By Michael David Rawlings
As many of you know, Google Blogs provides a box in the user profile page in which one may enter a response to what might be an unlimited supply of penetrating questions. These questions are aimed at our psychological processes. The inner you. With our answers we further reveal ourselves to our adoring fans.
Now, I'm fine with that. I'm down. But most of these questions are deep, as deep as the Mississippi is wide.
In a dark, secluded corner on the basement floor of Google's corporate office building, a team of crack psychoanalysts are pouring over the millions of dossiers the company has gathered on us over the years and are busily churning out these questions for our consideration. They've acquired the goods on us from the Internet and from the microwaves crisscrossing the air above our heads. These questions are scientific, informed by years of experience. The following question, for example, reaches down into the very depths of my soul:
In a dark, secluded corner on the basement floor of Google's corporate office building, a team of crack psychoanalysts are pouring over the millions of dossiers the company has gathered on us over the years and are busily churning out these questions for our consideration. They've acquired the goods on us from the Internet and from the microwaves crisscrossing the air above our heads. These questions are scientific, informed by years of experience. The following question, for example, reaches down into the very depths of my soul:
Your pajamas have duckies on them; why did you switch from choo-choos?
Right. Here's the thing. It was just too much to live up to. I mean, I'm long on machismo, real long. Strapping. My chest hair has hair. My knuckles don't just drag, they convey me. Hence, my legs are atrophic coils of calcified bone and shriveled flesh. But like the rest of me, they're resplendently hairy. Macho hairy. We're talking about a bushy, comb-breaking pair of appendages here.
Hence, my arms are bazookas. From shoulder to callused knuckle, they're massive columns of muscle, man sweat and bulging veins, akin to the steroid-inflated guns on Sylvester Stallone, only mine are for real and don't have stretch marks. But, still, at fifty, the choo-choo ain't what it used to be. Sure, the drive's still there, but sometimes the fires won't stoke.
Duckie pajamas convey a sweat, whimsical sense of humor, a certain endearing sensitivity, but not one that is overly sentimental. They're the stuff of tenderness fortified by a stolid consistency . . . sans high expectations.
Mine are silk, and the duckies have little red hats with tassels.
