Sweater-Adorned Women-all day and all night

Sexism in Musicals

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 20:56:55 GMT

I recently came across this song from the soundtrack, "South Pacific" and it brought a wave of nostalgia over me.

When I was young, our family had one of those big, huge stereos encased in a woodgrain finish. It opened from the top and, inside, you put the record on the turntable. There were two big speakers in the front, hidden behind some kind of material. My parents had a huge collection of musicals including South Pacific. I would lay down on my stomach, elbows on the carpet with my chin on my palms and sing "There is nothing like a Dame". I would sing it over and over, legs bouncing up and down, head moving side to side. I committed the song to memory along with many others.

One particular time, after listening to "There is nothing like a Dame", I got up, and began to march around the house, singing at the top of my little lungs. This caused quite a stir with my Mom. She immediately intercepted me at the dining room and proceeded to lecture me on why I shouldn't be belting out that adult tune. I had forgotten that there were records I could listen to and those I should remain as far away from as possible. In retrospect, I can't see why she didn't stop me from listening when I would lay in front of the stereo. She had to hear it, right? I can only surmise that until she actually saw her young, foolish son having "adult stuff" spewing out of his mouth, she never gave it a thought. Boy, was I mad at her! I think I responded to her lecture with about ten "But Mom!".

Ah, to be young again.....

The song does come across as terribly sexist. My wife won't let me sing it around her. I've yet to figure out if it's the song or my voice...or both. She is a soft-core Feminist. How come hard-core Feminists are not protesting the broadway show, "South Pacific"? They seem to get up-in-arms about other trivial things. This would be no exception.

You know what though? I enjoy the fact that men can get together and sing about women if they want. I worship most women but some in society now-a-days seem to want to cut off our manhoods.

*Ouch!*

Mon, 18 Feb 2008 13:35:37 GMT

There are very few things that strike fear into me like the Burger King "Mascot" or whatever you call it. That big head and the perpetually psychotic smile send cold stabs of fear through my soul. I wish I knew why I am scared of this thing. I would rather face an army of zombies intent on devouring my flesh than one Burger King Mascot whose goal, I believe, is to sell me Whoppers; and feast on my fear of commercialism.

I had a dream last night where I was sitting in the middle of a room that was filled with snow and ice. All of a sudden, a seal (harp, not navy) appeared at a door and began to slide around me in a circle. The cute little guy (or gal) was just circling me without stopping. I have no idea how long this dream lasted but when I woke up, I pondered it for a time. This is a sign of an interesting dream. You lay there with the covers all jumbled around you, deep in retrospective thought, oblivious to the usual early morning sounds of a new day.

I've decided, as a member of Caucasia, that I want Asians to take over. There was a story recently about how the the white race will be a minority by 2050. If this is the case, and I believe it to be true, then the obvious choices are Muslims, Asians, and Hispanics. Now, I know Muslim is a religion but they are moving up in the world just the same. I know a few Asians and they are decent, hard-working people. I guess the Hispanics are too but for some reason, I don't really like the culture. It's nothing personal; I just have a problem with their music. The problem with Muslims is the way they treat women. So, as the white race sails off into the great sunset of racial decline, I for one, am rooting for the victorious Asians and their incredibly beautiful women. Let's just hope Asian women have a leadership role in the world.

Sat, 02 Feb 2008 14:12:53 GMT

I've been shopping for a flat-screen plasma tv recently. We are in the process of closing on a house and have decided to purchase all new furniture, carpet, appliances, etc. It's only a couple of years old but we have some money and really want to add our own taste to it. I enjoy looking for new stuff with my wife but unfortunately, I have a one-track mind. My only real interest is in the plasma tv. I caught up with a friend of mine and we were discussing the new house and all of it's features. By that I mean; we discussed the tv and stereo situation. My friends and I tend to grunt out our communications. Like this:

"Hey Mike, what's up?"

"Not much, Bill....how's the house situation?"

"Good. Looking at a plasma."

"Yeah? 1080 dpi?"

"Yeah....and 58 inch."

"Sweet!"

"Talk to you later"

"Yeah, see ya."

My wife has a totally different approach to shopping than I do. She spends a meticulous amount of time going over patterns and styles. I admit my eyes start to glaze over when confronted with this rather ominous chore of searching for home comforts. I do it because she enjoys my company and wishes me to be involved in the process. I get it...I really do.

However, it becomes a gender-gap thing in that I do not have any male friends who enjoy shopping; unless it has to do with electronics or taking a mini-vacation to Cabela's. Women, through the generations, have always "dragged" their husbands and boyfriends shopping. Why do they do this? Especially when she has no interest in heading off to Best Buy to peruse the vast assortment of electronic gadgets. I realize this is extremely selfish of me but tough shit. I do make the attempt to look after her well-being but....what about me?

It seems....wait, hold on a minute.....

WAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

Ok, I feel better now. It seems that I've lived by the mantra of caring for women. Looking after their needs but I'm becoming a bit agitated in that "selfish streaks" are becoming more commonplace in my life. I do not wish to be the guy who is married, has all the toys and his wife is left with the crumbs to shop at Walmart for clothes.

A perfect example is this married couple whose house I pass occasionally on my way to work. It's a ranch-style house and in the driveway is a $45,000 pick-up with a large canopy over it. There is no garage so in order to keep "his baby" out of the elements, he purchased the canopy thing. I really could care less about it except that the other car in the driveway is a beat-up four-door Chevy Celebrity...or maybe it's a Buick Century. It's rusty and God only knows how many miles are on the poor thing. This piece of shit is driven by his wife. Nothing says "love" like a man showing his manhood by leaving his "better-half" to brave the elements of snow and ice with machinery I wouldn't trust to survive two miles while he easily plows through with a 4x4. Ah....love.

I don't want to be like that asshole. I admit I struggle sometimes because the voice of reason tells me to make sure my wife is happy. This is primarily the reason I never could survive in the seedy underworld of financial domination. I want something out of it. I guess I live in my own twisted parallel universe in that I wish to serve women in all that I do and yet I want to play pool with an evil Alpha-Female who takes all of my money while she wears a white turtleneck sweater. It's probably that I've separated sexual situations from love and worship of women. I wish to please "good women" in everyday life and when the sexual urges hit, I want to be taken advantage of. No good-hearted Alpha-Female will use her wardrobe for monetary gain. At least, I don't think so....

I will keep plugging away with the home furnishings shopping and try to minimize my selfish need to have a kick-ass plasma tv. It does make for a more pleasant relationship.

A Lost Soul

Thu, 20 Dec 2007 21:22:26 GMT

Something funny happened to me today while shopping. I didn't find it amusing until much later.....

I had just left Office Max with a load of banker boxes that were on sale. Buy 2 ten packs, get 1 ten pack free. I have a storage fetish along with my sweater thing. The trunk on my car opened up and I was putting the stacks inside when a female voice with a distinct Jamaican accent interrupted me. I turned around and there before me was a pretty young black woman in a mini-van. She excused herself and asked if I knew where the senior citizen home close to the hospital was. As we have two hospitals in the area, I asked if it was the university hospital. She didn't know but she had a street name. After she told me, I knew the general area of the old folks home.

