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

In Which We Live with Cats

 Saturdays are important here at Chez mrpeenee cause that's the day when I change the litter in the cat boxes. Whoo hoo, such high times. I was finishing up with Octavia's (and getting ready to mop up the floor under her box where she had pissed, of course) when Toby climbed over in the bathtub AND PISSED IN THE DRAIN THERE. He did so with his back to me and an air of disturbed gravitas as if I were intruding. Naturally, I changed his litter, I had to clean the bathtub with bleach so now the bathroom smells like an abandoned swimming pool.  I also was faced with the distressing question of how long has he been doing this, distressing because I take baths in that bathtub.  Also, WHAT THE FUCK TOBY? 

Toby insists on being adorable even if he is pukey.

Kitty fluids have been on my mind a lot lately.  A few nights ago, I was cozily in bed when I heard the familiar yet distressing sounds of a cat puking.  I briefly considered unpacking myself from bed to go investigate, but experience has taught me vomit will wait.  I compromised by yelling "Stop that this minute" which had exactly as much effect as it ever does, which is to say, none. 

The next time I actually staggered to consciousness, I went on the hunt for puke, but I found none, or not any fresh puddles anyway.  My sizeable collection of very fancy, very expensive antique Chinese rugs are all liberally decorated with the dried remains of pukes gone by.  I clean them up with my fancy little vacuum/rug cleaner, but it can only do so much against the staying power of cat vomit.  Which brings us to Michael, the Insane Rug Guy.

Michael owns the best rug washing business in the San Francisco Bay area.  He is also a lunatic.  Dealing with him can be challenging, even if it is amusing. And honestly, I do find him pretty hilarious.  He has a schtick of pretending to be this cliche of an eccentric old Jewish guy.  Every exchange with him has to include an extra hour of his Henny Youngman imitation.  Diane von Austinburg was here for one of our interactions and hid in her bedroom where she said she clearly heard me yelling "Get out, just get out".  He brings with him some long-suffering Hispanic day laborers. Each time, I offer them a bribe, cash money, to kill him.  Each time, I can see them pondering if I'm being serious and if 40 bucks is worth a potential murder rap.

I usually get the rugs washed at least once a year, but I had been putting it off for a while.  The mystery cat puke was the boot up my butt that I needed to go ahead and schedule the comedy hour that is Michael coming to pick up my rugs.  I guess we'll see if this is the time the guys decide to take me at my word and off him. I just hope they wait until he has finished washing all my rugs. 

Nude dudes:

Marcel Rodriguez and his perky buttchops.

If you're just going to take a nap, you might as well take your pants off.  So inconsiderate.

The Eastern European charms of Peter Lipnick.

Ta-dah.

Also, I wanted to mention, days after I had given up looking for the missing cat puke, I found traces of it dried on the bottom of my favorite tennis shoes.  Dammit.

Why can't my rug washer look like this?  Huh?

A naked cowboy for my sweet niece Amber.  I know not every uncle and niece relationship includes naked humpy guys but ours does.  Are you complaining?

In Which We Check In on the Panty Music Scene

 

Here:

I don't usually bother with videos here at mrpeenee International because I find trying to post them to be too much trouble.  Jon over at Razzle Dazzle is much better at it than I am and always comes up with the most amusing bits to entertain us with.  But this particular one just seemed so ridiculously hilarious, I couldn't resist.

And why would I find this so diverting?  Let's break it down, shall we?

• It's a band in their underpants called The Skivvies.  Do I need to expand on that?
• The guy singing lead (who claims his name is Travis Kent, but let us refer to him simply as ManBun.) certainly understands what his strong suit is.
• None of these people should be singing in public.  In fact, it is one of the few performances of spoken word that is better than the subsequent attempt at belting out the tune.
• Things are stumbling along, aided in no small part by ManBun's strippin, when he unexpectedly breaks into that weird-ass Irish clogging thing.  Did you expect some Lord of the River Dance/go-go boy moment? No you did not.
• Again, ManBun strippin.  Jock strap.  Ass shot.  And tits so firm they don't bounce.

Here's some more private dancers for you:

I hope this satisfies those readers who complain about too many smooth, beautiful young men here.  Ingrates.

Back to our regularly scheduled cute guys.

Who would complain about this?

