L i f e                                                                       is weird Woody.  I’ve said it many times and every single time it’s been true.  Things happen.  Let’s talk scenarios.  When your employer scans your internet traffic and finds you’re a regular on say,  Sextoy.com, never worry.  Remember, things happen.  If upon arrival home to your lair you discover someone’s cobalt Illadeph Triple Coil perched atop the kitchen table, with a note from your soon-to-be ex-wife, never fluster.

 

 

 

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Home sweet home.  Cozy.

 

 

Worry changes nothing, except the quality of your personal experience, and anyone else around watching.  When you’re already quavering on the cusp of unemployment or worse, why make it bitter by senseless emotional churn?  No.  This is your time.  Revel.  Brook no interference.  Now is the time to live large, and now is all we ever have.

 

Nights are bright if you’re in love.  Doesn’t really matte whet you happen to be in love with—just be there.  If you’re in love with the fear of falling, do that.  Live it up by perching on the precipice of the tallest structure around.

 

This isn’t an odd example.  Life is weird in part because people are weird.  True.  Don’t bother to pretend or argue.  Look around.  The more you know the weirder it gets.  Oodles of people understand this simple truth.

 

The oddities of people fuel the funk pump of life.  Where would we be without said?

 

So what are we really talking about here; love, sex, the internet, employment, unemployment, change, corrosive worry, and you.  Being summarily fired, or single—for things that may be perfectly understandable, when cast in the proper light, are more than survivable.  Or maybe not, when approached improperly.  A gift is a gift, in whatever form.

 

A million explanations exist for the spot on your tie.  Yet many of those may prove uncomfortable while passing your lips, even if the explanation offered fits.  Pause.  Listen.  Thinking clearly is the only way through, that and always having your attorney’s card close.

 

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The Chariot Games at Under Armour Colosseum.

 

Sports matter.  Reasons exist, just like plea agreements.  We may not like either.  Others may disagree.  So what?  Sports have rules–that’s why men rightly love them.  When someone describes football as “a bunch of big guys running into each other” just keep moving.  Life is far too short to save that level of dumb.  Sports reduce a savage unpredictable cosmos down to a set space and time.  They assign a task and let the action rip.  Plumb these endless metaphors and analogies sports offer to explain daily life, your daily life.

 

 

Examples?  Buy an expensive yet crap car?  Football analogy–you signed with the wrong team.  Zero injury fender-bender caused by you, equals a 4th quarter kick-off turnover in the red zone.  Can’t communicate with your other, equals quarterback and receiver routinely on different pages.

 

 

Personally, football has routinely proved the most helpful tool in explaining potentially confusing life situations.  Those explanations may also be uncomfortable, or even embarrassing, but there is always an explanation.  Where else does this Band-Aid we call life offer that?

 

 

Example; spot on tie.  Ties flop about ceaselessly.  If that’s not asking for it, I don’t know what is.  Begging to be stained, or grabbed, they flop—like campers in the low post.  That’s probably why women refuse to wear them.  They know better.  Men’s ties represent brute stupidity.  In reality, ties are slipknots.  Who provides their own slipknot, ripe and ready for yanking?

 

 

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The Authority Handle.  Whoever holds the handle has the authority.

 

Yes.  Very expensive ties can look great, that is until your lunch-tongue lizard lolls and large white blots swim through your view screen.  Spot.  Bad luck lunch.  One explanation done, sort of.  O.K.  With a firm grasp around your neck handle, what else does a mugger need, other than that quick minute of your time?

 

 

“Bam.”  He closes one of your eyes with a snap right, using your convenient neck strip to keep you in close.  “Bam-bam.”  A double-tap to the nose.  Now you have a very convincing explanation.  The obvious spot on your handle is blood, your ruby blood.

 

 

One quick boss-glance at that bent nose and one simple explaining’s sold.  You’re good—dumb, but good.  You probably won’t be fired right then for looking bad, not that day anyway.  But you may be clipped later for being sleepy enough to wear a slipknot firmly wrapped around the most vulnerable part of your anatomy.

 

In our digital age we like to pride ourselves on our intelligence.  Centuries of study and the scientific method have revealed the sometimes-stunning shapes lurking behind countless ancient mysteries.  We know why the sky is blue.  We no longer trudge the superstitious paths of impenetrable medieval darkness.  Yet the knights of war wrapped themselves in armor, not slipknot handles.  So who’s really doing the thinking here?

 

Caligula might have been a monster and he may have routinely paraded about clad in a garment resembling a dress.  Yet Caligula was a stone-serious political operator and he never wore a tie, or a skirt.  Nor did he fritter his time churning emotionally.  You see, he was a dedicated student of practical applied physics.  Remember, these are the people who invented concrete, a concrete that resists corrosive ocean water better then ours now.

 

Caligula was in love with his sister, yet he understood that dresses move, sway, and rarely bind.  They come off at the shoulder, not down around the ankles where they can lock your feet together like police shackles.  Those are skirts.  Thus, Caligula could always keep moving when the daggers came out.  He ruled Rome for a very short and brutal four years, like any U.S. president.  In addition, as Emperor he harbored no perceived need for explanations—ever, like our president.  When you’re living that large who’s left to hit you with hard pesky questions?

 

 

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Home again home again, jiggidy jig.

 

 

When the pressing questions you face are flashing daggers you only sport dresses, never skirts, or ties.

 

 

Pants are a “modern” invention, far too slow for the politics or parties of the Roman Empire.  Pants proved totally pointless in the sort of parties worth attending in those circles.  When would one have had sufficient patience to slip in or out?  Who did that?  No one worth partying with–according to Caligula’s way of thinking.  Instant access and movement were paramount and no one ever sent you a letter telling you that.

 

 

Ties are slipknots, and politics are politics, in imperial Rome, the Senate, or the office.  Pants work fine for me, daggers or no daggers.  But then I’m not in the Senate. Back to dresses.  Easily draping dresses also proved far superior for the Roman uber-elite bath house atmosphere Caligula often found himself occupying.  Perhaps Mitch McConnell could clue off Caligula.  Serious worry-free politics and no ties.  Women get all this and more.  Besides, everyone else was doing it then, and they already had slipknots.

 

 

 

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StockJaw

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