I proceeded to give her directions with wild hand gestures pointed in all directions. I went over them with her a few times and when I thought she finally grasped where she needed to go, I grabbed the empty carton that housed the banker boxes and headed back into Office Max. I dropped the box off to be recycled and when I turned back towards my car, I saw the woman still sitting in the mini-van with her hazards on. I waved and got into my car.

After backing out of the parking space, I started to drive across the parking lot to Bed, Bath and Beyond (my budget). It was cold out and didn't feel like walking all the way to the other side of the mall. I was also in a hurry as I hate shopping...especially with holiday crowds. I checked my rear-view mirror and noticed Miss Jamaica was tucked in right behind me. She turned when I turned; stopped when I stopped.

"What the heck is she doing" I asked myself, feeling a bit irritated. It was then I realized she was following me.

I then contemplated my next move. I briefly entertained the idea of losing her in the mass of cars in the lot. I picked up speed and raced through the parking lot, narrowly missing a old couple coming out of Petco. Sadly I did hit three or four kids but didn't have time to stop to see if they were alright. I heard them scream and then a distant thud but I was determined to lose Miss Jamaica. I did note with satisfaction that MJ ran over the mother of one of the road-kill kids who's last words were: "Oh my precious baby" and then THUNK. Miss Jamaica sure was a good driver though and through my hazy mist of admiration,I thought I saw her getting angry and pulling out a voodoo doll and a couple hair pins. "Uh-oh" I thought, panic setting in. I then began to get extremely aroused for no apparent reason. But then I knew; she had the voodoo doll's legs spread and was gently using her finger to stroke the genitalia area of the happy doll. I was so horny, I pulled over. Miss Jamaica stopped next to me, got out and came at me, her coat open to reveal a tight white sweater stretched incredibly thin over her perfect breasts. She put one hand on her hip and really gave it to me verbally, all the while, continuing the soft manipulations of the doll's invisible penis with the other hand. I just sat slumped in the seat with a massive boner that threatened to explode from my jeans. She demanded I take out my wallet which I did, sighing with sexual lust. I stared at her ribbed sweater neck while she took all my credit cards and over $150 in large bills. "Next time honkey, you will show me respect" and with that, she drove off, leaving me masturbating furiously.

Ok, that last paragraph didn't happen. What did happen was I came to understand that she must have thought I was going to "show her" the way to go by actually driving her. I remembered the last thing I had said to her was: "I can get you to the general area of where you need to go but that's about it". What I meant was the verbal directions I gave would get her to the "general area" of where she needed to go. She took me literally and soon I found I was driving past Bed, Bath and Beyond (my budget) on my way to a senior citizen home near the hospital. I felt ridiculous doing this especially when I was limited on time.

In the end, it took about an hour of my day but by the time she gave me a friendly wave and I was headed back to the mall, I knew I did something cool.

The next thing I'm going to do is write Larry David and see if he can use this story for his HBO show....the true part, not the sexual voodoo doll and the messy ejaculation in front of Old Navy and the astonished shoppers.

Sexual Comfort

Thu, 20 Dec 2007 13:09:06 GMT

I woke up this morning thinking about "pony play". I have no idea why except lately, I find myself dwelling on the whole bdsm thing. My conclusion is that it's all about the men. We are ruled by our penis. I realize this is no great discovery but nonetheless, it intrigues me. In the femdom world, "women rule"....or do they? This leads me to pony play.

Pony play is essentially where a woman rides a man much like a horse. The appearance is that she is the dominant one and uses her "horse" to get around with. She sits atop his shoulders and looks haughty. He has a bit in his mouth and she holds a rein to steer with. His erection is full-bore and even though the whole fantasy appears uncomfortable, he obviously is enjoying the experience.

However, there is no way in hell that she can be having fun. Why would she want to be in that type of situation when she can just as easily be driven around in a car? In other words, taking the fantasy to it's final stage, she rides him around and then must put him back in the stable and brush him down. That sounds like work to me. I'm sure she is being paid to do it on the various websites but still; it does not appear as femdom to me. The fantasy is his fantasy, not hers.

I'd be willing to bet that if he were really submissive, there would be a warm car waiting for her; not some guy sporting a boner with a leather bit in his mouth and a saddle on his shoulders. Maybe instead of a car, there would be a sleigh waiting with soft, warm furs and she and her girlfriends can be pulled through a snowy, moonlit forest by a bunch of guys "sporting boners". The whole point is that femdom fantasy should be about her comfort

I'm taking things too seriously now. I am at the pinnacle of sexual arousal and my mind is clouded with sweaters and money/power exchange.

Wed, 21 Nov 2007 03:32:13 GMT

I just realized I use the word "poop" in too many of my journal entries.....

Litter Box Surprises

Wed, 21 Nov 2007 03:28:18 GMT

I was taking out the trash this evening like a good citizen when I thought of something that made me cringe in embarrassment. Before I take out the trash every Tuesday night and put it curbside, I collect the trash from inside the house; though it's not like trash just lays around on the floor. Anyway, I always have to scoop out the kitty litter, too; which brings me to the embarrassment.

I have always been a dog-lover and have had the good fortune of living with these lovable companions. However, about four years ago, we rescued a cat from the local shelter. Well....it wasn't like we stormed the complex, dressed in para-military uniforms and night-vision goggles but you get the point. This cat is really cool and we love her very much.

When I first started to clean the litter box (it's cleaned every night), I noticed that there were huge amounts of cat-doo nestled among the little granules. I mean HUGE amounts and I wondered how the heck a "Petite Long-hair" could let out such a big amount of poop without screaming and wailing. This bewilderment stayed with me for weeks until my wife explained it to me after I asked her if this is a bizarre phenomenon.

She said "no, it's not a phenomenon nor is it cat-doody-doo". And then she explained what had baffled me for so long....

Apparently the way kitty-litter works is when a cat urinates, it collects with the kitty-litter and forms very large balls of "kitty litter pee". And all this time, I thought our cat was some kind of mutant alien pet from beyond the stars who crapped boulders.

I have filed this entry under "worthless, disgusting knowledge that still may educate the ignorant masses...like me".

Let me help you to help yourself

Mon, 19 Nov 2007 03:23:06 GMT

I spent some time on collarme.com a few weeks ago. I decided to put up a profile and do the whole song and dance. "Hi, I'm Dorkus McCahey and I want to be abused. Please collar me at your leisure".

I met a couple nice women on my journey through that little shit-hole. It made me wonder what the hell they were doing there. It's as if I was crawling around in the mud, rain pouring down and then, all of a sudden, a woman dressed in white, bends over to say hello. The rain and mud never make contact with her. She smiles and then moves on. I am perplexed but it passes and then I shrug and continue to thrash around in the dirt.

I left collarme fairly quickly. I did encounter a submissive woman by chance. We had a few pleasant exchanges and I realized she is as confused as me about this lifestyle. I'm certain she has issues with men and I really wanted to help her. I will add here that I'm about as worthless as can be but when a woman needs help, I'm galvanized into action. Anyway, I've come to realize I can't help her. It's sad that I can't make the attempt but it's too difficult. She has as many walls around her as do I. We are twin fortresses on two hills overlooking each other, afraid to attack or even worse....afraid to lower the drawbridge and come out to shake hands and communicate. Or better yet; we come out and she allows me to kneel before her as she offers her hand to kiss and I whisper my undying loyalty.

We don't so what's the point?

