Swimsuit Shopping In Dubai

To all my fans, all zero of you (thank God), I know it’s been a while since I put up a blog post. I’m working on one — actually, it’s a three part series called Coming To America that will be trifurcated as follows:

Coming To America — The Melting Pot

Coming To America? — Blowback and The Reckoning

Coming To America — Musical Hogs

The reason I haven’t put one up sooner is because Q. Shtik has convinced me to visit Dubai, so I’ve spent the last two weeks there consulting on the proposed Mall of the World project. There promises to be plenty of bidets and now Q. Shtik no longer has to contend with the unbearable heat. Perhaps he can now retire there since it was the only thing he didn’t like about it.

While I was in Dubai, I searched high and low for a worthwhile swimsuit but as you know they just don’t make them like they used to. The trunks these days extend to the knee or below and are rather loose and baggy creating too much drag if you really want to swim and don’t allow you to show off your marvelous legs. What happened to fashion? Remember the good old days when they made swimsuits and shorts so small and well-cut your massive dick hung out the bottom of them, or in the least, everyone could see the protruding bulge of your prodigious member and all the girls would come running and line up for a good time? Remember those days? Whatever happened?

I finally gave up and bought the current style. They’re not too bad after you give them a chance. I’ve cottoned to them and actually think I look kind of buff in them, but I have to say, I got a disturbing suggestion during my search. Another old-timer suggested I check out some of the secondhand shops for some used swim trunks — he mentioned he had found one of those old-fashioned suits that way. What? A used bathing suit? I thought he was nuts. Who the hell buys a used swimsuit? 6a00e553b3b3a78833015391c664d5970b-500wiWhat a disgusting notion. Another man had his ass and dick in that swimsuit for years and now your dick is touching the same material. I didn’t think this guy was gay before he told me this but I sure as hell know he is now. Think of all the excretions and secretions that material has absorbed all those years. It’s the stuff of nightmares. I hope the guy wears a rubber under that bathing suit — he better unless he wants a bad case of the crabs or some other STD.

I mean, what will they think of next, used diapers? Get real, people. Used bathing suits are anathema. It’s a sacrilege. It’s one of the things I will not donate to Goodwill — instead, when I’m done with a bathing suit, I throw it away in the garbage where it belongs or stow it away in storage in case it comes back in style.

Alright, with that out of the way, I will most likely have the first installment of Coming To America up tomorrow. Thanks for letting me vent, and remember, lie well and live long my friends.

Oh yeah, before I forget, is it just me or is this World Cup nonsense blown all out of proportion? Even b at Moon of Alabama blog put this post up about it since Germany will be in the final. I couldn’t resist a comment, so I deposited the following about the spectacle. Keep in mind, I really don’t care either way, but since I can argue 112_Qataralmost any point, I thought I would argue this today.

The World Cup, and soccer in general since it’s an international sport, promotes Nationalism and all the nasty bed bugs that come with it — like bigotry and jingoism. I haven’t paid attention to it at all, although Google‘s search page keeps reminding me with its cute soccer configurations. Very artistic, but not biting Google. Meanwhile, as the world watches developmentally arrested men run around a field chasing and kicking a ball, there’s the carnage that no one seems capable of curtailing or preventing. Funny that. Priorities. Lennon should have had that as a lyric in his famous song Imagine.

Imagine there’s no soccer
And no more soccer fans
A world without wins or losses
No more games of chance

You may say I’m a spoil sport
I know I’m the only one
I don’t expect anyone’ll listen
They’re having too much fun

As they play the carnage continues
The butter’s passed for bullets and guns
Destabilization spreads like smallpox
Millions of refugees on the run

Germany’s one step away now
From ascending to the throne
Hitler’s spirit cheers from the ether
Mother Earth can only groan


11 thoughts on “Swimsuit Shopping In Dubai

  1. KRAMER (in hallway): Jerry! C’mon, it’s an emergency!
    JERRY: Excuse me. Alright, what is it? You’re interrupting!
    KRAMER: Well, you know, I’m packing for Puerto Rico, I need to borrow your bathing suit.
    JERRY: This is an emergency? You need a bathing suit?
    KRAMER: Well, I like yours.
    JERRY: I don’t know, my bathing suit? That’s a little familiar, I don’t want your…your boys down there.
    KRAMER: C’mon, what’s wrong with my boys?
    JERRY: Your boys should stay in their neighborhood.

