The little I know about Facebook tells me it’s really not for people who wish to make use of social media without others knowing what they look like. As I understand it, they called it Facebook in the first place because you are required by company policy to show your face. However, some people just don’t feel comfortable revealing their faces online to the rest of the world. Who knows what sicko out there might take a screen shot of it and manipulate it in Photoshop to make it look like you have leprosy, then do something that causes the photo to "go viral" such that your mother passes out. Anyway, I believe someone (me! Or I!) should create a social media site for these faceless people.
My first thought was to call it “AssBook,” and instead of posting photos of their faces, users would show their asses. This got me a lot of interesting and really adamant responses from friends and relatives. I’m not convinced they really understood what I was imagining or could visualize the grandeur of the site the way I did. I was envisioning millions (billions?) of people all over the world revealing their asses instead of their faces. As a result, I agreed to tweak the name of the site to mollify these complainers, and settled on AssFace. Because of this new name, I’m going to require users of my site to show a picture not just of their ass, but of their ass’s face.
Of course, I’ve been informed that it’s harder to obtain an ass than you might think. It’s not like you can go down to the hardware store and buy yourself one.
Not My Ass
The wild ass above is not mine, but I’d be pleased if it were. I obtained the photo from the website FactZoo.com. Sure, it’s one of the odder looking wild assess I’ve ever seen, and precious little in the way of this individual’s history and behavior is offered on the site, but still, I would surmise that it's a young and, quite possibly, strong ass. I would be honored to show off this ass on my AssFace page.
Sorry. Getting word over the headphones that the animal pictured above is not, in fact, an ass (wild or otherwise). Repeat, the above is not a wild ass. Rather, it is a “jackass,” or a male mule. Well that makes a little more sense! So now I have to decide if I’m going to change the name of the site to “JackassFace” or leave well enough alone.
However, I believe I have solved the problem of what to do about getting asses to our citizens who are so clearly in need of them. I’m going to start a program called “Adopt a Wild Ass.” This will create a “virtual” way to obtain an ass from, say, Africa, or parts of Asia. Now I just have to find a way to get native peoples digital cameras and the means to send us photos of our adoptees. E-mail attachment is what I’m thinking. (Note to self: work on getting native peoples the infrastructure needed to power their homes so they can buy computers and send e-mail to me).
There comes a time in every male person’s life when he must finally make use of the fly on his trousers. Standard-issue zippers that sit front and center on one’s pants are useful to humans of the female persuasion mainly to aid in getting slacks on and off; to us males, it serves the more practical and essential function of enabling us to expel unneeded fluids without our peers having to look upon our bare bottoms. No doubt, urinals and pee-troughs weren’t invented until some form of the fly was, which afforded a man quick and (relatively) discrete access to his “member,” as they used to call it in porn magazines of my childhood (and perhaps still do – I wouldn’t know).
Still, boys don’t go right from using diapers to employing the zipper fly on their miniature trousers. Zippers and snaps are nothing but a pain to a 4 year old child, there to mimic their father’s clothing and make them look like cute little adults, which they are not. Despite the fact that adult men are famous for sticking their penises through things, it’s not something that comes naturally to a young boy. It takes practice to get through the two layers of clothing one is typically clad in. When it comes time to pee, young boys prefer taking the easier route of dropping their drawers right down to their ankles in the men’s room of Fenway Park, or else not bothering with niceties and letting it all out in their dungarees.
Eventually, boys become able to manage their snap and zipper combinations and see the value of releasing their pee without revealing themselves to the world around them. At least most boys do. Recently, I made use of a public restroom and came upon an adult gentleman with his trousers down and his naked cheeks getting some air right there at a urinal. So startling and discomfiting was the image that I actually did one of those sitcom double-takes just as the bottomless man was glancing over his shoulder to see who had come into his personal bathroom.
Perhaps this man had some penile affliction that made it painful to use the zipper function on his pantaloons, but if that were the case, he might have opted for a stall, of which three were available. Having said that, I know of no law that prevents a man from exposing his bottom while peeing, except, perhaps, the laws of good judgment and tact that we all are meant acquire as we age.
Every weekend I turn on the TV in search of professional football, and I’m always relieved to find the Dallas Cowboys on. Even though the Cowboys aren’t based anywhere close to me geographically and have only the most peripheral of connections to us folks in New England, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t get to see them each and every weekend. Thankfully, I can sleep at night knowing that one of the very few games I will see on Sunday or Monday will feature those lovable Secessionistas, despite the extremely low odds that they will make the playoffs. (I also love seeing Jerry Jones all the time. He seems like a great guy! I wish they’d do more one-on-one interviews with him.)
Seeing Tony Romo on TV every weekend also reminds me that my Dad felt very connected to the Dallas Cowboys. He loved Roger Staubach, not just for his football playing capacities and the fact that he forewent his prime years in the game in order to serve in the US Navy, but also because he apparently attended mass regularly.
But back to the Cowboys: they currently hold a record of six and six and thereby are mathematically still capable of making the playoffs. If they do somehow make the playoffs, we’ll get to see them on TV one more time (losing to some weak-ass NFC outfit). This just adds to their appeal and my delight in finding them on my television practically 24/7.
I know this isn’t really possible, but because I hold “America’s Team,” as the Cowboys are called, in such high esteem, I grasp onto faint hope that some magical week may appear in the NFL Calendar which has the Cowboys playing all three nationally-televised night games: Sunday, then Monday, then Thursday.
( I know, I know: “Dream On!”)
Once a year or so, I take my kids to a park to run them around under the guise of showing them how much fun it is to fly a kite. I also take them fishing once a year, expecting the march to the fishin’ hole to extract a certain number of the day’s footsteps from their under-exercised frames. The difference is, when I take them fishing they ultimately catch fish, whereas when I take them kite flying they do not catch fish. Unfortunately, neither do they end up flying kites.
We have a large park in our neighborhood, with tennis courts, basketball courts, 3 ball fields, and lots of nooks and crannies for teens to brood in while drinking their peculiar mixture of highly caffeinated energy drinks, low-end vodka, and embalming fluid. In our quasi-urban environment, it’s about as good as kite flying territory gets. I took the kids to this park recently in near hurricane conditions in a vain, final attempt to get their kites into the air long enough for them to experience boredom and never again ask to fly a kite. However, despite the high winds, the three (admittedly cheap) kites we brought refused to rise to the occasion. I’ve come to the conclusion that the problem is the park’s lowland geography relative to the land surrounding it. This must cause some sort of natural downdraft such that every time we manage to catch a little air, another gust sends our devices crashing to the ground.
The good news is that the kids don’t seem to mind too much, at first at least. They run back and forth with these flightless kites bouncing along, upside down, on the ground behind themselves. Eventually, boredom is achieved, though not for the reasons I had hoped.