By the way, I know most Dommes have protocol when dealing with subs. I too, have a certain protocol when attempting correspondence with a dominant female or heck, any female. If I write to a woman and sign my name "Sincerely, Bill" and she writes back: "So dumbass, what's in it for me?", it's a "dead-stick". I want nothing to do with her.

That submissive woman was the same way. No greeting, nothing....

She was very nice and I sensed she needed something but I couldn't give it to her. Makes me sad.

There is a song by Dan Fogelberg called "Heart Hotels". Every time I hear this beautiful song, I stop what I'm doing. For some reason, I am almost moved to tears. Here are the lyrics (and I knew sooner or later, I would put song lyrics into my blog. Everyone else does):

Heart Hotels

Well there's too many windows in this old hotel
And rooms filled with reckless pride
And the walls have grown sturdy
And the halls have worn well
But there is nobody living in inside
Nobody living inside

Gonna pull in the shutters on this heart of mine
Roll up the carpets and pull in the blinds
And retreat to the chambers that I left behind
In hopes there still may be love left to find
Still may be love left to find

Seek inspiration in daily affairs
Now your soul is in trouble and requires repairs
And the voices you hear at the top of the stairs
Are only echoes of unanswered prayers
Echoes of unanswered prayers

A Birthday Dinner with the Alpha Female and her retard

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 02:38:50 GMT

The following story is true. I swear to God, Goddess, Allah, Buddha, Gilean, Torak, Princess Diana and Frank Sinatra.

Last Saturday evening, I took my wife to dinner for her birthday. She decided she wanted to eat at her favorite steak place. And for that matter, mine too. We arrived shortly before five and I went straight to the guest registry and announced our intentions to dine at their fine establishment. Actually, I said "Table for two". I slipped her a dollar, hoping for a secluded table, perfect for quiet conversation. Ok, that part isn't true. I didn't say "table for two."

My wife and I were standing in a crowd, waiting for them to find the cheapo-area of the restaurant. It was then that I remembered I was wearing a Tigers baseball cap. I realize this doesn't look good for me to have on a baseball hat while taking my wife to a very nice restaurant. Especially when she was dressed very nice...as usual. Let me explain why:

We spent most of the day looking at a new home to purchase. In Michigan, the housing market is horrendous right now and $400,000 can get you $550,000 if you zealously negotiate. My idea was to look kind of "Walmartishly" in the hope that it would bring out a "Pretty Woman Julia Roberts-like" confrontation. The saleswoman would take one look at me and announce with a snobbish air: "The mobile home park is down the road two miles. Please leave now!"

And then I can pull out my awesome display of platinum cards and perfect credit score and say with scorn:

"Big mistake...big, big, mistake."

It was like clockwork. If my wife entered first; which she usually does because I always hold the door for her, the salespeople greet her with open arms. On the rare occasion that the salespeople see me first, they always seem to lean towards the phone, no doubt believing I'm about to strike at them.

Back to the restaurant.....

I realized I'm wearing a baseball cap and fearing the onset of "hat-head", I quickly told my wife I was going to the men's room for a minute. I told her to wait where she was. I dashed off to the restroom where I spent the next few minutes trying to rub out the "hat-head" that so gruesomely appeared, as I expected. When I returned to the waiting area, my wife was nowhere to be found. My first thought was that they brought her to our table and they would escort me now...sans the hat-head look. I mean really....you can't eat at a place like this wearing a hat! Unless your super-rich and don't give a damn. I think there was a trend for a while with rich young guys wearing baseball hats with sport jackets. I'm not sure though.

I asked the lady at the podium thing if they had seated my wife. She said no so I assumed my wife went to the ladies room. I guess about five minutes went past and another woman came over to me and stated that our table was ready. I followed her to a very nice corner table away from the maddening crowd. "A dollar goes far in the current Michigan economy", I thought. I told her to let my wife know where I was.

After sitting down, the waiter came over and asked if I wanted a drink. I naturally said yes and also ordered one for my wife. Another few minutes passed and I began to wonder if my wife was sick or something. Maybe she had to go "number two" although I quickly brushed that aside. No man with such a vaunted view of women even thinks they go to the bathroom to poop. If they disappear into a room marked "Ladies", it's to mingle and bond with their fellow sisters of solidarity. I also hope it's to coordinate an attack on male chauvinism and take over the world.

By the time the waiter came back with our drinks, I was really worried. The waiter asked if anything was wrong and while looking past him out into the center of the room, I murmured that maybe she's divorcing me. He said "what"? I told him to forget it and asked if he would look around for her. I was beginning to get suspicious about something and needed help to confirm it. I said she was about five-four, blond hair and wearing a black sweater. He made off in pursuit of the "missing wife" when all of a sudden, I saw the familiar, hourglass form of my wife walking about twenty-feet away. She was holding a drink in her hand and wore a scowl on her pretty face. She saw me out of the corner of her eye. I thought she was going to kill me the way she moved toward me.

She sat down and "quietly yelled": "What are you doing! I've been waiting for you for fifteen minutes! Why did you have to go to the bathroom right before sitting down!" I tried to explain between stutters that I couldn't eat in this kind of restaurant with hat-head. She gave me a withering look that soon melted when she realized what had just transpired. Then we both started laughing at the thought of the two of us, sitting at opposite ends of the restaurant, waiting for each other for what seemed like hours. I won't even comment on the complete ineptitude of the hostess and her cronies. And all because of the dreaded "hat-head". This is an absolutely true story.

Welcome to my life.

Deer in the Headlights

Sun, 11 Nov 2007 03:30:20 GMT

My wife purchased an expensive new car two weeks ago. A couple nights back, she hit a deer and smashed the front up pretty good. The deer was smashed also. Thank God she was not hurt (my wife, not the deer). As I was driving out to the accident scene to provide some emotional support, I was reminded of an old Rodney Dangerfield line:

"My wife can't drive. Last week, she hit a deer.....it was in the zoo."

and this one.....

"My wife hit a telephone pole with her car. She told me it wasn't her fault, she blew the horn."

In all seriousness, I'm so thankful she wasn't hurt. When I arrived on scene, she was crying about the car. Then, she cried about the deer.

Then we both cried about the inevitable increase in our insurance premium.

The Fall Season

Thu, 08 Nov 2007 22:12:03 GMT

Autumn has arrived in all her glory. The cold, crisp horniness...uh...I mean air, surrounds me like a cashmere scarf that some beautiful woman is holding to my face, forcing me to breath in her perfume that has nestled itself into the fibers.

I swear (I know...don't swear) that if my life was a video game and I was the main character in it, my energy bar would be in the critical area. One more glance at a pretty woman in a turtleneck will cause me to die and the person playing to throw the controller to the floor and hit "reset". I would call the game "Death Race at Macy's" and the object would be for a poor schmuck like me with a sweater fetish to make his way through Macy's without cumming in his pants. With each little drop of pre-cum that escapes his penis, his energy is drained little by little. His adversaries include the cosmetics ladies with their killer perfume bottles that they attempt to spray me with while getting me to remain still by folding their sweater necks. My character is very susceptible to this brand of death and more than a few times; I am sprayed into oblivion while the cosmetics ladies laugh at my weakness.

While making your way through the game, you encounter hordes of gay men shopping for handbags, stuck-up college girls who attempt to manipulate money from your pockets by thrusting their sweatered breasts at you. It's the old "deer in the headlights" trick and it usually works. While you are paralyzed with lust, they reach into your pockets and remove all cash and credit cards. Suddenly, a power of attorney document appears and you are forced to sign it while focused on their heaving breasts of conquest. You will have to hit "reset" again.

