This house is not directly behind mine, but is instead next-door to the house behind mine. Kitty-corner, you might say. We share a fencepost, for whatever that is worth.
    Two or three years ago the home was purchased by a young family. A man not much older than me, with his wife and three children: two boys and a girl.
    I exchanged hello’s and proceeded to ignore them for the most part, in fine suburban American fashion. The boys were energetic, the girl cute. They soon put a massive new deck on the place, with a low brick wall surrounding it.
    On several occasions over the next couple of years we saw them making merry on their fine, new deck. They had a nice 4th of July display each year, using the aforementioned deck as a launching pad for all sorts of brightly colored, stinky, imported Chinese incendiary devices. Sometimes Samantha and I would say “hi” and pet their dog while walking around the block. Although that happened several times, I have never learned their names.
    A month ago, while driving to breakfast on a almost-but-not-really-warm Sunday morning with a car-load of nuclear family, we noticed yellow caution tape around the front porch. Remembering the massive deck in the back yard, I idly speculated that perhaps he’s getting a new porch, or had poured some new concrete.
    Heather mentioned that she hadn’t seen the children or the wife in awhile. I hadn’t noticed; I’m not much of a noticer. Sam, paging through a book, said nothing.
    Two weeks ago, on a sunny afternoon, Samantha struck up a literate conversation regarding the relative merits of doggies and puppies with the neighbors who live directly behind us–the ones next door to the house with the deck. While Sam spoke with the husband, himself a troubled man who plays a clarinet to ward off his inner demons*, the wife talked to Heather and I conspiratorially. The house next door, she said, is now empty.

    The man had gotten laid off his job some time ago. He’d taken to drinking, and had possibly begun hitting his wife–our neighbor was not absolutely certain about the hitting. What she was certain about was that his wife had left him, taking the children with her. Soon afterwards the bank announced to him that they were going to be putting the house, complete with its fine deck, through foreclosure. The man had no job, no family, and soon would have no fine deck and no house.
    So on an almost-but-not-really-warm Saturday morning the man went into his basement and blew his brains out in the laundry sink.

    When I heard this my mind morosely brought up images of that happy family setting off fireworks in July; gold, green, blue and red flashes casting sharp shadows across the tidy brick walls girding the back deck of their ranch home. They were nameless faces at a moment in time when they were a whole family. The house is now empty, the deck has leaves piled up in the one corner where the wind can’t scoop them. Why didn’t I notice the leaves piling up? Why didn’t I notice that there were no laughing boys running around the deck? Do you think I heard the gunshot and dismissed it, thinking it was a firecracker or some random car noise? I don’t remember.

    I tell you that I don’t know as I actually see myself in him. My self esteem can’t easily conceive of a world without me in it. But still.. could the line of demarcation between SafeTinspector and this nameless man be so clearly drawn as all that? If I lost my job, my liquid assets would be exhausted within four months regardless of how carefully I budgeted. My retirement assets might last another six months after that. In this economy, I might not necessarily find new work quickly enough to hold off the demons that await the popping of my little bubble.
    I would like to think that I would never take out the despair of my lost dreams on my family or wife. But a depressed husband is sometimes a husband left behind.

    If I lost my family and found myself alone in and with nothing but this house, with even that about to be taken from me, soon to be left with.. nothing.. would I, too, find the laundry sink a tempting resting place for my troubled brain-meats?

    Nah, that’s what the garage is for.

* Their house has had tragedy as well. Perhaps someday I’ll tell you about their middle daughter.
** This post will also appear on my essay blog.

    In an effort to reduce the rampant abuse of their quasi-public infrastructure, the United States Postal Service has begun a campaign of disguising their letterboxes as objects completely unrelated to the delivery of parcel post.
    The controversial decision to camouflage the mailboxes was made by current USPS Inspector General, David C. Williams, when letter carriers lodged formal complaints that despite daily attempts to clean the letterboxes of their content, careless citizens continued placing all sorts of paper in them.
    ”We know who they are,” stated David Williams when asked about these miscreants, “to a man they’ve all left their names and addresses on this.. this.. crap.” Shaking a hand full of crumpled paper, Mr. Williams continued, “its like some kind of protest. They aren’t even trying to hide their identity. But even so, we simply don’t have the manpower to do anything against such an organized and widespread movement.”
    Embarking upon a policy built upon the original premise that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure*, the Inspector General has authorized the most sweeping form of mass camouflage ever attempted by a semi-governmental entity. Mailboxes have seemingly begun to disappear from the urban landscape, replaced by cacti, large boxes of chocolates, miniature nuclear missile silos, and even Sidney Poitier squatting over a spilled Caramel Latte.
    It isn’t at all clear that the program has been successful. “You’d be surprised at how many people think its appropriate to feed a droid like R2D2 a handful of utility bills.” But despite this, the program goes on in hopes that it might eventually stem the tide of worthless paper.
    So the next time you are at a bus stop, and find yourself standing next to what looks to be Bilbo Baggins hiding under a small writing desk, look twice. The postman always does.**
* Not so original as all that, Mr. Williams also believes that a Bird in Hand Saves Nine.
** I express my regrets. Cheers!

