The Missing Key

     I bought a new keyboard the other day.  I didn't need one but it was at a reduced price.  Now I know why.  It is missing a key.  Oh, it wasn't obvious at first; the crafty manufacturer squeezed the rest of the keys together to make it appear as though nothing was amiss.  There was no gaping void to draw attention to the missing key.  They just shifted the rest of the keys over a bit, to cover it up.  I'm indignant!

     At first, I thought I might not get by without the key in question.  Upon further investigation,  it seems it is an important key.  It's absence might put quite a strain on my writing.  It may require some extra creativity to get around it.  For instance, adverbs are going to be very hard to use.  The absent key is a major component of the average adverb.  In addition, it is part of some very common words-- words that most of us use every day.  Tiny words and big words.  I guess I need to work around them.  If my writings don't seem to have their customary panache, it's not because I'm not trying.  It's just because of that damned missing key!

    I might have found one substitute for the missing key, but it on1y works with certain fonts.  And it won't work at the beginning of a sentence or the beginning of a proper noun.  In fact, I've used it in this paragraph, just to see how it appears on-screen.  It seems fine and I doubt that you've noticed in this case but it's function as a true substitute is restricted, for the afore-mentioned reasons.  Besides, my conscience might get to me after a time, knowing that I'm trying to deceive you, the reader, with a cheap substitute.  And if I ever decide to write with a sans serif font, I'd be screwed, since the use of that type of font changes the appearance, without equivocation, of the substitute key.
       
      No, I'm just going to have to get on without it.  Such is the human condition. And such is the American way.  So often, we think we can't survive without something we're used to having.  It turns out, though, with a bit of creative thinking and sometimes by changing our approach, we discover that things aren't as bad as they first appear.  In today's economy, this can be an important exercise.  When we become accustomed to certain accouterments or comforts, we sometimes find it hard to adapt when we're forced to give them up, whether for economic reasons or other unforeseen factors.  I sometimes think about my grandparents' generation and the things they were forced to forgo during the Great Depression or during WWII.  My grandfather used to give an account of how it was customary for him to use just one teabag for an entire week during the Great Depression.  He wrapped it in paper after each use and  re-used it each day for a week.  Now I don't know if this story is true but such stories often have some basis in fact.  It is a fact that during WWII Americans, and others, had to give up much in order to get by.  There was rationing of food and gas and other commodities that today we take for granted.  Food stuffs such as sugar, butter, meats, cheeses, fruits and veggies were rationed, among other things.  Imagine going to the grocery store today and being restricted to the amount of food you may buy, even though you had the money for more. Of course, many didn't have the extra money and rationing was just a way of making sure everyone got a fair share.  But Americans adapted.  They recognized that the key to surviving was a certain amount of sacrifice and making do with what they had.  And, in the end, America prospered and continued to be the greatest country on earth. 

     Today many have found that they, too, are being forced to do without some of the things they think they need and can't do without.  Part of that stems from the fact that Americans are sometimes just too needy.  They think they need a new car, just because their current one's paint has faded; they think they need a vacation on the Riviera; they think they need to go out for a steak dinner every weekend.   The key is to recognize that those are wants and not needs.   Others have been forced to give up things they once enjoyed but that they cannot now afford.  This often causes pain and consternation.  The key for them is to appreciate the things they do have and not bemoan the things they don't.  As in the case of my defective keyboard, sometimes the key is substitution, but often it isn't quite the same.  Other times, the key is finding ways to adapt and work with what you have.  For instance, I've had to adapt and write this entire treatise without the use of a key that I thought I needed.  Instead, using some creative thinking and by changing my approach, I've gotten by just fine without it.  It's unfortunate, but some have yet to find the key to adapting to their own current economic circumstances. What about you?  Have you identified the missing key?

       

Thanks, but no thanks!

