means males and flat-chested women can’t relate to these songs.  I mean I’ve never been able to use my man-boobs to achieve any triumphs.

And compared to rap lyrics, which I can’t even listen to anymore, the country lyrics are a doctorate level thesis.  If there were a device that filtered out all rap music from my radio, I would hip hop down to the store and buy one today.

My second encounter with country music this summer involved being interviewed live on a country music radio station for my book, Just Make Me A Sammich. The host read an excerpt from the book mentioning Shania Twain.  He then assumed I was a huge country music fan and starting asking me questions, not about the book, but about my love of country music – and remember, this was live, very live.

Of course one can be a devout Shania Twain fan without even listening to her music.  For example, I really like her, uh, ah, well ah, you know.  And her uh, oh, eee, ah, well, that is outstanding also.  He totally caught me off guard by
asking what other county singers I enjoy.  I said while country is not my favorite music, I do have some Kenny Chesney, Dixie Chicks and  early Eagles on my mp3.  If I could have thought faster, I would have included Rascal Flatts, Keith Urban and Buck Owens.

Buck Owens?  Yes, he’s on there because he was my dad’s favorite and your father influences you in ways that you can’t begin to understand.  I was even sad the day Buck Owens died, because I knew my dad would have been sad. Strange indeed. 

My third summer encounter with country music involved the big Tim McGraw concert that was part of the Football Hall of Fame induction weekend in Canton, Ohio.  I had purchased a very, did I say very, expensive ticket so my country music lovin’ daughter could attend.  My daughter warned me not to buy the ticket, way back in February, because she works Friday nights and she couldn’t guarantee she would be able to go.  Hogwash, I said.  They will let you off work for Tim McGraw, I mean it’s freakin’ TIM McGRAW!

But no, due to some unique circumstances my daughter HAD to work that night.  Which means I attended the concert instead.  Well, what did you expect me to do?  It was a very expensive ticket.  So I found myself in the utterly bizarre world of a major country music concert.  You’re thinking “Wow, that sure sounds like an Ake’s Pains blog post to me!” And you are correct – next post it is!

Well, I don’t know how long it took me to realize that my 70’s classics station had not changed formats, but I had programmed the wrong station into button #2 after my car had some electrical work.  I was so fizzed off at the radio station, but it turns out the culprit was really me!  There was a time I wouldn’t make stupid mistakes such as this.  It would be an extremely rare occurrence, an utterly anomaly. Now days these incidences are known merely as “Tuesday”.

(Cue Katy Perry)

I’ve got the breasts of a starlet, a harlot,
Bouncing like a barmaid
Cause they are humongous, and you’re gonna see me score
Bigger, bigger than a C-cup
Cause they are humongous and you’re gonna see me score
Dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dota dot ……

Please check out my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book

Monday, August 15, 2016

Hot Frog Sex – This is the Summer of Love

The summer of 2016 has been marred by horrific reports that have terrorized us, but enough about the presidential election. In this sea of doom, there is a beacon of hope, with reports of the most significant, uplifting, glorious, scientific discovery this year. It is huuuuuuuuge.

Dedicated, observant, scientific researchers have uncovered a seventh mating position for frogs. Birds do it, bees do it and apparently frogs do it, but until recently, they only did it six different ways. I am not making this up and based on my extensive research, I am assuming the report is true.

That’s right, for many years it was believed that the 7,000 species of frogs mated in only six positions. However, recently the Bombay night frog of India was observed utilizing a new position, labeled the “Dorsal Straddle”.

You may think frog sex is boring, but I learned so much in researching this topic.  I found the diagrams of the six previous mating positions and the new “#7”. Most of these are rather conventional and feature the male  engaging the female from the back.  I would call it “froggy style”.  There is one strange position called the “independent”, where the frogs do it back-to-back, facing in opposite directions.  I assume that species using this method are extremely ugly and this is the human equivalent of doing it with the lights out.

However, the new “Dorsal Straddle” is by far the kinkiest of the bunch.  The male uses his toes to grab on to the twig the female is sitting on.  This gives him increased leverage and ---  I can’t describe what happens next without violating the decency standards of this blog. But let’s just say it’s nasty, very nasty, hot frog sex. The Bombay night frog now is considered a true stud in the frog kingdom and is getting his own chapter in the Froga Sutra.

