In Which We Play

 

Bon appetit 

My friends Drumstick and Hotfoot and I had a nice Thanksgiving dinner, really a late lunch. It was in a hotel downtown that until recently has been frumpy and teetering on the edge of shabby, but it's been all tarted up now and the dining room we were in is really very pretty. 

The Post Room

And the food was good, maybe not great, but really how much do you ever expect from Thanksgiving anyway?  Because it was a buffet, there was a greater range than the typical turkey day spread and you could broaden your culinary horizons.  In fact, I skipped the turkey (which I was told was dry, no surprise there) and had some very tender roast beef instead.  My theory is everyone wants the holiday dinners their grannies knocked out and certainly over the years and years that I cooked that is exactly what I recreated, but since that wasn't available, I was perfectly satisfied.  My main complaint was the lack of mashed potatoes.  Personally, I regard no mashed potatoes as a crime against humanity and I thought about reporting them to the FBI but I decided to just let it slide. 

Afterwards, lying around in a food induced coma (which the cat thought is the best idea ever) I was thinking about the tradition of playing games after a big dinner.  Because what else can you do?  My family always played a domino game called 42.  It is very much like the card game Spades with bidding and trumps and keeping track of score by the number of tricks you take. I believe we played dominoes because my grandmother was a very firm Southern Baptist and they had a prohibition against playing cards, but somehow dominoes were okay.  That's the kind of letter-of-the-law thinking that leads to accusations of heresy, but what the hell?

I vividly remember when I was young being lulled to sleep by the soft click of dominoes being shuffled and then when I was old enough, how thrilling it was to be allowed to play.  The game requires you to play as partners so there was considerable pressure to not fuck up.  My father's siblings were sweet and easy going right up to when it was time to play at which point the motherfucking knives came out.  They were all very good players and did not like to lose just because you were inexperienced.  My father once got so exasperated at my poor nephew Ace that he threw a domino at Ace's head.  I just watched and laughed because honestly, the kid was an idiot when it came to keeping track fo what had been played.  But it turned out I was a good player so I loved it and I miss those games.

Many years later, when I would host holiday dinners for my friends, we would end the evenings with rowdy games of Yahtzee.  They would be fueled with lots of champagne and enlivened with serious shit talking.  Channeling the spirits of my domino crazed ancestors, mrpeenee leaned into attempting to break my opponent's psyches.  If I couldn't win by rolling dice, by god I would at least imply that they had inadequate penises.  Good times.

Guys I'd like to play with: 

Whoohoo

A generous meat.

There's a lot of buttchops this week.  We give thanks.

I know I don't give enough space to daddies.  Sorry.

Asstastic

Last week, I focused on naked guys at the beach.  I don't know how I overlooked this fine, fine specimen.

Speaking of fine specimens.

Spread like a turkey getting ready to be stuffed.

In Which We Ponder the peenee Life

 

The latest chapter in my unauthorized autobiography.

My cat Toby was lying all snuggy next to me when he started to make that gagging urpey sound so familiar to cat owners everywhere.  "Don't you puke on me," I told him very sternly.  So he got up and went  down the bed to puke on my foot, which was a compromise, I guess.  I guess?  Anyway, as I was cleaning everything up, the whole sorry fiasco led to me singing "Don't puke on me Argentina. . . ." which I thought was funny, but not funny enough to make up for cat puke on my foot.

You may be surprised to learn that my name is not actually peenee, but these days, my government name pretty much only gets used on the address of all the junk mail I receive.  Indeed, the gang of miscreants I hang out with over on Chaturbate only call me peenee.  Anymore thinking about the name my mother bestowed on me in a fit of whimsy seems quaint and removed from me and I sort of think myself actually as peenee.

And speaking of Chaturbate (all the hip kids shorten that to simply CB,) my dear CB buddy Brainiac and I were recently discussing our experiences with ketamine therapy.  It's nice to have someone to talk to about this who understands the indescribable experience of the Sacred K Hole.  Friends with whom I have try to share these trippy details have one and all obviously decided I am simply a crazy old man.  And I am, but I'm also right about how profound ketamine can be. 