    I was checking one of my many email accounts today and came to the realization that, at some point in my life, I must have made a dreadful mistake.  I must have greatly disappointed, offended or shamed, by association. someone in my past.  Not just some random person but someone who knew me intimately.  Since I am a red-blooded heterosexual male, I can only assume that it was a woman.  I suppose there's a remote chance that it might be an old school chum, perhaps one of the fellows with whom I played high school basketball and shared the dank and musty confines of the boys locker room and, out of necessity, the showers.  I'd prefer to think it is a woman, though-- an old girlfriend whom I had the pleasure to be intimate with, or if not that, at least naked, or mostly so.  Not to suggest that the woman in question must necessarily also be naked since, in a few cases, it may have been only me who was partially disrobed, at least from the waste down.  I'm also not suggesting that every time I've been intimate with a woman that sex was involved, either for me or her, or both-- far from it.  That's not to say that sex was never involved in those rare (and sometimes blissful) instances when I was with a woman and I, but not necessarily she, was at least partly undressed, from the waste down.  Before you reach for a phone to call the police and report me as a sex offender, rest assured that in every instance that I have ever been unclothed, at least below the waste, and with a woman, that the act of unclothing, and any ensuing acts thereafter, whether sexual or not, was and were completely and mutually consented upon.  So whether this person-- this mysterious person from my past whom I shamed, offended or disappointed, was clothed or not, it doesn't matter.  Whether we were intimate, either one or the other, with the other, it doesn't matter.  Whether this person was a male or a female, it doesn't matter.  Although, let me interject here that if the person was a male there was absolutely and unequivocally no, I repeat, no intimacy involved whatsoever!  (At least on my part.)  No, the only single factor that can be positively ascertained is that at some point in my life this person observed, or was in direct contact with, and subsequently became deeply concerned with... the size of my penis.

    How do I know this?  Well, I can only assume that this person has become so concerned with the size of my member that they have submitted my name and email address to hundreds, if not thousands, of companies whose sole purpose is to increase the size, either in girth or length, the efficacy, the stamina or the overall general usefulness of  my most private of my private parts.  How else do you explain the hundreds of e-mails that littered my electronic mailbox?  E-mails offering me, for a nominal sum, pills, creams and tonics (both topical and ingestible), techniques (both new and ancient), herbs and roots (from the old world and new) and various sundry devices and contraptions all designed to increase the pleasure of my lover or of myself, or both.  There simply is no other logical explanation.  At some point in my life, someone either saw my willy and was so appalled at it's size, shape or proportion, or someone with whom I shared a certain level of intimacy was so disappointed or offended with my sexual prowess that they have made it their lifelong ambition to ensure that I receive the help they believe I so desperately need.  Again, I can see no other logical explanation
Trouble is, the list of candidates is a short one.

    First off, let me excuse myself as the obvious suspect.  I am perfectly content with the size of my junk.  I'm not bragging or anything like that.  I'm not saying I'm a contender for any Ron Jeremy lookalike contests-- far from it.  I'm just saying that from a man's point of view, size really doesn't matter.  Once he reaches that point of pleasure, that's it.  Size has nothing to do with it.  Whether he's got a little stinger or a stinger missile, it's usually lights-out anyway, once he attains lift-off.   Now, please don't think that I'm insensitive to the needs of the fairer sex.  I'm not.  I'm just a big believer of the adage, "It's not the size, but what you do with it that matters."  Besides, there's more than one way to skin a cat, if you know what I mean.  I'll assume you do.  Don't get me wrong; I wouldn't mind waking up with the morning wood casting a little bigger shadow than usual on the bed sheets, but I don't lay awake nights thinking about it.  At any rate, it is not I who has solicited the offered services of these various well-meaning purveyors of penile improvements. So who else could be responsible?

    I've considered that it might be my long-suffering wife, whose relationship with me actually extends a couple years beyond our 26 years of wedded bliss.  I doubt that she is responsible, though, because in all the time we've been together, I've never received any complaints from her.  Well, let me re-phrase that.  She does complain sometimes when I forget to take out the trash or load the dishwasher or when I leave stuff all over the kitchen counter or when I forget to put gas in the car or when I stay up all night wasting time on the computer.  Let's just say I've never had any complaints from her in the bedroom.  Well, that's not exactly true, either .  She does complain sometimes when I leave my dirty laundry on the floor and don't put it in the laundry basket or when I leave my shoes in the middle of the floor and she trips over them in the dark of night.  Let's just say I've had no complaints from her, in bed.  Well, to be perfectly honest, that's not right either .  She does complain sometimes when I turn on the light on my nightstand to read when she's trying to sleep or when my snoring keeps her awake.  Let me just put it this way.  When we have sex (together) she claims to enjoy it and, more often than not, she at least glimpses, if not reaches the promised land. There have even been instances in which she returned for more than one visit and all but began to establish settlements there. There is, of course, as previously noted,  more than one way to skin a cat, if you know what I mean.   Again, I'll assume that if you didn't know before, you do now.  You might argue that my wife could be lying, just to protect my male pride.  I scoff at the mere suggestion.  I've known her longer, and more closely, than almost anyone alive, except for my own mother, and she is not the kind of person that lies.  Plus, she's never been concerned about protecting my pride, that I can recall.  So, I'm eliminating my beloved wife from the list of suspects.