If you survive the CL's, gays and the college temptresses with little more than a pre-cum stain on your pants, you now enter the final level (dum, dum, dum, duuummmm).

Your character heads up the escalator, leaving the wailing carnage of college temptresses, gays and CL's behind you and strangely, the music changes. The irritating sound of adult contemporary recedes only to be replaced by the sweet, melodious voice of Enya. You know that major trouble lies ahead of you and after trying to dab at the pre-cum stain with a tissue, you silently glide to the next floor.

At the top of the escalator, there are boxes of supplies to help you in your quest to defeat whatever is waiting in the shadows. There are pictures of Rosanne Barr, video tapes of the world's strongest man competition from Nepal, and other such things that make you think of anything but sex. After running your character over these boxes of anti-sexual hit points, the penis power bar reads empty (or full, however you choose to look at it). Then, from the darkness of the second floor of Macy's comes a most horrible banshee-like shriek.

A woman floats towards you, dressed in a Ralph Lauren white turtleneck sweater and nothing else. For you see, the bottom half of this abomination of glowing feminine beauty is shrouded in a thick mist. Between the neatly stacked rows of sweaters, she comes for you. Instantly, your arousal is evident and the power meter begins to drain. She calls your name:

"Bill, my sweet perverted slave....come to me!"

(That's your character's name: "Bill the Pervert". The marketing demographics indicate it will only be played by male sweater fetishists because I've never met a female sweater fetishist although the marketing department attempted to locate one.)

While the Goddess of the Sweater continues towards you, talking to you in a sweet voice, your wallet suddenly floats in front of you. The Discover Platinum is the first to exit from the protective sheath of its leather home. You hit the "A" button on the controller which activates the right hand of Bill the Pervert and snares the Discover Card, placing it back in the wallet. But the Sweater Goddess laughs softly as she makes a gesture with her perfect hand and twenty dollar bills are sucked from the wallet. While you frantically tap the "A" button trying to secure the money, fifties are leaving your pants pockets as well. And then tens and ones. You have no control! They float towards the Goddess and she easily corrals them and places them inside the cuffed wrist of her sweater. Her attention momentarily diverted, you try to make a quick escape while retrieving the picture of Rosanne Barr. It's no use however; the Goddess floats in front of you and points to her ribbed neckline. At this point, it's all over because I'm running out of things to write and frankly, I am horny as hell. Suffice it to say: The Goddess wins and all the treasure you accumulated throughout the game has become her property. The deed to your mansion in the Hampton's, the multi-million dollar bank accounts and the new Bentley GTC you acquired from a saleswoman in level one who refused to wear sweaters. You easily defeated that one. Bill the Pervert can never win the game though. It's hopeless.

By the way, if you ever get the chance to drive a Bentley GTC, I highly recommend giving it a whirl. It damn near gave me an erection.

Here is some advice for my readers (all two of you). In fact, let me give a shout out to Vinny from Brooklyn and Miles Gupta from India (I hope your foray into corporate customer service is going well). Here's the advice: Make sure you know the EXACT day of your wife's birthday. This is what happened yesterday....

I have a job that requires me to spend vast amounts of time away from home. I knew my wife's birthday was coming up so I informed the director that I wasn't going to be on the photo shoot next week. He said no problem so I called my wife to inform her that I'd be home for her special day. This is the actual phone call:

"Hi Babe. Great news! I spoke with the director and he's found someone else for next week....."

(A squeal of delight from the other end of the phone)

".....so I will be home to celebrate your birthday on Friday."

(The squeal turns to a growl...albeit, a cutesy, wutesy growl)

"Ummm Bill, my birthday is on Saturday"

I didn't have an answer but I knew it was going to cost me. My friend, who was standing next to me and heard everything, summed it up after grounding his cigarette into the pavement by saying:

"Nice"

Interesting Morning

Wed, 24 Oct 2007 12:40:42 GMT

I awoke early this morning to an interesting sound and sight. The unmistakable squawking of migrating birds filled my ears to the point where I expected them to fly through the window and roost ominously on the bedpost. But it was the view that sent my imagination off and running. A flock of birds flew with purpose in a coordinated manner, barely skimming the treetops. The whole scene reminded me of the classic Dracula movies. I was thinking about this famous monster movie until I realized I had some "morning wood" going on. Let me tell you....there is nothing to sedate an erection faster than Bela Legosi. Even if I had homosexual tendencies, I wouldn't dwell on ol' Bela. I suppose I would go more for the Cary Elwes type.

Trying to keep an erection at my age is a handful...literally. I quickly and with some desperation, ran through through my file cabinet of the mind, attempting to find the quick, sexual fix. I was saved in an instant by a file I simply titled: "Kate".

Yes, Kate Beckinsale came to save my boner in the nick of time. I lay there, immersed in the surrealistic world of classic horror movies. Kate came through the window dressed all in black but with a tight white turtleneck sweater under her leather coat. Naturally....

I wish I had time to write a story on this but I don't. Here is the abridged version:

Kate stood over me, mouth open in a sexually charged grin, eyes flashing a deep blue, with her hands on her hips. I couldn't move but my cock seemed to grow in response to her sexual energy. She seductively sat directly on my throbbing penis and dry-humped me for a few moments. My horniness was her weapon and I was completely and utterly defenseless. And then, while I helplessly gazed at her with lust-glazed eyes, she put her hand behind my head, gently pulling my head to her soft, sweatered breasts. I was in heaven and never noticed that she wrapped her arm around my head and proceeded to snap my neck.

She leaned back, straddling my body and noticed with satisfaction that I had taken a last breath and now looked at her with a satisfied grin and vacant, dead eyes. I was a Lycan, after all.

On another topic, there are a lot of weirdos in bdsm. I spent some time on one of those bdsm personals site and the weirdness was astounding; even for a bdsm website. Are all men who sometimes get submissive feel the need to become "sissies"? Good God! What woman would want to be around such nonsense! If I was a woman, and I only was once in my youth but that's another story, I would be terribly insulted by the sissy tendencies of weak men. The "feminization of men" in the bdsm world is a travesty and must stop! Maybe the men find it humiliating but I, as a man also, find it degrading to women.

I will have more thoughts on my journey through that bdsm personals site later.

Dommes of Glamour

Mon, 22 Oct 2007 23:39:00 GMT

I stumbled across a website today while surfing the net, looking for a new home. The website was called "glamination" and the premise is that the girls who run it (or most likely, the sleazy guy who uses these women for his profit) mix "glamour" with "domination". I was intrigued by that idea so I pressed enter and proceeded to be assaulted by pictures of pretty much nude women sporting dildos and parading about, doing the whole "dominating a man" thing. I was very disappointed because I thought that finally a website has emerged that really would mix glamour and domination. When did a scene where a woman, who is pretty yet half-naked, waving a dildo around, become "glamour"? Is it glamour?

I thought for a moment and wondered if I could develop my own website. It would have a D/s flavor to it but the idea would be to showcase real feminine power in vanilla situations. There would be pictures and videos of college women shown studying in a library while a man would be at her feet, massaging any soreness and fatigue away. The first few pictures would show the long walk she has from her dorm to the library. A man would be walking beside her, carrying her books and looking mean; so as to scare away any creepy predators that seem to crop up on college campus's. This particular set of pics and videos would be called: "The beginning of her successful life". There would be no dildos, spreading of legs ", naked men with hard-ons and so on.