In the first part of this series, we covered the initial 328 phases of Societal Views on the Relative Merits and Imagery Both Spoken and Un-Spoken in Western Society and Humans In Particular. This is certainly in no way related to recent work by L>T on related subjects, and any dispursions to that effect will be enthusiastically lied about in private.

Part II: The Three Final Phases of Historical Societal Views on Children:

The three remaining for your consideration are the phases Crescent, New and Full.

In Crescent, children appear in CopperTone sunblock ads, in which part of their posterior (i.e. “Crescent”) is exposed by ravenous dogs. Also at this time is a prevalence of animated features in which babies with wings create erotic tendancies in humans by bombarding them with primitive projectiles. These Cupids figured much more prominently in the “New” phase.

In the New phase, children are introduced to the public as not only the product of lust and carnal activities but also as the progenitors of such behaviour. Women, mooning after the offspring of their fellow females, immediately attack their male counterparts with the idea of procreation in mind. Also associated are the children’s choir groups, “New Edition” and “New Kids on the Block”.

In Full, modern man has transcended his original design and deigns to modify his offspring into more easthetically pleasing, and circular, forms. Force-feeding of high fat cheeses, beefs, butter soaked breads and other human inflational agents along with the mandatory adoption of sedentary patterns of activity marked by attention to animated features (see “Crescent”) and hand-eye coordination exercises involving automobile combat and prostituticide result in an unprecedented display of pre-pubescent girth.

Which brings us to the present^(tm).

Here’s a Google News link. Should be up to date whenever you click it.     Virginia Tech, what a mess. There’s nothing funny to say about this, as the death count is up to 31 now.     The shooter is dead as well. No one yet really knows for sure what happened there today.

   Who was the shooter, why did he shoot, how many are going to be dead when the counting is done?

   Don’t ask, there’s no time for answers! No time for understanding, people: Go get closure! Go get counseling!

The university is planning a convocation for tomorrow at 2 p.m. at Cassell Coliseum for the university community to come together to begin to deal with the tragedy.

Counseling is available in the Bowman Room on the fourth floor of Jamerson Athletic Center, accessible from Jamerson or the Merryman Athletic Facility, for employees who seek assistance following today’s events. -VTU Website

   What kind of Shirley MacLaine, new-age hippie crap is this? How can you “deal” with a tragedy you haven’t even completely gotten the scope of? How can anyone be thinking of closure and counseling when the blood is still slickening the pavement of VTU?!?

   Fuck, go do something. There’ll be time to mourn later. People tend to dust off their trendy psycho-babble whenever there’s tragedy, and that is not right. It trivializes the real loss. “Closure,” “stages,” “phases,” talk of “coping”; people use these words as crutches, and use them because they’ve heard others use these same words in this same situation. It becomes expected, like saying “how are you?” when you really mean, “I greet you.”
   Its no better than cliche, and it doesn’t.. help.. anyone.

   And another thing: you know what? I don’t want to know why that homocidal maniac did what he did. What difference could that possibly make? I don’t even want to know his name. He doesn’t deserve the recognition that would represent. His family doesn’t deserve to have their lives destroyed because of what he’s done–unless they programmed him from childhood to be a killing machine. Then they should probably be punished.
   Maybe he WANTED to go down in history as the most deadly school shooter ever. Well screw him. He’s going down in my book as a bad piece of meat with no name and no soul–whatever that might be in this Godless world.

    That such a leg exists within my house is a fact that, along with fatherhood and male-pattern-baldness, stands as a miracle within my mind.
    Twin pedestal of firm meat, what cannibal wouldn’t gladly pay the buffet charge to sample my calf-flesh? Ah, but they’d probably be tough. No matter, really, that’s why God gave us marinade. They’ll soon be tender.
    Pay no attention to the pale, pink-dappled hairiness of the ascendant thighs. They are firm as well, and look like a deliciously plucked turkey ready for the roaster. A pilgrim’s delight come Thanksgiving, and I get to hide them in my pants all year long. How lucky am I! How lucky are those Dockers!
    How much work do these rocky prominences require? I polish them with Lemon Scented Pledge to the point where they shine and… I can SEE MYSELF! Now that’s clean. I drizzle butter and Old Spice upon them and, after each additional application, I check the intensity of its olfactory impact upon my dog.
    When she finally slinks off, tail between her legs and whimpering, then I know I’m ready to go out. Don’t worry, the damage to Tera the dog’s ego is purely temporary. I’ll praise her doggy legs and furry tail later. She’ll be ready to sniff my legs again tomorrow.
    My slacks lay like a tarp upon a waiting jet fighter, covering the divine legs throughout the workday. Can you blame me if I hike the hem up occasionally to “adjust” my socks? An involuntary sigh escapes my lips whenever I do so, despite the fact that I steel myself each and every time.
    ”I’m going to see the legs. Don’t react…don’t react…,” I say to myself, but still the legs are revealed and, “OH!! Ahh….”

