Thursday, September 3, 2015


That just describes it all, doesn't it? Everything you've been thinking. Outside, the cars move down your street; birds land in your trees, singing their song; squirrels gather their nuts and shake their addled brains, but you, good sir, you can't help thinking of anything but butts. Big butts. Round butts. Butts that move like two giant ham-hocks. Tanned, gorgeous behinds. Fat, sweaty pieces of meat. Some butts you'd like to sit down to dinner with and pour a glass of chianti and just have a nice conversation. Other butts you'd like to attack like a ravenous hyena. Some butts you'd like to smack. Others you'd like to kick. You'd probably like to smell some butts. Others, not so much. All in all, it doesn't matter. You have butts on the mind.

When you close your eyes and try to sleep, butts fill your mind's eye. They jiggle across your screen at work, when you're trying to get real stuff done. You go to the restroom and you see someone's pants sagging down, their butt crack visible. "Goddamn," you whisper and they look at you strangely. You may have a problem. That wasn't sexy butt. That was maintenance man butt. You hate to admit it, but you're beginning to think that a butt is a butt. This puts you in a philosophical mood. Is an ass truly an ass? Should you be happy with whatever butt you have? Nobody's got Kim Kardashian's butt, true, not even Kim Kardashian. That butt is a composite work made of astrophysics, plastic surgery, and Photoshop. Now you're depressed. You think you've been lusting after a butt that doesn't exist, all of these years, and now, having hit the bottom of the barrel, you can't tell one ass apart from another. Life, for you, has been about butts for so long. What reason do you have now to get up in the morning and drink your coffee?

Then you see it, walking down the street. A big ass, both cheeks wobbling in the hot summer sun, protected by a pair of yoga pants. This lady has a pretty face, but it's her butt you're interested in. It moves with a life of its own, up and down, up and down, constrained by the thin fabric. You press your face against the window, your tongue lolling out like an animal's. "Jesus," you say. "Butts." It's amazing how life can be restored to a desiccated corpse in one quick second. All you needed was a good butt. You can pay the bills now. You'll put food down your gullet. This mindless routine you follow, the monotonous patterns of life, it is all just secondary. "Hummmm," you say. "Butts."

You are a true philosopher.

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