Every week would chronicle the life of a young women embarking on her journey to the top of her field, whatever that field happens to be; perhaps Law, Psychology, Medicine, Engineering, or Business Management. The different photo sets would be glamorous in that the women would be fully-clothed and the talents they show off would be their incredibly sexy brains as well as their chic fashion sense. For the website, however, I would hire the most heartbreakingly beautiful women I could find. I do have to show a profit, after all. Hence a dilemma.....I have serious doubts that a website that depicts successful, clothed women in D/s situations would sell. The billion dollar porn industry tells me that.

I will have to look into this idea further and write more about it later. Since I live close to a major university, I think it might be a good idea to do some field research. I will do interviews on campus. My recruiting booth will be right next to the company that is interested in hiring future accountants. My only fear is that my field research will end up being about how long my recruiting booth will be allowed to stay. I suspect it won't be long because I have never been good at explaining my point of view in a lucid manner; therefore the screaming college feminists around my table will not understand that I'm not some sleazy porn king out to make a buck.

Speaking of "bucks", all proceeds of my website will go into a fund to help young women who might be having trouble with their bills while attending school. My enterprise will be on the "up and up" wih publicly disclosed financial statements. I won't keep a dime for myself. I will have more on this later.

I do want to mention how I went from researching $400,000 homes to surfing bdsm porn. This one home had a very cool backyard with a very well-maintained lawn, a stone path and flowers all about and it got me thinking about how much flowers and women go together. It would be a perfect spot for a photo shoot. Also, the finished basement was a prime location to film a scene where a powerful woman who owns multiple corporations, forces a male CEO to turn over all financial documents on his computer to her so she can analyze the data to see if the company was "ripe for the taking". He, of course, is helpless against her feminine charm and she knows it, watching with amusement as he melts into a babbling, sweaty pool of male sexual insecurity.

The bottom line is that; once I start to think about a woman taking money from a man, the proverbial "train begins to leave the station" and I can't focus on anything remotely responsible. Can I say "the proverbial train leaves the station"? Does "proverbial" come from the Proverbs and if so....did proverbs come from Jesus? And if that's the case, did Jesus ever ride in a train? It would have to have been a mule train because there were no locomotives then. Wait, that makes no sense.....

My ADD is kicking in and....I.....must....resist......can't resist.......

More later on the website thing. Right now, I'm going to try and figure out why I write with so many quotations in my journal and use the dot, dot, dot. I feel like Dr. Evil:

The "Laaaaazzzooor"......

I AM LEGEND

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 14:30:49 GMT

http://iamlegend.warnerbros.com/

A modern adaptation of Richard Matheson's classic story. I can't wait!

Doom

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 12:46:49 GMT

I watched the movie, "Doom" a few nights ago starring "The Rock". Now, I don't wish to get into an argument over the acting abilities of the former wrestler but apparently most do. I was reading reviews of the movie online and it became quite clear that people do not like The Rock as an actor. He was basically trashed by uppity critics who think they speak for all movie-goers.

"Doom" is basically about marines who go to Mars to secure a secret facility where scientists (as usual) had lost control of experiments involving the genetic make-up of humans. This movie is not "Citizen Kane"! How much acting do you have to have to go through dark corridors and obliterate anything that moves? My belief is people take things too seriously.

There is one particular scene near the end that I found interesting and thought-provoking. A marine and his sister, who happens to be a scientist, have locked themselves in a room, protected briefly from the hordes of zombies bent on breaking in and devouring them. The scientist, who is called "Sam", has in her lab coat pocket, a vial of a liquid bio-engineered by an ancient civilization. The liquid is C24 which contains the 24th set of chromosomes that enables human beings to become "super-human". The problem was that if the genetic marker of your DNA pre-disposed you to violence and/or psychotic tendencies, the 24th chromosome mixture would turn you ino a monster.

Anyway, the scientist, after learning that her brother is bleeding to death in the secured room, attempts to inject him with the C24 solution. He is afraid and begs her not to do it because he's sure he will turn into a monster because of the bad things he's done in his life. She remains convinced he is a good man and proceeds to inject C24 into his bloodstream. He then passes out, only to awaken and find he is superhuman. He then goes throughout the complex, killing all the monsters.

The point of bringing up this scene is that I wonder if people really know themselves. I consider myself a decent guy and yet I've done bad things in my life. I never intentionally try to hurt someone but sadly, I have on occasion. My friends and I discussed the movie and this particular event. I know...it does not bode well for us intellectually that we break off into discussion groups about this movie.

There was a scene I found erotic where the sister injects the serum into her brother. I do not however, mean to say the idea of a scene between a sister and brother is erotic. I found it strangely erotic to see the expression on her face as she injects the needle into his arm and while doing so, studies his facial expression. She was calm and quite confident in her judgement.

It made me think about a variety of things while this scene was playing out. One thing was: how exciting to see a smart woman who is so self-assured that she is risking her very life based on her "feelings" about a man she has known for a long time. She knows him better than he knows himself.

Something else I thought about was that "brains are sexy". By that I don't mean "brains" in the sense of a skeletal structure like you used to see in Biology class. The human skeleton that has the human skull that peels back like a tupperware lid to expose the brain. I'm talking about educated women who are confident in themselves. That is so damn sexy!

I wish that Alpha Females would unite and inject all men with a serum that makes us submissive to women and yet doesn't inhibit our masculinity. In other words: we don't become a bunch of sissy-babies. I'm fairly sure women don't want a bunch of "mamby-pamby men". I say "inject us with a serum" because I struggle with bouts of submission and frankly, it would be much easier if I had the responsibility of dealing with these feelings removed. My day would go much smoother, I think.

Maybe not....

Cards with the tards

Tue, 25 Sep 2007 02:27:40 GMT

Men tend to want to identify with male characters in movies and books. For example, I'm almost sure every man wants to play the part of Maximus from "Gladiator" as well as other macho parts. It seems to be a natural course of male evolution.

I tend to relate to an 80's teen movie called "Can't Buy Me Love".

The reason is simple: I think I need to pay women to talk to me. I don't know why but it's the truth. I mean I'm not ugly but for some weird reason, this is the only way I feel women will talk to me. But when I look back on the few women I really wanted to talk to, it still ended up costing me money. It's pretty pathetic but "it is what it is". I had a good thing going where a woman was very popular and every guy wanted to be near her. I just wanted to be near her as a friend but "as I got closer to her, it wasn't me anymore". Ok, so I stole that line from the movie but it makes sense and applies to me. It's sad that I take part of my life and compare it to a teen flick. Perhaps it would be more manly to be a Roman general and avenge the death of my beloved wife and child.

By the way, whatever happened to that blonde Goddess????

This journal was a good idea but it's time to move on and try something else. Hopefully, I've learned something.

Fast Love

Sat, 22 Sep 2007 16:49:22 GMT

I tried to sit down and write an erotic story based on submissive feelings that I have but it's not working. Coherent thoughts of submission that I think about get lost when attempting to put them on paper. The process is the same almost every time. I make the attempt only to have frustration set in.

