Man of Action


“I can’t stand it anymore,” I whispered to Jenny. “It’s like we’re watching one of those old Japanese monster movies from the 60s with really bad dubbing.” She shushed me.

“Synchronize the sound,” I screamed out at the top of my lungs, hoping that someone in charge would hear it. Startled, Jenny jumped and now everyone in the theater started shushing me.

Loud enough for all those shushers to hear me, I complained, “I paid good money to see this movie.” I got up and started heading down the row of seats, disturbing all those in my path.

“Where are you going?” Jenny asked.

“I’m a man of action,” I said and continued to work my way out of the auditorium.

I walked rapidly to the service desk next to the refreshments counter. An indifferent teenager looked up at me from his smartphone. “Yeah?”

“The audio soundtrack is out of sync with the picture in theater three,” I explained. “Can you get someone to fix it?”

“I dunno,” he responded. “It’s all computerized.”

“Well, put down your phone and talk to someone who can sync it up,” I demanded.

I headed back to the auditorium and worked my way back to my seat next to Jenny. “They’re going to take care of it.”

Just as I said that, the movie stopped, the lights came on, and a man walked to the front of the theater. “I’m sorry folks, but there is a problem with the sound. It’s an automated system, so we’ll have to wait for the engineer to get here. He should be here in about 15 minutes.”

There was a collective groan from the others in the theater and many turned toward me and gave me dirty looks. “Hey man of action, it was barely noticeable,” one guy said.

“You’re an asshole,” another yelled.

I started to respond, but Jenny grabbed my hand and pulled me up from my seat. “Let’s go,” she said, adding, “And that guy’s right. You are an asshole.”

Written for today’s one word prompt, “synchronize.”

The Swagger of the Sagger


I’ve already written one post about manscaping and another one about murses and fanny packs. So why not, I thought, go for the trifecta when it comes to men’s fashion trends?

Today’s men’s fashion topic is “sagging,” which is a way of wearing pants that sag so that the top of the pants are significantly below the waist — sometimes even below the butt — to reveal much of the wearer’s underwear.

Supposedly, the origin of sagging came from prisons, where the inmates, who were prohibited from wearing belts, often wore sagging prison-issued uniforms, and they carried that look with them once they were back on the outside.

The problem, though, is that pants were never intended to be worn that way. They are supposed to be worn at the waist. That’s how they’re designed. That’s how they fit.

So what the hell is going on with guys who wear their pants with the top at or below their butt cheeks? I can’t imagine that it’s comfortable to wear pants that way. And since most of those I see wearing their pants like that have belts on, it’s not because their pants are too large and keep falling down.

Maybe they want to show off their fancy boxer shorts. After all, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy who wears tighty-whities sagging his pants. Is it suppose to be a fashion statement?

Maybe those who sag think it gives them swagger, the appearance of defiance or insolence. Maybe they’re tying to send the message that they are dangerous dudes and are not to be messed with.

Well, I just don’t get it. If sagging is a fashion statement, I would really like someone explain it to me. Because if it’s meant to send a message about the sagger, the only message I’m getting is that they look totally ridiculous.

But hey, I’m just an aging Baby Boomer. I used to wear tie-dyed t-shirts and bell bottom jeans. So what do I know?

Storytime — The First Time

Each Thursday I will ask you to tell a story about a specific topic. You can write about the actual event as it happened in real life, or you can create a fictional telling of that event. It’s your call. There are no rules. Your post can be as long or as short as you want. Prose, poetry, whatever.

Once you publish your post, create a pingback to this post, or paste a link to your post in a reply if you’re not on WordPress.

This week’s prompt:

Tell the story about what led up to the time you lost your virginity.

Write about how you ended up in the situation that resulted in losing your virginity. Please don’t give any graphic details about the act itself. Keep it PG-rated. If you’re still a virgin, well, maybe next time.

To get you started, here’s my story.

soda fountain

It happened during the summer between my junior and senior years of high school. My two best friends worked part-time at the local drugstore back in the day when drugstores had soda fountains. You could get hot dogs, sandwiches, ice cream sundaes, root beer floats, milkshakes, and coffee at the drugstore soda fountain.

I would periodically hang out at the counter with them when they were working the fountain and, because they were my best friends, they would often give me a free milkshake and hot dog.

One day, while I was sitting on a stool at the counter drinking my milkshake and chatting aimlessly with my pals, an attractive redhead walked into the drugstore, sat down at the other end of the counter, and ordered an ice cream soda.

After she got her soda, my buddies and I were huddled at the other end of the counter admiring the young lady. I saw her pull out a pencil from her purse and write something down on a napkin. Then she looked toward the three of us and asked, “Who wants my cherry?”

It was all the three of us could do to keep from going completely nuts. Egged on by my two friends, I sheepishly responded, “I do.”

She got up off her stool, walked over to where I was sitting, and put the cherry from her ice cream soda into my mouth, which was conveniently gaping open.

She handed me the napkin with the writing on it and, in a very matter of fact way, said, “Pick me up at 8 on Saturday night.” Then she turned around and sashayed her way out of the drugstore.

I looked at the napkin and saw, scratched out with what appeared to have been an eyebrow pencil, an address and phone number, along with the impression of her lipstick covered lips.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Now it’s your turn.