    And speaking of my mother; she, of course, having given birth to me nearly half a century ago, and having reared me as a child, most certainly has seen me naked and has undoubtedly seen my tallywhacker more times than she cares to remember.  It doesn't seem, though, that anyone's mother would be that concerned about her grown son's nether regions.  Suspect eliminated.

    That brings me to the next group of potential suspects-- women and girls from my past that I have known in the biblical sense.  The list is short.  I can count them on my fingers and toes, without removing my shoes. In fact, I can count them on my fingers... with one hand behind my back... excluding thumbs... with enough fingers left over to flash a peace sign.  Okay! It's two! Satisfied?  (I can't believe you just dragged that out of me!) That's right.  Excluding my beloved wife, with whom I have been completely monogamous, I have (previously) been with two women in my life.  The most recent (let's call her Lady M) was a few years older than me.  I was 19.  We had a brief fling. She had an infant child. She told me she was divorced or separated, I don't recall which. She lied.  It turns out he was just "away" for the few months that she used (oops, Freudian slip) wooed me.  I later surmised that he may have been in prison while I was having conjugal visits with his wife.  At any rate, she never complained.   On more than one occasion she fell asleep before I did.  Now that could be viewed in two ways: either she was completely and utterly satisfied-- into submission, so to speak, or she was completely and utterly bored with me.  I liked to think it was the former.  To be fair, she did work two jobs, so I guess the third option would be that she was just really, really tired.  I didn't care at the time.  I got what I was looking for-- until her man came back.  Then she shunned me like an unwed Amish girl with a baby-bump.  At any rate, I doubt that she is the source of my unwanted e-mail solicitations.  Years after we parted ways, a friend showed me a newspaper article where she had been shot (but not killed) by her husband.  I really think she has more pressing matters to worry about than the size of my shlong.

    The other woman in my life, Miss D, was 18 and I was 17.  She was my first, and I, hers. We were young and in love. The world was our oyster.  We screwed like rabbits.  Our future was bright and shiny and sparkled like a diamond, the kind you can buy with a month's salary working at a full-service gas station.  We got engaged.  I finished school.  Times were hard.  Jobs were scarce.  I quit mine and moved west in search of gainful employment, the kind to raise a family on.  I was to send for her when I had a grub stake. Times were hard.  Jobs were scarce.  A year passed.  Our long-distance relationship was strained.  She cheated with my ex-best friend.  I broke off the engagement.  There was lots of crying.  She cried some, too.  She kept the ring.  My heart was broken.  She moved to Texas with her family.  Last I heard, she was engaged again to a nice young man.  I hope she's happy.  I really do.  I know I am.  I'd feel bad if she wasn't happy.  A number of love songs have been written about us.  I know, because I hear them all the time on the radio. She's not the one.  Suspect eliminated.

     During my freshman year of high school, I played on the basketball team.  I was a little runt and not very good  but,  nonetheless,  after practices and after games I was required to "hit the showers" with the rest of the team.  My severe sense of modesty and shyness meant that I would usually take my time undressing so that most of the guys were done in the shower before I went in, usually alone.  Even so, I'm sure a couple of the guys must have spied my acorn at some point.  I hadn't yet reached puberty, as some of them had, so I doubt any of them would have been too concerned with the size of my nugget-- certainly not enough to enroll me in the infamous mailing lists more than 30 years later.  There was of course, Coach B, who always seemed to stroll into the locker room at the most inopportune times but, I imagine, if he really had any interest in the development of my young nubile body, he would have likely expressed it in other ways.  No, I don't think anyone from my roundball days are to blame.

