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

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

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