Wolsamnoraa's Blog

100 blogs are like 100 mL of kitten in that people eat them up so quickly no one is really counting

This article ranks as my 100th blog post.  Yippee!  I’m excited in a fun kind of way.  I never thought I could do anything more than once, but here I am sitting atop a mound of progress.

I’ve found that blogging is stimulating, relaxing and stressful all at the same time.  While I try to maintain regularity in my posting schedule, I avoid posting filler material.  I specifically design each article to stimulate and excite my readership (that’s right…you’re gonna get tickled!).  If I feel a post is sub par or lacks creativity and humor, I won’t post it.  ”Forget the schedule!” I scream through the flow of tears.  I find that blogging is as fulfilling as any dream job or sex act.  I encourage all interested parties to start blogging.  Here, then, are 10 reasons that you should blog:

10. Bloggers do it for twelve hours a day.  Now that’s Tantric!

9. It’s free and will only cost you your time and money.

8. You’ll make people feel better about themselves when you reveal your incompetence and insecurities.

7. It’s a great way to expel a lifetime of knitting knowledge without pissing off your last remaining friends.

6. There is more money to be made on the Internet than you could ever imagine…I’ve heard.

5. Blogging is guaranteed to make you a social media marketing expert over night and, also, I insist.

4. Blogging is a great way to look busy while avoiding real work.

3. Some people may or may not like you no better nor worse.

2. Fame and fortune will instantly greet you within your first five-thousand posts, give or take.

-and, finally-

1. If I can do it, surely, you can do it much better.

Thanks for reading along for all this time.  I appreciate your feedback.  I especially like hearing you express what you like and dislike.  My wife and mother did not like a post I wrote that explained the timely process of shaving my genitals.  Other people thank me for giving them a good laugh every so often.  As nice as it is, I’d like to thank you again for entertaining yourself with these foolish antics.  I plan to continue forever and always or until something better pops up.  In case you’ve missed it, here is a short list of my favorite posts in no particular order…

Misleading Wikipedia Information Or “Duh” For Short

New Tattoo For You Plus Two A.K.A The Jackalope

Excalibur

My Life

A Letter To Mrs. Stransard

You Kissed Your Step-Brother’s Sister

If these or any other posts strike your fancy, tell your friends.  Thanks for having me.

Every once in a long while, the animosity you bare for your fellow earthlings falls by the wayside.  You learn to live and let live and even love and get head.  I am convinced the formula for such change heavily relies on one’s ability to share.

I recently acquired an animal pet.  Her name is Tippi Nunu but I call her Nu for short.  She is black and white and pees in the sink.  I really like her and the story of how we found her is amazing.  As much as I like this cat, my old cat, Tookie or Grandpa for short, hates her.  Or at least that’s how it’s seemed since I brought her home.

For the first two months, they have been fighting and mangling each other in only the way cats can; loudly and with the removal of fur.  The points of contention are usually related to food or territory or fiscal responsibility.  Tippi says, “My space” and Tookie says, “I’ll claw your eyeballs out!  Facebook, bitch!”  And a kitty quarrel ensues.

The other day I awoke to the frisky felines contending over the warm spot between my legs (the place where my sleep-farts live).  At first it seemed like they were actually sharing the spot until I realized a thousand small incisions covering my shins.  Apparently, I was a victim of circumstance in their battle royal.

Today I saw Tookie and Tippi in one of the special cat beds I bought for them.  This is a scene I’ve seen before and, like those times before, I feared there may be blood.  Something unusual happened, though.  Instead of fighting for the small island nation of Catbedonia, the cats were sharing.  In fact, Tookie, my old, large, white sour-puss was licking Tippi, the smaller, blacker cat.

I was astonished so I took a video on my phone.  It was short lived, however, when Tippi made a sudden move that spooked ol’ Tookus.  He went from licking to biting in a matter of milliseconds.  I assume Tookie has marinating agent in his saliva that enables his fangs to sink more easily into skin.  I took video of that as well.  Completely amazing.  Regardless of the circumstances, they are making huge strides in sharing and love.  See for yourself…

The calamity that ensued…

You can give the dog tacos if he does his trick

Part of the new diet that I started last week is to get my flabby, smelly self to the gym at least every once and a while.  While seemingly good, this strategy faces a mogul.  Herein lies the problem; at the heart of every diet there is a monster lurking waiting to rear its ugly head.  Since I have limited my work-outs to binge eating and seldom vomiting (great for your abs but not your self-esteem), it has been much more difficult to move around efficiently.

