Being Callahan

I like to think that if my name was Callahan, a fifty-eight year old double bass player in a Jazz band, and I needed to do something for my fitness, but still wanted to feel cool, so I had chosen to go to a Jazz dancing class, although I was now doubting the wisdom of my plan, and I was currently standing in front of the Jazz dancing class building, trying to talk myself into going in, I would mutter something like this under my breath:

‘You promised you'd do something for your cardiovascular health. You promised. This is perfect. It's Jazz. It says so right in the name. Sure you've been playing Jazz for forty years now and never really seen any dancing, at least not anything that has a consistency that could be classed into a style or approach, but still, Jazz man, this must be run by some cool cats.

Ok, don't drop into clichés now, you don't have to justify your Jazz credentials, have these guys played bass in a variety of bands in several cities, over the years to probably literally dozens of people? No you have. Just be yourself, do some Jazz dancing and you can Jazz up your sax appeal. Yeah, that's pretty smooth. I am a real Jazz dude, fuck, did I just say “Jazz 'dude”, no no no no, it's Jazz “cat”, why are you doubting your Jazz credentials, why are you censoring yourself, agghh this is Jazz hard.

You're Callahan for god’s sake. Just say your name when you get in, “I'm Callahan, I'm here for Jazz” and they'll probably hand the class over to you. “Oh my god, you're Callahan? The Callahan? From Frilly and the Gators? And the Buck Hampton Trio? THE CALLAHAN? From Lester’s Revenge? Oh my god!’ they'll probably say. “Oh yes, I've seen some things, thumbed some grooves, drank some bourbon with people most people think aren’t even real, only legends” you'll be able to say. “Oh I remember a night in Mobile Alabama, after a four week bender in New Orleans, where we said we were going to dry out, before ending up in the basement of this cat Gunter's establishment, where we went on a seven hour improvisation that had more than fourteen trombone solos, TROMBONE!” That’s the kind of story these folk all probably dream of hearing, and these are the exact type of stories you ooze.

Oh who are you fucking kidding? You're here because your doctor said “lose some weight, lay off the booze and maybe you'll still be here in five years”. But it's the lifestyle man. The lifestyle. I am Jazz, and Jazz isn't safe man, Jazz is reckless, Jazz is free, Jazz doesn't turn down a shot of whiskey just because he's already had a bottle, Jazz says yes, oh maybe your washboard players might say “not for me thanks, I don't want to lose control of my senses, the washboard don't play itself man” and then they have washboard abs. But those are the washboard guys, and they aren’t me.

It’s not like I chose bass. I didn't choose bass man, bass chose me man. Those cats were playing and I was playing harmonica, and then the bass player quit cause he didn't like the vibe man, and I picked it up and didn't look back man. That’s beauty man. That's romance man. That’s what it’s all about.

And now you're fat and it's your heart that doesn't like the vibe man. Well sometimes the vibe doesn’t feel right, you don’t have the groove in your heart, and the trumpet player has been stabbed in the parking lot over his last cigarette, but the show must go on. And because of that, I shall now dance’.

Wow, if my name was Callahan and I was a fifty-eight year old double bass player with arteries as blocked up as highway behind a brutal big-rig pile up, life would be sweet, I can just imagine it – fourteen trombone solos, that’s Jazz wow.

Top Ten Things I'd say to David Letterman if...

Top ten things I'd say to David Letterman if post retirement he moves to Sydney and right next door to me 

10. Oh hey.

9. Hello again.

8. Yeah sometimes the lifts take ages, oh wait, I mean elevators.

7. The 7-11 down the road is probably the only thing open now.

6. No that definitely wasn't me, I don't even like Latin Beats 

5. What were Drew Barrymore's boobs like?

4. I've got ten to noon.

3. No number three writers instead made a non verbal eye brow raise matched with friendly smirk in lieu of verbal awkward mutual waiting for elevator small talk.

2. Hi, how are you?

1. Want to do a podcast with me? 

This one will be super galvanising

If you ask me (and people do frequently, just to nip any naysaying square in the bud before it has a chance to do grow, and let’s face it, growth can sometimes lead to an increase in size for fuck’s sake) there simply is nothing on earth quite as galvanizing as the unintended grisliness of being groovy.