    • I didn’t see that one. I prefer Curb Your Orgasm to Shinefeld. Jerry gets on my nerves after a while, but Larry David — there was the real comic genius behind it all. It’s a shame he hung it up — but, I understand. Sometimes you need some time off to regroup and build up momentum and reserves.

      I posted twice over at CFN the other day and Kunstler deleted the comments and banned me. It took me until today to make my way back in. What a jerk.

      • I posted twice over at CFN the other day and Kunstler deleted the comments and banned me. It took me until today to make my way back in. What a jerk. – Catch

        What did you write about? What was so offensive? Did he say your comment was “scurrilous?” That’s the word he uses frequently when banning someone.

      • Something akin to what I’ve written here, except here I’ve more thoroughly elaborated.

        Ha! “Scurrilous” is one of his favorites. I’ve noticed that too.

        Have you noticed Asoka/Adequatio/Janet is back at CFN?

  2. Besides the heat in Dubai I mentioned garishness. And there are many other reasons I would not choose to live in Dubai. I prefer living where I am and chances are I’ll die sitting on the very chair I’m sitting on at the moment.

    • That would be ideal. I hope your wish comes true. Everyone should have the opportunity to die as they please.

      My wish is to jump to my death out of a burning building from 89 stories up.

  3. At the pool the other day my wife and her octogenarian friend, Marion, were floating around and chatting (they never swim, they just float around kept up by a flotation device known as a noodle) While I was doing my standard 16 laps.

    Later my wife described their conversation to me. Marion asked if she had noticed the hirsute old professor emeritus wearing a “banana sling” noting that he was quite “well endowed.” What’s up with old people today?

  4. Catch, since you were able to get back on at CFN I wonder if you’d consider posting the following comment at CFN under my name, Q. Shtik?

    This was posted nearly 3 years ago (Oct 2, 2011) but was “held for review.” I tried several times to no avail and now I’m trying it again.

    Hi everyone, I’m Mrs Qshtik. Q is “indisposed” and asked me to log on to his account and write to you. We had an incident yesterday (not the first in all our years together) and “the men in white coats” had to come and get him … again. He was taken to the Middlesex County Chapter of Lexicographers, Grammarians and Wordsmiths where he is resting comfortably in the OCD ward (no need for alarm, these episodes usually straighten themselves out in a day or two).

    Note: While other technical societies, like, say, the American Association of Electrical Engineers, simply have traditional facilities, perhaps with small libraries, where members meet monthly or quarterly, there is something about these word, grammar and usage people that necessitates inclusion of a “rubber room.”

    Most of the time the members just hang out in “Usage Hall” sitting in leather chairs among busts of Merriam Webster, Samuel Johnson, the late David Foster Wallace, etc. sipping brandy, while being away from their spouses who generally “could give a shit” (if Q saw that phrase he would blurt out in his most annoyed voice “it’s COULDN’T give a shit”) where they commiserate with one another on the low state of American English and how they are glad they are getting old and will soon die and won’t have to watch any further deterioration.

    As I gather from Q, this latest episode of “losing it” was touched off when he read a comment by someone he calls Oz (I read some comments and assume the person’s full screen name is Ozone) who had used the word “had” to begin a sentence (viz. “I had wanted”) which implied to Q that Oz was speaking in the past tense when, in fact, he was speaking in the present tense. This thing about people mixing up tenses has put him in the OCD ward more than once.

    Q wants me to apologize on his behalf to Oz for his impertinence in questioning Oz’s word choice which, as Q reluctantly concedes, is really a matter of style. But beyond the apology he wants to convey some of the back-story of his condition.