Frogs also have an interesting mating ritual. In fact, Froggy does go a-courtin’ M-hm.  The procedure is very simple and there is no need for any consent
forms.  The male frog expresses his desire to mate by croaking loudly.  Female frogs find croaking very sexy and approach the male.  If the female finds the male acceptable, she indicates her desire by making physical contact. At that point, it’s on!  No changing her mind or getting upset if he doesn’t call the next morning!
If the female frog doesn’t consent, “no means no” and the horny frog must keep croaking to find another lay.  In effect, frog dating is much more civilized than what happens on college campuses these days and makes male frogs more gentlemanly than most young guys and much better than Bill Cosby.

Of course there was something peculiar to me about this story.  In order for it to be true, it meant there has to be “frog sex researchers” who get paid high salaries to observe and document frog sex practices.  Now if you knew these great jobs existed when you were in high school, you would have paid more attention in Biology class, wouldn’t you?

So apparently there are people whose job is to watch thousands and thousands of hours of frog porn, just waiting to make some great discovery.  Titles such as “Freaky Froggy”, “Hop On This” and “Swamp Sluts”, Part 1, 2, and 3, are viewed for research purposes only.  One of the researchers involved in this new discovery was quoted as saying “It has been a wonderful experience to observe the breeding sequence”. Wonderful indeed!

You might think this would be a fun and easy job, but you have to wonder what the impact is of carefully watching frog porn on a daily basis.

Consider these examples:

Margie is a married frog sex researcher.  She appears to be prim and proper, dressed in a white lab coat with her hair tied in a bun.  But when she gets home after binge watching frog porn --- Oh My!

(Conversation between Margie’s husband Brad and their neighbor)

Neighbor: Did I hear loud croaking noises coming from your bedroom last night?

Brad: (sheepishly) Well, you know Margie works at the institute studying them frogs.  She’s says the croaking really turns her on.  I oblige and soon we are hoping all over the bed.

Neighbor: Okay, I guess that also explains the incident in your hot tub last week. Oh, and you still have a bit of lily pad stuck in your hair.

Coincidentally, Margie and Brad’s sons are named Kermit and Tadd.

And then there’s Roger, the young, single, biologist, who struggles in his personal relationships.  His perfect mate would be a shy, demure, woman. However, when he is out trying to find that lady, he is always magnetically attracted to any woman with a tight, green, vinyl, dress, smooth skin, and impressively strong legs.  All she has to do glance at him with her bulging eyes, and Brad starts to bulge as well.

Soon they are back at Roger’s "pad", where the heat is turned up and they go at it like, like, …. well like frogs.  Sometimes the relationship lasts a few more dates, but it soon ends when Brad asks if she want to play “frogger” (and he doesn’t mean the video game) and she notices the vat of pond scum by the bed.

So friends, no matter how depressed you may get over current events the rest of the year, you can still find joy in knowing that many frogs are enjoying hotter, kinkier, sex than ever before!

Please check out my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

I Don’t Give Up My Blood Easily

“Don?”  My head snapped up and I nodded as I made my way across the waiting room.  It was time for my annual blood test to check my cholesterol levels.

But there was something wrong, very wrong. This phlebotomist (blood drawer) was unlike any I had seen before.  He was in fact, a guy.  I strongly prefer a female phleby (my term, never call them that to their face).  If this sounds sexist and old fashioned, it’s only because it is sexist and old fashioned.

But I have my reasons. I consider this a semi-intimate experience.  It is not an actual exchange of bodily fluids, but the phleby is taking fluids from me, while in close physical contact.

Also, it is very important that I am distracted from the act of a sharp needle being jabbed in my arm and precious blood being sucked out of my body. (more on this in a moment).  So my ideal phleby is a young, friendly, woman who engages me in pleasant conversation, so I am totally distracted from the horrible thing she is doing to me.

I don’t want her to be too attractive, because I don’t want to be tempted to flirt,
less I say something offensive just before she sticks me with the needle.  You don’t want to fizz her off and have her start grinding your vein, do you?

But the last thing I want is a smoking-hot phleby, tying that strap around your arm and whispering reassuring comments in your ear. Sure, I do want to be distracted, but not too much:

“Oh Mr. Ake, there is not any blood in your arm! Where did it all go?

Me: (Embarrassed look on my face, glancing downward.)

“Oh my, Mr. Ake! Now how are we going to get that all that blood out of there and back into your arm?

Me: “Uh, I do have a couple of ideas.”