Now I know that's a controversial thing to say. Highly controversial. So I'll let it sit with you for a moment. To let it sink in. And fully affect your regions where things sink to. I prefer to use my brain, so I mostly take things in and then let them rise up, but I am not everyone.

As you accept this statement into your heart I do ask for just one favor, before you make your placards, before you write to your elected officials, before you riot with water pistols at your local joke book store ironically called 'dry wit', before you play your favorite Michael Jackson protest song, before you graffiti slogans of independent thought onto the side of light rail carriages, before you shake your fist saying something like 'grrrr', before you burn down a whole mall to save you burning down each of your target stores independently even knowing full well that an innocent food court Cambodian food start up that admittedly was failing and will be thankful for the chance to claim insurance and pretend this entire ordeal be finally over, will accidentally get mixed up in your cause, and be burned down against your specific wishes, or at least in contrast to your specific goals, before your bazooka a rival gang's secret headquarters without explaining how you FOUND OUT that secret, before you declare all out war against a nation of peace loving neutral island living resort owners, before you light yourself on fire on the steps of parliament surprisingly on the west side steps, the ones next to the fountain, before you go on a hunger strike and stitch your lips together, before you... and I hate to even think about this... but before you push over a chair in disgust.

Just hear me out. Ok? I know it's a brutally controversial statement, and l know you wish for the acknowledgment of an unheralded level of statement of disagreement, but I can defend it. So you'll listen? Deal? ANSWER ME YOU PSYCO FUCK????

Oh wait, this isn't an audible medium, I assume you agreed.

Nothing on earth is as galvanizing as the unintended grisliness of being groovy, because:

The term to be 'groovy' comes from the 'grooves' on vinyl records.

Vinyl was also used to make faux leather jackets.

Jackets keep you warm in mild cold.

Mild is how pussies order the spice level of their Buffalo Chicken Wings.

Chickens being an animal who never 'intended' to be mostly coveted for their wings, especially seeing as they can't fly, and frankly they personally consider their beaks to be their tastiest part.

Their beaks being the only part of their body their tongues can reach.

Reach being how you acquire something on the other side of the table.

Things like salt, pepper and a myriad of other potential condiment options, which have the ability to dazzle the senses and enhance foodstuffs whether already superb or in dire need of help.

The marriage of need and help being proof of mankind's inherent instinct for compassion, and in no way at all undermines the sanctity of the more traditional marriage, between a boy and his cousin even though they look strikingly alike, due to them being the only two people in town on the exact same class structure.

And compassion being one of the few words to guarantee bringing to mind ‘compression’, an important part of the process of vinyl record production, which brings us full circle.

Circles being nature’s strongest shape, other than triangles, and possibly rhombuses.

So there you have it. That settles that.  If you didn't wait you may now jump in the fountain and put yourself out, unstitch your lips and eat a Cambodian Noodle Soup, or ..... and I hate to even think about this... pick up the chair you pushed over.

The important thing is that now we're all on the same page, and no one has even the slightest bit of doubt as to why the unintended grisliness of being groovy is super galvanizing.

Oh wait, also because if you're groovy there's also the grisly reality that someone else is not so lucky and perhaps feels lonely and left out which raises the very galvanizing topic of whether utter equality is a possibility, or should even be a social goal.

Goals being things only achievable with effort.

Effort being something that tastes like shit, no matter what condiments you have available. A bit like Cambodian food apparently. Ahhh. Full circle.

A solution to the censorship issue:

I think life is like that old saying:

'You're cursed by aliens if you do - You're possessed by the devil if you don’t - Either way you end up with a cool story to tell'.

Like most sayings based on undeniable truth, there is a lot of truth in this saying, wisdom even. But this saying makes it seem like those are the only two options, when what you really should be attempting is to make the aliens think you didn't, when you kind of did, and make the devil think you did when you kid of didn't, and if you get the timing just right you can end up in the possession of an alien possessed by the devil, and those are worth some serious coin on the black market (there are too many taxes on the regular market).

The point is that here at David Tieck and his Fleeting Forever we normally stay away from social and political issues. This is for a very simple reason - debate is healthy, possibly even necessarily, to help maintain a vibrant society capable of sustaining a diverse spectrum of differing yet valid opinions on a multitude of issues with constantly morphing factors that persistently shift the dynamics of problematic reasoning - and typically when I throw in my two cents that all goes away as people say stuff like 'oh of course, Dave's one hundred percent right, debate settled, all hail our messiah'.