     There are, undoubtedly, a handful of random doctors and nurses who at some point in the course of their duties, probably saw me naked or, at the very least, in my skivvies, during a physical exam or check-up  and consequently had full access to assess my package.   I've eliminated them as suspects because they are, after all, consummate professionals and probably see plenty of dicks every day-- far too many to make mine of any significance whatsoever. 

     That leaves those who have seen Mr. Winkie but who, despite my valiant efforts, never experienced him in all his glory.  First there was little miss X.  We moved into the house next door to hers when I was 5 years old.  She was 4 and she and her mother came over to welcome us to the neighborhood. (Yes people really did that back then.)  Her mother talked to my parents for what seemed like hours.  I was smitten with little miss X's naturally platinum blonde curly locks.  As far as I could tell, she was as pure as the driven snow and I chased her around the yard and we became fast friends. She and I and my little sister grew up together.   When she started school and got on the school bus, I saved her a seat and asked her to marry me.  She said yes of course.  I sealed it with a kiss and the bus driver looked down in the giant rear-view mirror and smiled. I remember it like it was yeserday.   We were in an on-again, off-again relationship throughout our happy childhood.  I hate you! I like you! Do you like me? (circle one)  Do you want to go ice skating?  Let's go play in the barn!  Let's chase the cows! Oh. what fun!  Anyway, when we were young and innocent, we would sneak into the cornfield and play doctor.  She'd pull down her panties and I'd poke, pinch and prod, as doctors are wont to do, and I'd pronounce my diagnosis.  Then I'd pull down my pants and she'd poke, pinch and prod, as nurses are wont to do, (who ever heard of a lady doctor?) and she'd pronounce her diagnosis.  We'd give each other an imaginary shot in the arm or administer a dose of life saving candy/medicine and be on our merry way.  At some point in our medical training, she obviously got a good look at my stethoscope, so to speak.  I suppose she could be the one responsible for the annoying e-mail solicitations offering to improve my meager endowments.  I doubt it, though. Even to this day, though she is married with children and grandchildren she is still, in her heart, and in my eyes,as pure as the driven snow.

    Then there was little miss L, the other girl next door (in another direction) who was 15 when I was 16.  I crashed the slumber party that she was having in her parents' fifth-wheel camper with another neighbor girl.  Me and little miss L got involved in a game of truth or dare that ended with the two of us completely naked and under the sheets of the master bed, while her friend waited patiently in the next room.  Although there was lots of kissing and fondling, I finally came to my senses (after about half an hour of heavy petting) and decided I didn't want to lose my virginity then and there and, more importantly, to little miss L.  Not that it wouldn't have been nice, I'm sure.  She was very pretty and very fun and she had been barking up my tree since we were little kids.  But, you see, although she was only 15, she was already quite experienced in the ways of love and I personally knew at least two of her former conquests.  They spoke highly of her but I just wasn't sure I wanted her to be "the one."  I still don't know how I summoned the courage or the wherewithal to stop, because, believe me, I wanted to continue.  I really, really wanted to.  Oooh, how I wanted to! And she definitely wanted to.  But something inside me told me to stop-- that what we were about to do was not right.  I told her so and got out of the bed, quickly gathered and put on my clothes and left, apologizing to her friend on my way out.  It was my finest hour! Little miss L was furious.  Her friend was furious with her! I high-tailed it through the cornfield back to my house.  The time was about 4:00 AM.  My step-mother greeted me just inside the door.  The shit hit the fan.  Accusations were leveled,  denials made,  groundings administered,  penance paid.  I don't remember how I made it through the next couple of days.  Little miss L didn't speak to me for weeks, nor did her friend.  We eventually all became friends again but never again in that way.  The point is, when we were in the thick of it, little miss L had ample time to size me up, so to speak.  Whether she was impressed or not, she never told me.  I guess of all the people who have encountered my accoutrements, she would have the biggest axe to grind.  I did, after all, leave her high and dry, if you'll pardon the pun, and out in the cold, after turning up the heat.  I just don't know, though.