    There is a school of thought that Word and Usage types at the OCD level got that way due to genetics. Some believe it is passed from mothers to sons (DF Wallace being a classic example), then sons to daughters, and so on, something like color-blindness.

    He began to be aware he wasn’t your average ten year old when he found himself correcting his mother (erroneously, as it turns out) on the proper pronunciation, and thus the correct spelling, of the word “superfluous.” Before looking it up he was positive it had to be “superfulous.”

    But Q wants me to tell you, more particularly, about the story behind the word “had” that so bothers him. It’s embarrassing for me but since the events described precede our meeting, dating and marrying nearly 40 years ago, I guess it’s OK.

    At age 30 Q hung out (or is it hanged out?) in the bar & lounge of a popular motel slash nightspot where an older (than him) 40ish divorced woman basically threw herself on him. The relationship was entirely sexual … no need for prelims like dinner or movies, which was just fine with Q since he’s so cheap.

    Paraphrasing Q’s tale of this relationship: She would arrive at his apartment with her bag of tricks: a small suitcase in which she carried assorted cock rings, lubricants, dildos of various sizes and colors (some with odd protrusions), etc. Her personal favorite device, he soon learned, was a monstrous flesh-colored dildo with a head like a WWII German helmet, simulated blood vessels, veins and arteries the thickness of industrial electrical extension cords snaking their way randomly over the entire length and powered by numerous in-line size C batteries. To look at it, Q exaggerated, you’d think it should have a pull cord to start it, and run on gas with 2 cycle engine oil like a weed whacker or chain saw. This device, he claimed, would make the memorable member of Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights look ordinary by comparison.

    The joy of frequent and obligation-free sex didn’t last all that long, however, as it soon became apparent there was a hidden non-monetary cost. Delores (he thinks that was her name) would call him in the early evening to arrange their next tryst and would launch into a telling of the day’s events. She, like many women (much more often a trait of women than men, per Q), would talk incessantly. And to make the telling of the boring minutiae of her life really odd relative to normal people, she didn’t require any sort of feedback to prompt further droning. He soon realized he didn’t need to say anything like “no kidding!” or make any sounds like “uh huh” or any signal whatsoever that he was paying attention.

    As if the endless monotone were not enough, the word “had” was inexpicably inserted among the first two or three words of EVERY SENTENCE as in “So I had stopped off at the supermarket on my way from work.” and “So she had said”…etc.

    Between the talk-without-pause and the tense of the action being firmly established as the near past via the word “had” it was too much for Q to bear. He was torn over the prospect of giving up all those great orgasims simply because of an endless use of the word “had.”

    As he sat on his sofa he decided to run an experiment. How long would she continue talking in the face of absolute silence on his end? He gently set the phone face-down in the soft leather of the cushion, got up and walked cat-like in stocking feet to the kitchen. He added some water to a tea kettle and put it on to boil then got out a cup, tea bag, packet of sweet and low and container of milk from the fridge.

    A couple of minutes passed till the water came to a boil. He poured it in the cup and began to dip and lift the tea bag 50 times (another obsession: counting the number of times he does things as he does them and, in this case, he had long since established the number of dips of the tea bag which would provide an excellent and uniform cup of tea time after time).

    So where was I? oh yeah, he made a cup of tea, then got a few cookies (chocolate chips) from a box, placed them on a napkin and carried these items back to the sofa. He noiselessly placed them on the coffee table, sat on the sofa, gently picked up the phone and held it to his ear. And what he heard was “So Marge had gone to the doctors………….”

    • Orders from the station chief, Q. No can do. Once was enough. You can get back in if you really want — and maybe you are still there as several other screen names. One can never be completely sure of these things, but it happens more than most realize.

      By the way, did you and your wife relate this story to Bob Teague and his wife when you were out to dinner with them? I’m curious how he and his responded if you did. How about your children — are they aware of the story? It’s a good one to tell at the Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter dinner table. Did Sonja know?

      Have you ever been to this sports bar?


      • are they aware of the story? – Catch

        Yes, they’ve all heard the whole thing………and guffawed heartily;-)

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