Then she takes the needle, thrusts it into my leg, full force – and twists it.

By now, you are probably wondering why I am so particular about having my blood drawn.  Okay, I have to admit I get a little squeamish during the procedure.  Alright, let me restate that. I get SQUEAMISH, extremely SQUEAMISH.

I have been like this my entire life, only improving slightly with age.  If I think about what is happening with the needle in my arm, I become ill.  I do not pass out, but I break out in a profuse sweat, which starts at my head and ends up soaking my entire body.  I feel woozy for the rest of the day and it takes at least 24 hours to rehydrate.  That is why it is extremely important that I am fully distracted during the procedure.

Complicating the situation is that the vein in my arm is not very pronounced. This is not a problem for a skilled phleby, but a major problem for an inept one.  If there is a problem during the blood draw, I starting thinking about the needle and a sweaty meltdown ensues.

And besides his gender, there were other issues which this particular phleby, who I mentally nicknamed “Pokey”, very appropriate for what was about to transpire. Pokey was a little chubby, kind of frumpy, his clothing somewhat disheveled, his hair tousled. He did not present a professional image at all.  He did wear a lab coat, but it was a size too small.  Fantastic, Chris Farley is about to draw my blood. 

His appearance and demeanor did not exude confidence and I was filled with anxiety. My instincts told me to run away screaming, like a little girl.  But that would have been embarrassing, so I told myself everything was going to be fine.  Pokey had received training, right? He could do the job!

As I sat down and extended my arm, I realized that considering my condition, having my blood drawn a mere three hours before conducting an important national webinar, may not have been a great idea.  Pokey started the procedure.  However, there was no pleasant conversation to distract me. Pokey wasn’t very good at social interaction since he probably had spent a great deal of his life playing video games.  But this was not Pokemon, it was pokey me.

I could feel his first attempt fail.  Unfortunately, it was too late to bolt now.  I thought his second attempt had succeeded, but then I heard him mumble.  Mumbles are never good, positive things are never mumbled, only bad things.
“Is there something wrong?” I asked.

“The vein rolled and I can’t get the blood out”, he whined.

What I wanted to say is: No, the vein did not roll. You are just an incompetent slob.  But I don’t, because he still has to poke me again.

“Try the vein in my hand”, I suggest. (I know to do this from experience)

“The hand?”

I nod (while I think: yes, you moron)

He grabs my hand eagerly and squeals, “You have a nice vein in your hand!” (Count Dracula shows the same enthusiasm with necks)

I think: Whoa Pokey! Easy with the hand. Settle down boy, you are just drawing my blood, we are not going steady.

He sticks the needle in my hand and exclaims that “the blood is coming out!”

Unfortunately, this sequence of events has caused me to think about the needle and I can feel my shaved head getting hot and clammy. Here comes the sweat, the meltdown has started.  I literally start screaming to myself, emphasizing that the danger has passed and there is no reason to get sick now. 

And fortunately it works.  I stabilize and have only a “partial meltdown”. My head is covered with sweat, but that’s all. However, I am still somewhat ill and I slump forward, holding my head in my hands.

“Are you okay?” Pokey asks.

(Do I look okay, moron?)

“I will be alright, I just need some water”, I reply. 

And I do need the water. It’s difficult to emphasize how much I need water at this moment.  It provides both critical physical and psychological benefits. Water prevents the meltdown from spreading and it instantly makes me feel 1000% better.

“I will try to find some water”, Pokey says.

What! You will try to find some water?  Where the hell are we - some freaking third-world country?

“I am veli, veli, sorree.  Der has been no rain and all da wells are dry …”

Or maybe in the Old West – “Thar’s been an awful drought, but Clem’s fixing to git out his divining rod and find you a spring!”

And then instead of getting the water, Pokey asks something else which I can’t even remember.  I reply that I need water, now! He repeats that “he will try to find some” and finally goes on his search.

As I wait, I wonder since he is a millennial, if he thinks water only comes from plastic bottles and that is why he needs to search for it.  Maybe I should have instructed him that they call it “tap water” because it comes from a tap.

Pokey returns from his quest sooner than I expected, with a paper cup.  The cup is not full and the water is not cold, but it does the job.  I leave with a heavy bandage on my arm and another on my hand, it looks like I lost a fight and in a way, I did.

I made it through the webinar and my cholesterol levels are exemplary!   I can’t wait to do this again next year!

Please check out my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book