Ok, thanks guys, obviously I'm proud of being a messiah, but just because I'm one hundred percent right there's no need to end the debates, watching people get infuriated by semantics is entertaining. Plus people saying really, really dumb stuff? Hilarious.

Having said that I think there is one issue we need solved right now. I'm ready for my two cents. I'm ready to end this right now, I am of course talking about how it's really, really a teeny bit annoying that various spellchecks think when you type 'fucking' that you actually meant to write 'ducking'.  NO I DIDN'T!

I've already talked before about the damage this type of thing is doing to the kids, and because I'm not someone who complains about something without offering a solution, I solved it with this video right here:

But this only flawlessly solved one aspect of the problem. The insignificantly annoying censorship remains (and insignificant is a long important sounding word). Well, I am not one to complain about something without offering a solution, and I say we need to fight this miniscule annoyance with absolute brutal carnage. 

I think as a world, just to fight spellcheck assuming we meant 'ducking', we should agree that 'ducking' now means 'cancer raping pedophile victims'.

Boom.

Oh you don't want me saying ‘fucking’ spellcheck? What would you prefer 'cancer raping pedophile victims'? You sick bastards.

Take that minor censorship; you can stick your judgment up my ducking ass!

Today's blog proudly brought to you by ‘Devil Possessed Aliens’ - buy one today from Messiah Online.

The Lonely Doormat

The lonely doormat was lonely. 

'Hi, I'm a doormat and I'm lonely' it would often say.  

It didn't get used as often, or as nicely, as it used to, was the reason it was lonely. 

'The man of the house comes and goes via the garage entrance mostly these days, the lady of the house wears something called "heels" that friggin STAB me, and the teenage girl of the house seems prefer leaving the house in the middle of the night out of her bedroom window only to return home an hour or so later with a mysterious gooey substance running down her leg' the lonely doormat would say, as to why it was lonely. 

'Also my name is "the lonely doormat" it's a bit of a prick of a name to be born with, hard to escape, just like "Sally the Sociopathic Scorpion Sending Simpleton" of course she would end up being a little simple. You got to be more careful when you friggin name stuff people' it would say as to why it was lonely.

Sometimes the lonely doormat would cry. 

Sometimes it'd cry at night. 

'Wwwaaaahhhh look there's the moon waaaaggghh' it'd cry.

Sometimes it'd cry in the day. 

'Wwwaaaahhhh look there's the sun waaaagghh' it'd cry.

Sometimes it would cry at in-between day and night times.

'Wwwaaaahhh look there is low light lots of color in the sky plus I can see the moon, only its a pale white and not lit up waaaaaggghh' it'd cry. 

All hope seemed lost for the lonely doormats hope of one day hoping not to be lonely. 

'Waaaaggghh I can't find my hope, maybe I left it in my other pants waaaagghh' it'd cry. 

But then then it met a new friend - the cheeky bathmat that had been dumped on the porch by the lady of the house after the man of the house kept getting pee on it, seriously is it that hard to aim? Grow up! (You're welcome ladies). 

'Hi I'm the cheeky bathmat, I lived in the bathroom till I got covered in pee, I guess I'm just the type of thing that everything's ATTRACTED to' it would say trying to show off how cheeky it was. 

They had a whirlwind romance, although they prefer to call it the more technical 'tornado romance' - seeing as it was literally a tornado  that blew them together - lifted em up and slapped them together like a square of cheese slapping on a wet kitchen floor.

Just a big moist slap. 

SSSSSLLLLLAAAAAPPP. 

It's lucky they liked each other - because once they we're blown together they basically had each other's fronts utterly covering, consuming, and engulfing one another. 

Sure, if the attraction had not been reciprocated someone could have tried to peel them apart, but let's face it both these mats had all sorts of gross stuff on them, pee, particles of dog-shit, a saturated flyer from dominoes pizza that had also gotten caught in the wind, half a slug. 

'Is that half a slug crawling around between us, or am I just happy to see you' the cheeky bathmat said to the lonely doormat, being all cheeky 'oh it's actually half a slug, sorry, that's right, we're mats, we don't have genitalia' It added, being slightly less cheeky. 