I liken it to one of those gym commercials on TV.  In the commercial, every body’s fit and looking good.  The price in the ad suggests you could afford a membership to the gym, and maybe that’s true.   However, since you lack any sort of physique (let alone a healthy one) and risk judgment from other members, you permanently fix yourself to the sofa.  You essentially decide that in order to fit in at the commercial’s gym, you’d first have to join a less reputable gym filled with ugly people that you feel comfortable around until you developed into a worthy specimen.  In other words, there’s a lot of work involved just to start the work that’s involved.  Clearly, not worth it.

And that’s me.  I decided that getting old, fat me up and off the couch is a work-out in itself.  It’s such a heavy burden to bear, in fact, that such work usually deserves a salty/sugary/fat laden snack or two, or three, or just gimme the whole box, dammit!

The cycle will continue until one day, I look out from the body of an enormous gastropod only to see that TLC is filming in my living room.  Yes, the TV that I ignored for so long will find me out once again, thus, showing me what a waste I’ve become.  I imagine that the producers of “House Whale” will try convincing me of some exotic and new gastric bypass surgery that, in the event it doesn’t kill me, will take me down a size or two, or three, or just gimme…

Unfortunately, after some initial excitement, I imagine the brochures that the producers show me to sell their fancy surgery are riddled with svelte recovering fat freaks.  I will again hold that I could only accept the exotic bypass procedure if first I incurred a smaller surgery at a less reputable clinic.  The producers will discuss the issue and ultimately reject my claim.  I will wither away into a fifteen hundred pound puddle of tears and nothing more.

No matter how hard I work-out, there is no way I will ever lose the ugly head.

This is no joke...he needs a smoke. It's part of his identity.

Life is a test of finding your niche.  Your self-worth is determined by the relationships that you create.  Phrases like “match made in Heaven” or “balance is best” come to mind.  After all, acceptance is human nature.  It’s as important to discover yourself  as it is to find people who value you for the person you claim to be.

These discoveries may include finding a mate that loves you exactly the same as you love it; eating the right diet that tastes good but doesn’t make you fat; smoking the right brand of cigarettes; landing the right job; watching just a little less TV than the American average and other things.   But these life long quests can lead to some not-so-good outcomes.  Mixing the desire to be accepted with self-satisfying behavior is absurdly difficult.

There is a major conflict that stands between these two endeavors.  If in the attempt to discover yourself you fail, then your record will be tarnished.  To find out what things you like, you may venture into territory that’s not suited to your interests.  In doing so, you discover that the activity which you are participating, is, in fact, deviant behavior.

Maybe you try tea in place of coffee or do a different type of work out at the gym or, perhaps you journeyed into the bi-sexual section of your Netflix account.  Now you’re being solicited movie titles like Harry, Dick and Sue and Boys on the Side.  Your wife logs into the account and boom; now you’re in therapy.

You didn’t find what you were looking for and, as a result of your curiosity, you get singled-out and mocked.

Unfortunately, because of the fear of judgment and exclusion you face by discovering yourself, you hesitate to ever step “outside the box”.  And so it happens.  You ultimately wave your God given right to be your own person and stick to the mainstream.  The perfect pair…you and everybody else.

I’ve been applying to jobs here and now just to appease some of my friends at the corporate office.  My attitude has been that I’ve got so much on my plate there’s no real reason to be looking for a job in any serious regard.  That all changed yesterday when I had an epiphany of sorts.  I don’t need to work, I want to work!  Although dickin’ around on the Interwebs is phenomenally entertaining and fun and keeps me busy most of the day, it just doesn’t pay a whole lot.  Yeah, blogging and jerking off at the computer is work for me, but it’s not enough.

Money Talks and also sucks

Money talks and walks and I was at a baseball game once and I saw the pitcher, a crisp five-dollar bill right up from the minors  miff a pitch; apparently money also balks.  Money isn’t the only reason I want to work but it doesn’t hurt.  Recently, I attended a Jefferson County workforce-center seminar that introduced me to the idea that working for a living isn’t all that bad.  ”It’s not?” I distastefully murmured.  It’s what the Communists call Utopia.  It’s what I call sweet salad dressing.  The delicious aftertaste to an otherwise bland heap of roughage.

Life is work.  It’s just that and if the work doesn’t pay, you need to move on.  So that’s what I’m proposing here.  I am moving on.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still be blogging my face off and pursuing my dreams of successful dreaming.  I will just be adding a paycheck to it…somehow.  I hear Craigslist is popular.

If you’ve got any ideas or know a guy who is looking for my type of talent (you know?  The 6′2″, handsome and well-groomed type of talent), then drop me a line.  I’ll see you on the other side.