SafeT Legs brought to you by Dance Dance Revolution and In The Groove. Electric hokey-pokey for the 21st Century.

    Here are Riley at 9 months and Heather at 30 years old. Both are more beautiful than the days I met them.
    Of course, when I met Riley she was a wrinkled little prune covered with slimy birth-stuff and screaming her head off in outrage at her changed living arrangements. Heather was a 13 year-old tomboy fighting tooth and nail with her brother, living in a pile of plush toys, fully 45% of which were unicorn based with the balance being primarily ursine.

    Sam, aged 5^3/4. Happily chowing on a bowl of baked beans. Ah, fragrant childly flatulence….

    Once I was just me, living in a basement. Then I was one half of a human couple, and now I am titular head of household in a home full of girls. Samantha, Heather, Riley, Tera the dog and Kyra the cat: ovary bearing mammals, all. And I am, for the most part, happier than I have any right to be.

    How fleeting might this be? A few years ago, a family moved in to a house behind ours…

Cont….

    Back in 2005 I had an idea for a movie called “300″, and it went nowhere, even though I carefully outlined the plot in the form of a medium-lenght blog post written in the form of a monologue. Amazingly, no one optioned the script. Now, less than two years later I see a theatrically released, ridiculously testosterone crazed sword-porn named “The 300.”
    I’ve contacted a lawyer whom I phound in the phone book, and while he kept protesting that he exclusively works on divorce and DUI defence (very reasonable rates!), I knew he was being coy and eventually was able to intimate that he thinks I’m entitled to at least %30 off the back-end plus an option on European and Asian revenues.
    Vindicated in all but the literal sence, I reproduce for you my concept of “300″:

(Tune in at the end for a special announcement)

Truly, this is an auspicious occasion. There are now EXACTLY 300 items in my email trash.
I’m TOTALLY into numerology, so such a nice, round, arbitrarily arrived at number must mean something.

I was ill this morning in an anal way, so perhaps I’ve shed 300 protozoic parasites in the restroom. But, that still seems a bit trivial for it to have mandated such a bold harbinger.
It may be that I must combine the number 300 with another number from today in order to clear up the omen.

Hmm, lets see. I printed 2000 circulars for a mailing later today. 300 completely fails to become a denominator for 2000 unless fractions are used. 7 and 2/3? Hardly numerologically interesting. WAIT! Seven, two and three are all prime numbers.
In fact, with the exception of 5, they are all the prime numbers below 10!

The missing 5 must mean something. There is only one real possibility. Against all odds and the best interests of my marriage, five people will have sex with me three hundred times today using seven body parts in two different positions.
It’s already….3:00 PM. I’d better get a move on, or I’ll be up kinda late tonight.
…I’m not entirely sure I have enough water soluble lubricant.

This is going to be complicated by the fact that there are only two women in my office, both of which find me physically repulsive–nay, repugnant!–and what are the odds that they both have condoms? I’m a bit short on prophylactics due to this whole monogamy kick I’ve been on for the last ten years or so, and that means they better be packing. Maybe my wife could wear five wigs?

Maybe sex isn’t involved.
It may be that the fates are mandating that I drive home on two wheels, Dukes of Hazzard style, at three hundred miles an hour, listening to three different radio stations by changing the station every seven minutes. This scenario is completely workable, since I’ve borrowed my wife’s 4 cylinder Saturn VUE for the day.
The only weakness in this theory is that it would require me to be driving for at least 21 minutes to accommodate all the requisite radio station changes. At that rate I will have traveled 105 miles, and will have overshot my home by about 90 miles. Scratch the special travel plans.

Wait! That math didn’t take into account the acceleration time for the Saturn VUE to reach 300 miles per hour. Given the inadequate storage methods I’ve employed with my old solid fuel rocket boosters, I’m not willing to risk using them, so the acceleration time would be…infinite. Which, when given the finite number of radio station changes and distance travelled should all wash out. Sounds like a plan!

Whew! That’s so much more palatable than all that sex with inadequate lubrication.

All done.
Oh, wait. I just deleted another spam. 301… 301…

Special announcement is that you’ll likely see the dice photo from the top of 300 featured prominently in a Stupid Super Powers post in a few days.