Artist's recreation of mrpeenee confronting the drug goblin urging special k on him.

Anyway.  Cats and drugs and Chaturbate chums, it's a sweet life.  You know what would make it sweeter? More naked guys: 

Let us all pause to remember the boys of summer and their butt-pussies.

I understand in less fortunate parts of the world, it is already snowing.  Eeks.

I am staunchily opposed to snow in all its many icky forms.

I was 18 years old before I ever actually saw snow in person and that was OK with me.

The boys at CB all think I am afraid of snow.  That is obviously bullshit; I am simply deeply suspicious of it

I once asked a friend from Chicago what sleet was, since I had only ever read the word.  For a moment, I thought she was going to smack me.

Let us not think of snow, but instead focus on Mike Betts' lovely, lovely buttchops.

In Which We Recoup

 

But I don't want to be the bigger person.  I don't want to be the adult in the room. I don't want to go high when they have gone low.  I'll tell you what I do want, I want an insurrection.  When do I get a coup?

I understand plenty of the people who voted for Trump did so because they're afraid of change.  The world is rushing forward and they feel like they're being left behind.  Oh boohoo.  Do you really think putting your money down on the fascist ticket is going to change that?  Because it's not.  Trump and his plutocrat pals could not care less about your problems. But worse are the ones who find him repellent but still voted for a lying, racist felon because they didn't want a woman president.  Sometimes I think my brain is going to explode.   

That's all the ranting I'm allowing myself today.  In other news, Peet's, the world's finest cafe, has returned the seasonal delight of iced gingerbread to their menu.  Its annual inclusion on the menu is a delight for me, even if its appearance does mean that the mewling, tinkling tunes of Christmas music are looming ever closer.  Please goddess, spare us just a little longer from Silent Night.  Every year I feel like Mariah Carey starts bleating just a little sooner.  Mariah Carey is on the horizon, like Godzilla coming for Tokyo.  Stop it, goddam it, stop it.  Okay, okay, so I lied when I said I wasn't going to rant anymore.  

Guys to help bolster our spirits: 

Peek a boo.

Some people are all about the feets.

Naked guys are brought to you this week by Big, Hairy Bitches.

Also, ass, ass, ass.

Sometimes shaving is just a crime.

Dmitry Averyanov,  always welcome around here.

Hard workin' and yummy.

Asstastic

In Which We Are Maintained

The building I live in changes light bulbs in our apartments for us.  I don't know if that is the norm for apartment maintenance, but that is certainly how we roll here in the fancy schmancy life.  Two of my bulbs had passed on to the great fluorescent afterlife, one of them quite a while ago, but I had put off requesting change because I find it so intrusive.  Plus it wasn't like I was stumbling around in the dark, there are plenty of other lights to go around.  But one of them was the one over the sink in my bathroom where I stare at the ravages of time in the mirror, so I broke down the other day and put in a request and just now the light bulb guy showed up. 

He seems nice enough; turns out our regular maintenance man, whom I like, is in the hospital.  "He may have to go to rehab" was the alarming and obscure sum total of the info this guy was willing to share. I didn't want to pry, it seemed rude, and my delicacy was rewarded by this new maintenance man not saying anything else.  Maybe there's a code of silence among janitors.

Actually his reticence was okay with me, fix my lights and get out, that's my motto. Part of the reason why I find it so intrusive is that they insist on doing any of this maintenance stuff during the day.  In fact, this latest incursion happened at 10 IN THE MORNING, if you please.  As usual, I think this whole morning thing is highly overrated. 

The cats and I were sound asleep and I don't know which of us was the most alarmed.  One of them responded by running in the bathroom to take a huge and particularly smelly dump. As is so common amongst his brethren, Mr. Maintenance Guy was spiffed up with a substantial dose of affordable cologne so between the cat poop and him, the experience was very fragrant. 

I'm going back to bed.  Here are some guys I wish were accompanying me: 

Speaking of mirrors . . . .

I understand my hope that this is not PhotoShop might be simply wishful thinking, but I have to have my dreams.

I am pretty sure I have featured this guy and his anteater snout before, but I am such a fan of him.

I was wondering when we would get around to buttchops.

Vintage