I just hope these boys never hear about how unappreciative you lot are about all their efforts.

Let us never speak of this again.

In Which We See the Sights

For years every time I've indulged in the thrills of a doctor visit, the medical profession will roll out some version of the sentence "Well, you're getting older . . . ."  Lately I haven't heard it so much, presumably because I am not getting older but rather I have now arrived at that destination. 

I did bump into it last spring when my eye doctor tried to brace me for some bad news by explaining that everybody, simply everybody, eventually gets cataracts if they live long enough.  Trying to be sympathetic, I murmured something about, "Yeah that's a shame,"  but then realized he was telling me that I was developing a cataract.

I finally had a consultation at a clinic that specializes in cataracts.  It was one of those specialized outfits that has found a medical niche and has created an absolute factory to deal with it.  After a barrage of tests, the main doctor guy blew in to say my cataracts were no big deal and I could wait a few years for the surgery if I wanted to.  He phrased the news as if he were presenting options I should deliberate about.  I asked him if many of his patients argued with him when he told them they didn't need surgery. 

While relieved (and I left in a hurry in case he changed his mind) I still had to deal with the after effects of having my eyes dilated for all those stupid tests.  Decades of myopia have taught me how little I like dilation because it leaves me with a headache and kind of queasy and, oh yeah, blind as a bat.  This particular session used some kind of super special dialation that made my pupils big as big saucers. Had I wanted to, I'm sure I could have seen the inside of the back of my head. 

Even with my sunglasses on, I was stumbling through a landscape of screaming white light and occasional blurry shadows which might or might not be my Uber.  Acting mostly on faith, I climbed into one of the shadows and whoever it was then dropped me off across the street from my building.  I was so relieved it took me a minute to realize, I now had to navigate six lanes of very busy traffic by means of echolocation, pretty much. But the dark lure of my vampire lair bedroom was calling to me so I just threw myself out into traffic and hoped for the best. I seem not to have been run over and I don't have to have cataract surgery yet, so yay. 

I think what I need is some seeing eye muscle pussy:

Bathing suit season has now ended, so sad.

Nuts

The combination of a hot muscley guy and books is always a winning one.

He seems not to understand how to use kitchen tools, but who cares?

He looks like a sweet boy who needs a firm hand.

Diane von Austinburg and Chaturbate Mikey have both commented recently that I don't include enough hairy daddies, to which I say "Go publish your own damn blog."

In Which We Go To A Funeral

We had secret agent Fred's funeral on Saturday on the rooftop deck of my building.  It was sad.  A huge fog bank blew in so it was windy and gray and cold; the very definition of funereal. 

I had been scrambling to get Fred's apartment cleaned out and simultaneously organizing the service.  I was tired and anxious and busy suppressing my emotions, cause that's an important part of being a white boy, and I wound up yelling at my good friend Drumstick.  Oh dear.  Even after apologizing profusely I still felt bad.  At the best of times, I don't have a really strong grip on my temper, and this was definitely not the best of times. 

A big part of the problem was, of course, relatives.  Fred's sister and cousin were in town for the festivities and wound up grating on my nerves.  Both are perfectly nice women under normal circumstances, but they were reacting to their grief.  His sister kept offering to help, but then wouldn't do anything I asked her to.  Plus, she snubbed Diane von Austinburg, making clear that she thought Diane was being presumptive even after I explained how much help Diane has been. Totally Mean Girl.  And the cousin was one of those people who lives to show how very sensitive they are, to the point of making her grief sort of performative. 

Sort of like this.

My favorite part was the art show we put on by pulling out Fred 's paintings and canvases so people could appreciate them. Our friends took a lot of them, but there are still plenty left.  I will be creating a website to make the remainders available.  Watch for more details about how you two can have your very own Secret Agent Fred art. 

Anyway, I am refraining from any more complaints.  It was a long, long day, and I'm glad it's over.  I'm also glad I'm all through cleaning out the apartment.  I woke up the day after I finished and realized I didn't have anything to do and was so immensely relieved.

When you're planning my funeral, here are some suggestions for pallbearers and memorial Go-Go boys: 

Curvy

Speaking of white boys.

Do not get poop stains on my good white couch.

Plein aire.

Sometimes bleach blonde frost 'n tips are the way to go.