But then one day the man of the house found a teenage boy climbing out of his daughters window and upon first sight the man just had an awful thought 'that boy looks like when he arrived here he probably was carrying a mysterious gooey substance in his body somewhere, but now he looks exactly that amount of mysterious gooey substance lighter!' 

The lonely doormat now lives in a shallow grave in the forrest wrapped around the leaky brain segment of the corpse of a teenage boy who had been shot in the face by the man of the house. 

His beloved, the cheeky bathmat, lies adjacent to him, balled up around the teenage boys nose, which had been shot clean off his face and ended up comically stuck to the teenage girl of the houses window, glued on with both blood and some mysterious gooey substance. 

And the lonely doormat and the cheeky bathmat mat lived happily ever after.

Well until sniffer dogs found them and they were separated into air tight 'evidence bags' but that was days away, which is a long time in the life of a mat, so meh. Plus why do they deserve lasting love more than you or I, right? Fuck em. 

The end 

Did the world end?

Things I think I'd think if I hypothetically accidentally slept till 1020pm:

- The clock says 10:20 so why is it dark out?

- Fuck my clocks broken. 

- Ok my watch says 1020 too. 

- Could both be broken?

- Oh, wait it's just still 1020 at night I can go back to sleep, thank fuck. 

- Wait, I didn't go to bed till 3am, it can't be still 1020pm.

- But it IS 1020.

- This makes no sense. 

- Is it just still dark at 1020am.

- What time of the year is it?

- Did the world end? 

- Or just the sun? 

- Surely that'd make noise?

- What's going on?

....

- Oh holy hell. It's 1020pm the NEXT day. 

....

- That's, fuck, what the hell?

- That's pathetic.

- No one can EVER know. 

- Fuck, I just want to go back to sleep and pretend this day never existed. 

- Which it basically didn't. 

- Fuck it. 

- Ah man, but I have to do my daily blog. 

- I can't think of anything. 

- I could write about 'this'. 

- But no one can ever know.

- Can I later pretend this is just a 'hypothetical' situation so I don't feel so embarrassed.

- Yep. Done. 

- Boom. 

Totally Tastless

I think if you were ever going to pretend that one of your senses didn't work so that you could secretly listen in on lots of conversations, the best one to go with would be your sense of taste!

Think about it:

- It'd be easy to pull off because people hardly ever randomly microscope your tongue.

- You'd never get invited to dinner with friends so they'd feel free to say things knowing you're not around to hear them, conversations you could easily bug.

- You couldn't go on dinner dates and with zero social life you'd have time to listen to the tapes. 

- The tapes would be interesting because without eating yummy food for ages you'd lose weight so people would be talking about how slim and sexy you look. 

-  And by being all slim and sexy you'd get probably get to find out about all the awesome dates you could be getting if you weren't a no taste loser. 

-Even if someone did randomly microscope your tongue, that's not how you tell if someone can taste or not. 

Oh, so let me guess, you're thinking that if you want to secretly listen in on stuff then my plan is clearly awesome and flawless, but still why wouldn't you just pretend you couldn't hear, and therefore just listen in on people right in front of them?

False! 

Think about it:

- To pull off making people think you were deaf you'd have to speak like deaf people speak. 

- Which could be perceived as mocking.

- Get ready to have your mind blown...

- And mocking deaf people is totally .... TASTELESS!! 

Wow. 

The crate was full

The crate was full. 

Oh, not of things. 

No not things.

For things are boorish.

Things are stationary.

Things are selfish.

Things are standoffish.

Things are stale. 

I mean there WERE things in the crate.

I'm not denying that. 

Just that they are not important.

Things rarely are.

Until they are.

Upon which time.

Importance is thrust upon them like a seal eating a banana. 

With its feat.

It makes no sense.

But why should it.

Other creatures dietary habits are none of your business. 

Unless you're a professional animal feeder. 

In which case it's utterly your business.   

There was a receipt in the crate. 

For a staple gun. 

Yet this crate was not at the hardware store. 

A clear sign that the receipt was put in the crate before the crate arrived at its current location. 

Clear signs being something else you can purchase at the hardware store.

But only big ones that seemingly sell everything. 

Big stores that seemingly sell anything that is, not clear signs that sell everything. 

Which would be super cool.

Except neither would sell the one thing you really need.

Which is love.

And respect. 

And opportunity. 

What, you thought the one thing you really need would be a hammer?

Well the hardware store definitely sells those.

