8.31.05: John Thomas Lives on Fanny Hill ‹ Blog

Hating, as I mortally do, all long unnecessary preface, I shall give you good quarter in this, and use no farther apology, than to prepare you for seeing the loose part of my life, wrote with the same liberty that I led it.
Fanny Hill, or, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure (John Cleland)

John Thomas Lives on Fanny Hill

August 31, 2005

Somebody needs to tell Art Garfunkel about the dos and don’ts of getting high. Do: stay home, eat Twinkies, watch I Love Lucy reruns. Don’t: drive, ya dumbass. The last thing I need is to be sideswiped on the highway (ha) by some honky with an afro. You ticked me off enough with “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” dude; don’t make it worse.

I had written a few concise yet eloquent paragraphs about the tragic destruction caused by Hurricane Katrina, but then I went back and reread them and thought “Screw it, shit happens,” and deleted them. Quite frankly, I’m finding myself unusally affected by this latest disaster, but I’m also of the firm opinion that if a hurricane is coming, you run, and anyone who chooses to stick around for the fallout should be forcibly evacuated to a mental institution. I’m more sympathetic to the current hurricane victims than to those who choose to live in, say, Florida, which is a piece of land that should just be cut off from the mainland and set adrift into the sea because it’s doomed to be bushwhacked annually by those Big Cyclones of Death, and anyone who chooses to live there is NUTS. And I say this as someone who was born there, and who still has family down there. At least I had the sense to head inland, where the only dangers are blizzards, tornadoes, and potlucks.

It really doesn’t help that all of this news coverage is occurring during the Minnesota State Fair; every night the local news anchors put on their Sad Faces and give the Bad News Reports, while behind them a bunch of loons giggle and smile and wave at the camera. I’m as irreverent as they come, but even I have my limits. Yeesh.

Now that I’ve offended everybody south of the Mason-Dixon line, let’s move on to more personal matters:

In the past week, I’ve been coming across the euphemistic phrase “John Thomas” in almost everything I read. I kid you not—everything. Hell, I read the Gettysburg Address this morning, and I’m pretty sure I caught a glimpse of it in there. Evil-minded people will point to this as yet another example of my obscene nature, but I see it as the universe’s latest attempt to corrupt my innocent mind with its suggestive knee-patting.
Obviously I have pissed off some local witch again, because my razors have taken to rusting over after only one use. As a result, I’m down to my last blade, and have ceased shaving until I can replenish my supply next week (it’s all about the logistics, baby). My legs look like my head, and my armpits look like I’ve got Don King in a headlock. I mention this as a public service announcement, as I’d like to discredit those recent Sasquatch sightings.
My right ear hurts like a bitch; I’m not sure if it’s because of those goddamn eardrum-warping iPod earbuds, or results from an experience I had in the shower a few days back. Apparently, a drop of water fell into my ear canal at just the right angle, bouncing off my eardrum with a ping! that resounded throughout my skull. Petrified—I have this chronic fear of rupturing my eardrums, because of a story my father used to tell about how his father, a tough old Irish cop, ruptured his eardrum and had to be carried out of the house on a stretcher, screaming with agony—I hopped around the shower like a frightened frog, shaking my head to get the water out. I don’t know if it ever did come out, and I don’t think my eardrum’s ruptured, but it sure does hurt. I’ve been popping Advil like it’s candy, and I can’t lie down without whimpering, which means I have to basically sit up in bed at night.
If you ever have to choose between reading Fanny Hill or Lady Chatterly’s Lover, go with Fanny Hill. It’s more fun—just plain, happy sex without the whole “worship the penis! the penis will save us all!” message of the other book.
And while we’re on the subject of Fanny Hill: only the innocent Midwest could have a cute little motel/dinner theatre called Fanny Hill, and yet have no clue as to the name’s connotations.
Why, why, oh why have The Murdoch Mysteries not made their way to the USA yet? Some of us want our Murdoch fix, dammit, and have strained our eyes from reading the books. We need the screen version, which is undoubtedly mangled and mussed but which must still have some redeeming values—like Keeley Hawes and Colm Meaney and Peter Outerbridge. Oh! And William B. Davis! Hee hee!