    And there's the rub.  I just don't know. I've racked my brains and still can't pinpoint, with any certainty, who would be so concerned with my penis that they would cause me to be the unwilling recipient of hundreds of e-mail offers each month for enhancement, enlargement and/or improvement.  Whoever it is, if by some random twist of fate they're reading this now, I'm sorry.  I'm sorry if I broke your heart.  I'm sorry if I didn't satisfy you.  I'm sorry if my penis shocked, embarrassed, beguiled or in some way offended you. It may not be much but it's all I've got and I'm perfectly content with what I have.  Just please, please, make the e-mails stop. I appreciate the offers but really, thanks, but no thanks,

Fear of Flying

I am afraid to fly. 

There, I said it.  So, I guess "the terrorists" have defeated me.  Except, I'm not afraid of in-flight terrorism.  And I'm not afraid of my plane falling out of the sky due to some random equipment malfunction or operator error. I'm more afraid of the humiliation and intimidation that the TSA will inflict upon me if I am randomly chosen to submit to an intrusive "full-body scan" or an even more intrusive "pat down," known in some circles as "Government Sanctioned Sexual Harassment."  I'm not afraid of being blown up by a radical terrorist; I'm afraid of being rudely treated like a criminal in front of hundreds of other waiting passengers by some random TSA agent.   I'm afraid of being handcuffed if I protest to some random "rent-a-cop" fondling my "junk."  I'm afraid of the $10,000 fine that will supposedly be levied against me if, after I purchased my ticket, I decide I don't want to be X-rayed in public or groped in private and I instead decide not to fly.  I'm not afraid of the terrorists;  I'm afraid of  being "treated like a terrorist."

Between January, 2002 and December, 2009, 318 people were killed in the US due to lightning strikes and another 1,882 were injured.  At today's US population rate of about 310 million people, that's 1 death each year by lightning strike out of every 7.8 million persons. During the same period from 2002 through 2009, the staggering number of people who were killed on US domestic airline flights, due to acts of terrorism was zero.   So why are so many Americans  being subjected to the undetermined health risks of a full-body-scan, using a glorified chest X-ray machine or, if they opt out, a "pat-down" that entails a TSA agent touching them in private places that, in any other venue, would be considered sexual harassment and require the "toucher" to be registered as a sex-offender?  And why are millons (if not trillions) of dollars slated to be spent on the equipment and personnel to perform these invasions/perversions?  Wouldn't more lives be saved if we used that money to build a giant wire cage (electrically grounded, of course) to cover our entire nation, thus preventing the deaths of hapless golfers and Little Leaguers throughout our great country?

I'm not advocating the removal of all security checkpoints in airports.  After all, those measures thwarted the infamous "shoe bomber" and the even more insidious "underwear bomber."  Oh, wait… they actually didn't!  Both of these failed attackers were already on-board their flights and in the air before alert passengers discovered them.  Of course, it is precisely because of these would-be attackers that all passengers must now removes their shoes, belts and jewelry and be subject to random body-scans or searches  before being allowed to board a plane. 

So, let's review;  the number of US Citizens killed by a bomb hidden in a shoe is zero.  The number of US Citizens killed by a bomb concealed in a passenger's underwear is, again, zero.  The number of shoe-bomber's who have been caught by the added security measures since the first such attack in December of 2001 is… (sigh)… zero.  The number of underwear bomber's who have been thwarted, since the original attack on Christmas Day of 2009, by the newly implemented full-body scans and alternate "manual" body searches is exactly… zero.  To be fair, these newest security measures have only just begin but I predict, over the next five to ten years, the number of shoe and underwear bombers who will be detained by these checkpoints will multiply. And, of course, when you multiply any number by zero you get… (you guessed it) zero.   If current trends continue, it will only require one Jihadist with a chunk of C4 crammed in his rectum before all airline passengers will be required to, not only arrive at the airport 3 to 4 hours before departure but they will also be forbidden from eating any solid foods for the 24 hours preceding their flight. Before boarding, they will be subject to random colonoscopies or, if they opt out of that technological probe, they will be required to submit to a "manual digital probe" by a TSA agent.   Again, if I may be so bold as to make another prediction, the number of "turd bombers" thwarted by these measures will be zero.