So unless you have nails that are currently not inside wood and that this scenario is holding you back in some significant way then you do not 'need' a hammer. 

Maybe a paperclip. 

But I won't judge. 

The crate held a solution to the mystery of time. 

Or as they're commonly known - a 'time telling device'. 

Or as 'THEY'RE' commonly known - a friend who owns a watch. 

It's a big crate.

I perhaps should have mentioned that. 

The crate also holds a hair.

A brown one.

Straight.

Which is more comforting than a curly one. 

But less comforting than a hair with seven miniature societies at war with reality on them.

Relative size being something we are all comforted by.

Save the one whale who eats the billions of plankton!

Being a common war cry.

Or is it krill?

Does anyone really know? 

The answer is yes.

This is a big crate.

But it did not hold a whale.

Not because it's not big enough for a whale.

But mostly because making it water tight would require an internal membrane of leak proof glass.

And membranes are icky. 

No the crate was not empty. 

Not of things. 

But the crate was empty.

Of non-things.

Which are often more important than things.

Happiness brought on by a new relationship with a new car that was purchased by a new boss who has a new relationship with a new corporate credit card is not a thing.

Neither is sleeping with your boss.

But both involve grunt work.

Which is also not a thing. 

At least not a physical thing.

Which are the easiest things to point at.

'Check out that thing' for example. 

Yes the crate was full. 

But not of things. 

Oh no, not things. 

For things are common.

Things are misinformed.

Things are inanimate.

Things are quiet. 

This crate was full of non-things.

Like possibly.

Like opportunity. 

Like stale stench of a boss exploiting his position of power to be generous in exchange for generosity. 

That's pretty sweet. 

And icky.

Like the membrane that's absence killed the whale.  

This will warm your heart

What I think I'd say if I was asked to address a room of people on the issue of feeling cold in your home but at the last minute told 'oh, and please don't offend anyone'. 

Hi everyone. One way I've found in my life that I can deal with coldness, or the issue of coldness is to put a quilt on myself. I have a nice warm quilt on my bed, but I'll pull it into the living room from time to time, if the weather demands it, and say I want to watch a film, so I know I'll be there for a while. Yes quilts can be nice and warm. 

Not that quilts are your only option. There are things you can use as a quilt if you don't have access to a quilt, which would be sad. Because quilts are awesome. Especially if it's cold. So I'm not denying that sadness. I never would. Nor am I saying there definitely is sadness. It might not be cold where you are. Or you may also have a quilt. All I'm saying is that if you currently wish you had access to a quilt but you don't there are alternatives available to you. Well maybe they're not available to you. I don't know everything you have available to you. Just that there are options. 

Also some people call them Doonas, or Duvets. And reserve the word quilt for a traditional patchwork creation which may be ceremonial or artistic and potentially have community or family connections, and possibly even sentimental value. And I'm not saying you should pull one of those down from the wall, or out of your safety deposit locker at the bank, just cause you're a tad cold. Or a lot cold for that matter. Nor am I saying that your current feelings of coldness do not warrant this type of drastic action. Not that it necessarily is a drastic action. I am sure your grandmother would prefer your family quilt handed down through the generations to keep you warm than to be locked away while you freeze. But I don't know your grandma. Perhaps she values lasting tradition more than anything. Perhaps sacrifice matters to her. Her section of that quilt may represent life going on after she lost your grandfather in one of the world wars. Perhaps being cold and looking at that may be a way of remembering the past. I don't know your family history. Maybe your ancestors were on 'the other side'. I don't know. Then again there is something to be said for the beauty in past war enemies being friends and allies only a generation or two later. Not that there is ANY beauty in war. Well there is. A soldiers hand reaching out to save a lost child and reunite her with her parents she thought had perished. But then that isn't necessarily actually part of the war. Just cause something is happening in the same place and time as a war doesn't mean that it's part of that war. And maybe those parents are assholes. There are bad parents out there. That's just a fact. So if you were once estranged from your parents and no soldier reunited you I'm not saying that that was necessarily a horrible thing. It may have been. Maybe neither option was good. There isn't always a good or better alternative. Sometimes we have to choose between two or more bad options. And I'm not saying there are always options or alternatives. Sometimes it's ok to face something hard just by dealing with it. There is pride in that. Not that being proud is all there is. Some people don't have anything to be proud of right now. That's sad. But it's true. And if that's your case it doesn't make you less of a person. It's just the situation you're currently in. That's all we ever have. Now and this. It's not any of our duties to judge or commentate on other peoples here and nows. Or our own. Some people have mental illness. They don't choose it. These are just realities. Not that this means you should just give into them. They can be fought, they can be managed, they can be helped. Not that you are any less of a person if you face these battles and have not yet found the will needed for the fight. It's not your fault. Maybe it's hereditary. It could be your parents fault. Or they may have done all they can. Parenthood is not a science, nor is it an art. Not that if you take an artistic or scientific approach to parenthood that you're doing it wrong.