I have come to the conclusion that I am conflicted with these thoughts of submitting to a woman. I have always been raised to protect women and assist them whenever I can. I do try to do that at all times. However, to try and write about "submission to her" on a deeper level causes me to falter. Men just don't do things like that. We don't kiss women's feet or my personal mental favorite: placing my lips to her knee while she smiles down at me. It makes for a great fantasy but I could never bring myself to do it in real life. I pride myself on being a strong man and kneeling before her is something I feel would make her think less of me. In certain social circles, she may think more of me but I have yet to find such social circles. Even then, I would be hard-pressed to express myself in that manner when she is physically in my presence.

If she requested that I fix her car, make dinner or clean the house; then I'm there. If she was being "playful" and pointed to her feet, suggesting a moment of private adoration, I still don't think I could do it. I wish I could just forget about it. To be honest, the feelings are beginning to dwindle in my submission to women on a lifestyle level.

This makes my whole sweater fetish seem justified. I can become "submissive" when viewing a woman in her sweater and feel like a man. Perhaps it's like guys who look at Playboy. They get aroused, masturbate and move on....like most men.

I stopped reading a lot of femdom journals because, in my opinion, the women are not dominant. This is not a negative towards them but why waste my time? There is a dominant woman's blog I read regularly but something about her writing gives me pause. She seems very nice and kind.... but that's the "kiss of death" for me.

On to another topic.....

There are songs that I believe make people think of sex. I usually do not think of sex in the normal sense. You know....two naked, sweaty bodies thrashing around on a bed....or in an eighteen wheeler at seventy-five miles an hour. Anyway, the song "Fastlove" by George Michael is one of those songs. For some reason, every time that song plays, I imagine myself carrying her to the bed, gently placing her on the soft sheets, leaning over and placing delicate kisses to her warm body. And then, while she traces her fingers over my broad shoulders and gently pulls me on top of her, I ease my hardness into her, feeling her feminine power engulf me and she knows it, releasing a contented sigh. My cock responds to the gentle dominance she displays and grows inside her and she uses it to pleasure herself......

So, these kind of thoughts go through me while listening to "Fastlove". That was until I realized that George is singing about gay sex....at least I think he is. I never really listened to the words carefully; what with all that sex going on in my head. I haven't found a new song yet although Enya is a front-runner.

Goddess Army

Sun, 16 Sep 2007 23:40:37 GMT

For some strange reason, everytime I see this photo, I think of a Goddess who is up on a throne, surveying her army. But I take out the swastika and replace it with a rose or something feminine. It would be so cool to have a woman leading strong submissive men to conquer the world. The black uniforms would be perfect but I'm afraid that she would want something more colorful and fashionable. She's a Goddess so I guess whatever she says....goes. Although I suspect that a woman who is a living Goddess would want strong men in black armour, chanting her name and not sniveling little wimps who do stupid, humiliating things on webcam.

By the way, autumn will be here shortly and then winter which means I will be in a perpetual state of arousal. I can control the money aspect but the submissive arousal I feel will always win.

Hail Miss Autumn and welcome!

Thu, 13 Sep 2007 23:47:34 GMT

I've had the good fortune over the past year or so, to spend time with the foremost authority on female dominance and bdsm in general. This Queen of all Alpha Females made me think a great deal about my relationships with women and what I was doing wrong. There was one woman in particular that we discussed.....

About five years ago, I stumbled onto a woman's website. It was a yahoo group run by a really interesting woman who provided a kind of "soft, feminine dominance" for her submissives. Up until that time, I was only used to one brand of "female dominance" and that was the harsh world of money slavery. It was real creepy. However, this woman was an Alpha Female, not a money-domme and I treated her like shit....at least most of the time. I thought she was messing with my head. By that, I mean she was so nice to me but presented an air of superiority that didn't make sense. After all, were not all women who engaged in bdsm total bitches who treated men like shit? That was my feeble argument and I used it frequently, blinded to her genuinely friendly manner. She had opened my eyes to a great many things and unfortunately, I kept closing them.

Now, it's one thing to close one's eyes to the truth about themselves; but it's another to be openly hostile to a woman you falsely believe is "playing around". I'm amazed that the only time in my life I've ever said horrible things to a woman was this woman. Someone who cared about me and how I was doing. She was a "D/s Therapist" of sorts and yet she never asked for a dime from me. I would donate to a charity in her name. That was the extent of our financial slavery arrangement. She wanted to be friends and in the course of our friendship, would explore the mental side of D/s.

Anyway, I bring this up because I came across some old files. I'm always finding stuff buried deep in the file-basement of my computer. The following is a little something I wrote a couple years before I even met her. It's not much to read but this little ditty set off some of the worst times I can remember. I sent this to her to read because I believed she would understand what I was trying to say:

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My Hidden Wish
I lay prostrate upon the soft carpet of Her den. The spit and crackle of a small fire in the hearth was the only sound to penetrate my ears during this critical moment. For I was to now present the most beautiful Woman to ever walk the earth with a humble gift for which I would be changed forever. I fervently hoped and prayed that this offering now held in my trembling hand would satisfy Her enough to allow me access to the Divine Realm where She ruled with absolute authority. I savored the unknown for a brief instant and then the pleasant thought was interrupted as the door opened and my Goddess entered….

I knew it was the Queen of my world. My life force cried out with joy at the presence of Immortality. I felt Her walk quietly toward my naked figure and stop at my bowed, unworthy head. The sweet smell of Her perfume intoxicated me, causing the blood within me to rush like the rapids in a distant canyon. From my prone position, I caught a glimpse of a black high-heeled shoe and a nylon-encased foot. I heard a soft chuckle as She sat down on a leather chair by the fireplace. It was then that my dreams were awakened from their slumber by Her soft voice that cracked my being like a thunderclap.

"Do you have something for Me?"

My breath came hard and fast and for a moment, thought I would pass out. Collecting myself quickly, I managed a hoarse reply,

"I do Goddess and…and I hope…"

My words failed from my lips. Feelings of dread cleverly made their way inside me, laughing at my incompetence. Not knowing what else to do, but wishing for the deafening silence to end on this hallowed ground, I cautiously handed her a simple manila envelop. She laughed gently and allowed me to escape my blundering ways with a well-placed foot to my head. I could feel the pressure of Her divine foot become stronger, pushing me further into the carpet as She opened the envelope and removed the contents. I knew what She would find, namely my stocks and bonds portfolio, the deed to my half-million dollar home and my two bank accounts. There was no sound save the occasional crinkle of paper as She looked at my offering. The dread inside me increased their vulgar attack, throwing knots around in my stomach and causing my accursed trembling to begin anew. Silence filled the room for a moment and then I heard Her sigh and then whisper to me softly, decreasing slightly the burden on my head.

"You have no regrets? This is done of your own free will?

I replied in a voice much stronger than what my beleaguered mind would have surmised,

"I do Goddess…with all my heart".

"Then, My dear slave, you will abide within My realm forever, working only to satisfy My desires. And because you are now penniless and without a home, I will care for you and look after your needs. Now, you may look at Me and see your Future."
And with that, She removed Her foot from me and I slowly began to move my eyes up to Heaven. I gazed reverently passed Her shoe, moving onto the silk skirt, the angora sweater and finally I reached Her glorious eyes. She smiled at me, a sparkle in them that took my breath away. Her voice brought me gently out of the bliss, in which I found myself, entwined.