To be fair, I don't really know how many shoe, underwear or turd bombers have actually been stopped at airport checkpoints since the creation of the TSA and its enhanced security measures.   I'm assuming it's zero, in all the above cases, because if any of them had been prevented I'm sure you and I and the rest of the world would have heard about.  It would have been hailed as the greatest achievement since the moon landing.  Of course, the TSA is a Federal government agency, now under the umbrella of the US Department of Homeland Security, headed by an appointed (not elected) official, and they may not be divulging all the specifics of who may or may not have been detained by any alleged airport checkpoint-- as such agencies are wont to do.  Even so, I still believe that if any would-be terrorists had been caught at these checkpoints, we would have heard about it.  Exhaustive* internet searches and my own feeble memory have recalled no such incidents.  However, somewhere in a lonely darkened warehouse (I presume) the TSA has amassed a collection of lighters in the millions.  11,616,249 lighters were confiscated in the year 2006, alone!  And that, is a useless fact procured from the TSA's own website.  Coincidentally, "common lighters" are no longer banned by the TSA (as of August 2007.)  It seems TSA security officers were collecting 22,000 lighters every day!  What were their reasons for lifting the ban?  In addition to freeing up officers from collecting all those lighters, the TSA web site claims, "Lifting the lighter ban is consistent with TSA's risk-based approach to aviation security. First and foremost, lighters no longer pose a significant threat." [http://www.tsa.gov/travelers/sop/index.shtm]  My interpretation of that statement is this:  They were wasting a lot of time and resources looking for something that was, in reality, not a significant threat to security. And that, my friends, brings me to my point.  Performing embarrassing full-body scans and/or personally intrusive manual pat-downs on random passengers is a waste of a lot of time and resources looking for something that is not a significant threat to security.  Some might argue that a terrorist with explosives attached to his nether regions is a significant threat.  But if you consider it statistically, I is not.  TSA claims to screen over 2 million passengers each day.  If you extrapolate that over the almost ll months since the "underwear bomber" was apprehended that's roughly 672 million passenger screenings.  In that period, not one of those passengers has managed to blow up a plane using explosives in their underwear.  If we go back to the December 2001 "shoe bomber" then the number of passengers screened since that time who have NOT turned out to be shoe bombers is something like 7.3 billion.  Even if we pretend that the shoe bomber was detected at an airport checkpoint (which he most definitely wasn't) then it stands to reason that 1 in 7.3 billion people screened have been shoe bomber terrorists.  Remember the statistics I mentioned earlier about deaths by lightning strikes?  You and I and every other US citizen statistically has a 1 in 7.8 million chance of being killed by lightning this year.  Meanwhile, the TSA has detected and prevented shoe bombers at the rate of  less than 1 in 7.3 billion.  Statistically, the likelihood that you will die from a lightning strike this year is almost one thousand times greater than the likelihood of you getting on a plane with another "terrorist shoe bomber." To me, that doesn't seem like a "significant threat."

So why, then, are we all taking off our shoes in airports?  And better yet, why must we randomly submit to the humiliation and possible health risks of the new full body scanners?  And why must those who chose not to be irradiated and have their private parts scrutinized on a computer monitor be subject to a "manual pat down" that is tantamount to molestation?  Is the cost of these enhanced screening techniques, both in taxpayer funds and the emotional toll, worth it?  I'm not against airport screening.  I think it is a necessary evil in the post 9/11 world we inhabit.  But these latest measures go too far, in my opinion,  and infringe too much on the rights to privacy and modesty of innocent law-abiding citizens.

The definition of terrorism is "the use of violence and threats to intimidate or coerce, esp. for political purposes" and also "the state of fear and submission produced by terrorism or terrorization."  In this case, I'm not sure who the terrorists are.  I'm not afraid of being blown up on a plane.  Hopefully I've illustrated to some extent that the chances of that are statistically insignificant.  I'm more afraid that I'll be selected at random from an airport queue and be coerced into submitting to an embarrassing "pat down" while others watch.  Personally, I guess it's a moot point anyway, since I've already decided that I won't be flying any time soon, especially under the current state of affairs.  Because, after all,

I am afraid to fly.