Look, blankets! Fucking blankets. That's an alternative to quilts. Fucking blankets. Although technically a quilt lives in the umbrella of the blanket genre of bedding and linen-ware. Not that I'm an expert. 

Ok, look, I don't fucking know why I was asked to give this speech. Confession - I have a space heater in my apartment. That's how I deal with the cold. And if you don't have one then it's not my fucking fault, stop fucking expecting other people to solve YOUR fucking problems. You fucking assholes. 

Powerfully Persuasive

I like to think that if I was a Sheik who loved hardwood floors but had accidentally told my aids to floor the entire apartment with tiles having mistakenly thought the wood panels on floors were long thin brown tiles, and I didn't to embarrass myself by admitting my mistake, but also didn't want freaking tiles on the living room floor like a bloody bathroom, 'I mean my god, guests might end up pissing on the humidor thinking its a fancy cat box for humans', I'd try and psyche myself into 'changing my mind', probably while blaming my dad (no one really likes him anyway) and getting the hardwood floors I desired in the first place, by looking in the mirror and saying the following: 

Look at you. Standing proud. Tall. Sexy. Not at all pathetic. Proud in fact. Not that you have anything to be proud about. But you don't let that stop you. Do you. And that's something to be proud about. 

Look at your satisfying amount of armpit hair. Not too much. Not too little. Some hints of roll on deodorant chunks still not dissolved. Showing cleanliness in an unclean way. Just cause Sheiks traditionally have beards but yours is too patchy to look at all decent is nothing to feel less of a man about. Armpit hair is fine. And yours is swell. No wonder you're not wearing a shirt. Although probably should put one on before you tell Ahgkmad about the floors.

No no, we're not there yet, confidence please Glen. Fuck, why did my dad call me Glen, it's so unsheiky, that fuck, and that's exactly why it's perfectly ok to blame him for this floor fiasco. I mean he bought half the cigars in the humidor so it benefits him anyway. Also 'that's so unsheiky' sounds like a pop song one of these modern pop stars would sing, them and their arrogant 'I'm not even completely sure what a Sheik is, and therefore this might be offensive' ways. Those fools. 

Look at you getting off track like a trackless track star. If your body wasn't so amply unbuffed in a sexy sort of 'I'm too powerful to need to be buff' way, you could totally drop a tracksuit on it. 

You're a confident, virile, important man. Look at that bulge. I bet even if the threat of beheadings wasn't in the air all the wenches STILL wouldn't complain about that. 

I wonder how hardwood floors handle beheading blood? The bathroom tiles sure are perfect for it. So easy to clean. I guess it wouldn't be all bad if they were in the living room too.

No Glen. That's not what you want. Hardwood floors please. 

Look at you confident. Strong. Handsome. Important. Manly. You always look so great in this bathroom mirror. You look good with white behind you. You should have that all the time. Wait those are tiles. Shut up. I don't want tiles in my living room. 

Do they actually have human cat litter box things so you can piss in your living room? That'd be pretty sweet actually. Plus the wenches will be impressed if I'm always whipping it out in the living room. 

Aggh. They love everything. They're required to. Just once I'd like to be told no. To not get everything my way. 

Look at you Glen you're pathetic. You're trying to talk yourself into 'wanting' the tiles, because you're too much of a pussy to admit you made a mistake, and to look stupid for not knowing that hardwood floors weren't tiles. And you're going to succeed in doing it because you're a brilliant powerful man who could talk anyone into anything so of course you'll talk yourself into this.

Plus Ahgkmad is scary. 

So it's settled. Tiles it is. Can't wait to behead a wench in the LIVING-ROOM! I'm going to go for the very next one who laughs at my patchy beard.