Posts Tagged ‘sun’

It’s almost that time of year again. We both love it, and yet, apparently, some of us also hate it. And that “some of us” is you, Tourette’s.

That’s right, summer approaches. Well, sort of. I mean, whatever passes for summer up here in the north approaches. But even though it’s only a few months’ worth of mild warmth, it still pushes the mercury up high enough to cause me to sweat, particularly since it’s so humid out here on the West Coast.

Whoa! Easy! Take ‘er eeeeaaasy, Tourette’s. Just chill out. I know you hate this whole sweat malarkey. I mean, I thought you’d be used to it by now, given how much of a sweaty fuck I am in all conditions, but I understand that summer heat (even if it’s “heat” in scare quotes) makes things a lot worse.

It’s the sticking thing that seems to get your goat. (more…)


Dear Tourette’s…

Posted: April 14, 2011 in Tourettes
Tags: , , , , ,

What’s your beef with belts?

Let’s back up for a sec. This is a tale as old as time itself. Oh, the ridiculous things you’ve made me do to avoid tight things just below or near my navel. (And no, I’m not talking about pantyhose. Those were just for feeling sexy, okay? Let’s just keep that to ourselves.)

I’m talking, of course, about the waist position of my pants and shorts. I’m talking about those times when I was really young, when I couldn’t bring myself to pull anything below my bellybutton. If it had two pipes for my legs, it had to fit just below my ribs. I was the quintessential geriatric juvenile. I was ol’ Gramps Bezuidenthustra, only without the silly puns or dentures. Those who didn’t know better probably thought I wore suspenders. Nope. Just pulled my pants up to my chin. Nothing strange to see here, folks. Move along. Gramps needs a nap.

And then, suddenly, the switch. Smack dab in the middle of puberty, without any rhyme or reason. One day it had to be above the navel, and the next, it had to be below. (more…)

You are such a pansy!

Just a whiff of sunshine and you go yapping off like a Yorkie with a fistula. I didn’t hear a peep from you the entire month I was in South Africa, and here you try to come creeping back in the gloomy drizzle of Vancouver.

Sorry, it doesn’t work that way. You lost. Game over. See, if you had real balls you would’ve stuck around while I cavorted about my homeland making an ass of myself and watching my grandpa say goodbye to the land he loved for 82 years. If you had true cajones you would’ve forced me to bow my head and contemplate the dreariness of my existence right under the nose of that burning ball of gas irradiating my face. Spat in its eye even as it hung there all mighty and proud, turning my features into a golden crisp.