"And now, I want you to thank me for what you have done."

I immediately lowered myself to Her foot and with a move that is born out of love; I kissed the shoe of true Feminine Power and pronounced to all that would hear,

"Thank You, Goddess"
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her response to my story was that she had experienced something similar in her relationship with her late husband. At first, I was amazed and then doubt creeped in and I thought she was the "Sweet Goddess of Bullshit". How could anyone experience that? She's just playing with my mind...a hypnodomme who does what she has to do to get into a man's head.

I realize now that she was just trying to help me gain some kind of footing in the realm of D/s. I fell constantly in those days and the reality now is that; had I listened to her from the beginning, I would not have wasted thousands of dollars. Cha-ching!

A Question of Hypocrisy

Tue, 11 Sep 2007 22:51:02 GMT

I started putting titles on my journal because I have this hope that someday, I will organize this journal into "easy to read" pages. I keep postponing because if I do that, it will make me appear conceited in that I believe I have readers. Also, I equate this business of blogging to having a bumper sticker on a car that states to the world how you are a "proud parent of some molly-coddled kid who will grow up thinking he is perfect until he gets into the real world and finds out how screwed-up it is".

All of that will never fit on a bumper, let alone a sticker so they shorten it to "proud parent of honor student". Yuck...I think I'll vomit now.

Of course, knowing this....I still blog.....

I came across this picture on ebay. I do not have an account there anymore but it doesn't stop me from looking. I can control myself now so my money is safely tucked away. This is from someone selling a sweater:

Now, my first reaction was: "Wow, what a sweater!"

However, I soon began to analyze this picture. If I had written to this person (hopefully, it's a woman)...wait, of course the picture is a woman but I mean the person who has the account. I've actually had a few ebay women tell me that their husbands control all the money and they must have his approval to do anything. Poor women....

Anyway, let's assume it's a "she" and I wrote to her asking if I could send money. I would be civil and stay away from being perverted. Only if she presses me for more information as to why I want to do it, will I engage deeper into my feelings. I mean after all, it is a very sexy pose. But it begs these questions:

Is she posing like that to give a better view of the sweater? Is the pose to turn on men so they will fork over money while they look at her breasts?
(Check out strip clubs for more info on that question)

Maybe she is a lesbian and wants to turn on women? Is "Lesbian" supposed to be capitalized?

In real life, does she pose like that when a friend comments on the nice outfit she's wearing?

If I happen to see her walking down the street, will she "huff in disgust" at my quick glance to her bosom area? Will she think I'm a creepy pervert? If I was eighty-five years old, would she think it was funny and cute that an old man still "has it"? How about if a guy looked like "Brad Pitt" instead of "Arm Pitt", would that make a difference? If he's "cute and sexy", does that negate the "creepy factor"?

Hmmm....

These are the thoughts that I wonder about. Probably, she just thinks it's a good pose to try and sell clothing. Yeah, that's it.....

Burning Questions, Part 1

Sun, 09 Sep 2007 16:58:07 GMT

I've decided, in Andy Rooney-esque fashion, to list some questions that have been on my mind recently. The order of these burning questions is random.

1. Do women feel comfortable wearing high-neck sweaters?
2. Is a turtleneck sweater worn by a woman merely for warmth on a chilly day...or is there a higher purpose?
3. Does fashion sense play any role in the turtleneck?
4. Why is it that in the bdsm world, there are so many pissed-off fat women?
5. Following up, why is it that in the bdsm world, there are so many pissed-off skinny women?
6. Why is it that in the bdsm world, there are so few men (like me) who search for real dominance in women?
7. Is there a reason that the majority of men in bdsm play games with women in the hopes of masturbating?
8. Why are female mannequins made to look so "dominant"?
9. Why would men pay $250-300 an hour to have a woman whip them?
10. How is it that submissive women seem so much more genuine than so-called dominant women?
11. Can women who claim to be superior please learn to spell correctly?
12. Can it be that my theory on evolution is correct and that there are maybe a handful of Alpha Females in the world today who are direct descendants of Female Aliens who, unfortunately, lost their beautiful planet billions of years ago to a comet?
13. How the heck can I convince the world that we are evolved from space dust of a feminine planet and men are merely a distorted being, diluted from millions of years of evolution. Women also are diluted with only a small minority holding the true keys to life from the now dead planet. (More on this later)
14. Why do thoughts like this go through my head?
15. Finally, why can I not walk up and down steps wearing flip-flops?

More questions to be answered later......

Tue, 04 Sep 2007 02:49:18 GMT

I found this article some time back and read it from time to time for inspiration. Even though most of humanity finds ADD to be fake, I don't....

http://www.usatoday.com/sports/baseball/nl/pirates/2007-07-18-PiratesADD_N.htm

Personal Hygiene Warning

Mon, 03 Sep 2007 15:59:51 GMT

I have no idea why I'm posting this other than to warn people everywhere who try to take care of themselves cosmetically. I guess you can call it cosmetic although personal hygiene seems to fit better.

The other day, while shaving, I noticed my eyebrows were beginning to look like wild brush. Well, maybe it wasn't that bad...it was more like a couple of hairs decided to do their impersonation of an insect's antennae. I quickly grabbed my electric razor that until now, was used to trim my goatee, and proceeded to clip the little hairs that were swaying in the breeze generated from the ceiling fan.

(I'm sorry for the descriptive detail but I'm using this journal to hone my creative writing skills)

The two hairs fought valiantly against the indestructible steel teeth of the razor. It was a battle of epic proportions as the two enemies squared off. Alas, the two hairs didn't have a chance against the coordinated effort of my firm hand and the razor of death. The two hairs were clipped mercifully and the last sound I heard trailing off into the after-shower mist was a desperate "noooo" emanating from the follicles as they drifted to the damp, cold tile below. I stood there in my man-suit for a moment, contemplating what I had just done. The razor was humming in a low, electrical, satisfied purr. I clicked the off button and as I placed the powerful weapon back into the charger, I noticed with grim sadness that there were some innocent casualties. It was shock and awe, to be sure.

In my haste to rid my eyebrows of the obnoxious hair, I accidentally shaved part of my eyebrow. I looked closer into the mirror and found that half of my eyebrow was missing. Well, not missing but shorn to the point where it would be extremely noticeable. I almost made the decision to shave my eyebrows completely and pretend I was an alien from the galaxy of Nonfollicledom. I come to earth as an advanced scout to see how easy it would be to conquer earth and force humanity to shave all of their hair so us aliens can have eyebrows. The petty humans would line up and enter strange-looking cubes and when they came out, their eyebrows were gone; replaced by a Flintstone water-proof band-aid. Of course, some of the humans would be sent to "Eyebrow Farms" where they would be treated well but made to regrow their eyebrows at an accelerated rate. There would be black, brown, red and blond hairs harvested on a daily basis. All of the hairless aliens would now have eyebrows and feel fulfilled in life and not be made fun of by the "Grouchies"; that disgusting band of mercenary aliens from the planet, Marx.

So please....when shaving any part of your body, remember to never let an over-active imagination flare up when participating in a mundane act of personal hygiene.

Manned Flight to Pluto

Sun, 26 Aug 2007 16:55:12 GMT

Recently, I watched a movie called "Silent Running" for the fifth time. The time span between views is about eight months to a year. For some reason, I'm drawn to the storyline about an astronaut who is alone in space with two robots after murdering the other three crew members. The whole premise of the movie is how America, in the future, has become a desolate wasteland without forests and other natural beauty. The United States sends plants and trees into space in huge ships to try and save what is left of the natural world and are cared for by astronauts.

The story focuses on one ship, "Valley Forge", and it's crew of three, less-than-thrilled about the mission men and one over-zealous nutbag who is in love with "his forest". The nutbag kills the other crew members, one by accident but sets the murder ball rolling when it is announced that all of the ships are to self-destruct and the crews must return to earth. The idea is that in the future, no one will care about flowers and trees because there is no imagination.

I watched it and had the same reaction I always do....

Why are they messing up a great story with these idiotic "Joan Baez vocals" at every twenty minutes? Now, I really don't care for Joan Baez music and this feeling is reinforced when watching this movie. I almost melt when watching the scenes where the songs are playing and the lone "astro-nut" is planting little trees. Now, I'm all for saving the earth and all her beauty but can we do it without the sappy "forests are our children" ditties? I personally could see myself alone with a couple of robots silently drifting off towards the rings of Saturn.

This last thought got me thinking about my future. I've decided that I want to be the first man to Pluto. Being a huge fan of NASA and the space program, I feel its imperative to explore the final frontier and see what's out there. I was listening to a college lecture on space and the professor stated that Pluto is not actually a planet but perhaps a moon. What? I grew up learning that Pluto is a planet and this is unheard of! So, I've decided to petition NASA to develop a new rocket-ship that will take me to Pluto so I can find out for myself. This might take years so I've requested that they speed up research on long-distance rockets. I know cryogenics will be involved so I've taken to sleeping in the refrigerator in preparation for the long, cold sleep.

Here is a laundry list of supplies I will need in no particular order:

1. Coke...lots and lots of coke. (The soft drink...although there's nothing "soft" about it)
2. DVD's....lots and lots of DVD's (including the entire films of Bruce Willis and Kate Beckinsale)
3. Books....lots and lots of books including the complete works of Margaret Weis and Robert Graves
4. One American Eskimo dog. (A dog is not "supplies" but I just thought of it)
5. Internet service that will last until at least Neptune. (This ain't supplies either)

Finally, and this is a "supply":

6. A plethora of female Androids with a huge wardrobe of sweaters to wear. I guess they can also work on the ship although I suspect that I will program them to be dominant so they will force me to do the "spacewalks and other mundane chores". The head Alpha Female Android will be named "Myrna" only because I don't know any other Myrna's.

So, these are some of the items I've brought to NASA's attention. Now I know I'm married and all but my reasoning for leaving my wife behind is simple. I will have her set for life in monetary terms because the government will compensate her for losing a noble husband to science. Besides, she will be filled with pride when she takes the kids to the Kennedy Space Center in Florida and see a launch pad named after their brave if somewhat foolish father.

I would write more but now have to do some training in a freezer and need to move the meat patties and frozen vegetables to accommodate my manly physique.

A thought just occurred to me....what if we have a new diet plan involving NASA? We send up fat people, who want to lose weight but have no willpower, into orbit for a few weeks. Living in space causes the loss of body mass so there wouldn't be any need for resilience in losing fat; just float around in a capsule for a few weeks and watch the pounds drift away (literally). But I imagine the cost would be extreme...what with the price of rocket fuel and the added weight.

Tue, 10 Jul 2007 01:14:50 GMT

I think I've finally come to grips with my whole sweater fetish thing. I have an interest in seeing pretty women wearing sweaters....big deal. However, I'm still debating with a friendly and encouraging voice in my head about why I want to give sweater-clad women money. In the past, I have tried to mix the female dominant world of bdsm with my sweater fetish. At every turn, it was a disaster. My trek into the Fem-Dom world started with those money slavery yahoo groups. I never gave much money because early on, I realized it was a waste of time. I needed to correspond with a woman who felt she was superior but not because she had a vagina. She knew she was a dominant woman because of her success in school, social situations and life in general. None of the women I attempted correspondence with fit into that category. There really was something creepy about the whole financial slavery thing. Oh, and there still is....

I occasionally visit several websites, blogs and such that feature women who wish to take money from men. For me, it has become "entertainment" of sorts. I still harbor a certain resentment towards women who use men and their weaknesses for monetary gain. But the resentment is fading and is being replaced by scorn for these monkey-headed men who take pictures of themselves in humiliating positions. I mean really....if these women can make an easy buck from a bunch of weak-willed morons, then who am I to care? And I know from whence I speak; for I too was among the herd of morons who left their brain cells at the door and blindly threw dollars at women (in sweaters of course).

I don't know if that last sentence made sense (the "whence" part) but who cares....I'm on an Attention Deficit Disorder roll.

I know I will never go back to my brainless ways again. Spending thousands on eBay has cured me of that. And also, a very smart woman told me it's not very moral to throw your fetish on unsuspecting eBay women....and she's right. Although, there were a few women who gladly took my money and I don't blame them.

Financial Domination sure has changed over the years. Geez...I sound like one of those old guys you see sitting on a park bench, feeding the pigeons circling at his feet, criticizing everything and everybody in the world. When I first came across money slavery, it was in various yahoo groups. Actually, the first time was in a magazine and it was Princess Sierra, who I believe is the first woman to really understand how weak men are and use it to her advantage....under the umbrella of financial domination. Outside of Fin-Dom, Cleopatra was probably the first female to use men's weakness against them in a general sense. Or maybe it was Delilah....

Anyway, it amuses me to see how stupid women are when it comes to this idiotic bdsm area. I'm not talking about the smart women. It's fairly easy to see who is legitimately dominant and who is living in a trailer park somewhere looking for an easy buck. I have no qualms with educated women using men. They should be held in high esteem as they use their own talents of brains and beauty to succeed in life. Well, "high esteem" might be pushing it. I do seem to notice a burgeoning trend going on that is hilarious to me.

Why is it that so-called dominant women pose on video-cam or take pictures of themselves with their fingers fixed in the "L" position? I assume it means they are telling us men that we are losers ("losers", not "loosers"). But I cannot help laughing at the fact that the gesture seems to backfire and they themselves are being labeled losers. In the good old days, we all had something called "proof-pics" which basically assured potential dumb-asses like me that the women in the photo holding a piece of paper with her name on it, was in fact the "dominant woman" who will milk you of money. I had a few male friends who would find it humorous to see this silly act. Ah yes, they were the good old days. I miss them....my friends, not the yahoo groups.

Now-a-days, I will read a woman's words on her website and/or blog and if she has a good grasp of the English language, I'll read through. I may find her interesting and it's definitely refreshing to see decent grammar coming out of the financial domination arena. The exception is of course, the increasing number of German ladies who seem to be cropping up all over Fin-Dom Land. They would obviously have a difficult time writing in English.

I'm rambling again and my ADD has taken hold so I will stop before I completely lose my train of thought. This is a journal after all and I can put down whatever I want.

One final thought about financial domination:

There were maybe three women in my many years of exploring Fin-Dom who never asked for a dime from me. They all just wanted to correspond with me because I was interesting. I'm not saying it...these women said it. I frankly never understood why a woman would find me interesting. They were all Alpha Females in every sense of the word and I do not correspond with any of them anymore. It's all of my own insecurities and it's really sad.

Oh well....