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Parting Glances:

Charles Alexander
By | 2018-01-15T16:45:46+00:00 February 25th, 2010|Opinions|

If there’s any Web site that can attest to the versatility and ingenuity of the unfettered human spirit when it comes to creative sexpression it’s
It’s free! If you’re a bit lacto. In possession of a corny-cob libido. Have a cucumber curiosity about anatomy: positioning of limbs, assorted peeled extremities; reusable, warmly implanted, slightly sauteed orifices.
While I’ve not taken opportunity to offer my betters a tasteful (or, root-ah-men-tary) sampling of my own dexterity when it comes down to who does what, with which, to whom for private or public consumption, I’ve given it serious thought.
As I’m all alone in this go-for-the-money-shot world – having for years been bereft of parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, other nuisance busybodies – there’s little fear that I’ll be an embarrassment to my slightly bent outta shape, 14-carrot gold, family’s good name.
I’m also sure my handful of PG readers – blase as they are collectively inclined to be – couldn’t care lettuce, er, less.
Yes, most of my acquaintances spend reasonable quality time – say 25 to 50 hours biweekly – viewing the passing parade of exhibitionists, spring-heeled gymnasts, uninhibited contortionists who share their revealing camera cellery-footage of anywhere from 15 seconds to 10 minutes for like-minded voyeur viewing.
Hitting on (and its many well-fertilized imitators) is an American pastime, so much so that 12-step programs, church-sponsored counseling pray-ins are popping up everywhere to ensure that touch-feely limits are conjointly adhered to. They seldom are.

It’s peek, pray, but don’t prolong your puding past bedtime. And pud not on Sunday.
(There’s a rumor that Oprah guest, lately melon-colic, Ted Haggard, who had a head trip and escorted fall in his private Garden of Eden – for which he has fully, truly, honestly, criss-cross-his-heart-hope-to-die, repented – and about which his long-suffering wife has written a long-suffering book – is now an ex-x-tuber. He also looks, well, rather, squashed. A nice guy in one helluvah pickle. Not very evangelically kosher.)
My research finds that was jump started by a group of enterprising vegetarians whose goal – apart from downplaying the eating of meat, one’s own or others – is demonstrating that vegetables as a pastime option may be abused, er, used for fun and occasionally profit – if handled gingerly and generously slathered with three-in-one or olive oil.
Take for example the lowly eggplant – or, if you prefer, the so-aptly-named cumquat. As adjuncts to pleasure these are outstanding; and the great thing about both items is that each is easy to come by, readily available for delight, display, or dilation at super markets and in corner stalls.
There’s one bloke on (mid-40s, 90 pounds overripe, tomato-colored toupee) whose expertise is nothing short of staggering. If anyone takes pride in his vegetarian-induced prowess, it’s certainly he. Two cumquats. Four nectarines. A ripe, unpeeled banana – while juggling six McIntosh apples and groaning in ecstasy.
Unfortunately for the vegans who are exhibiting regulars, is about to have a bit of inorganic competition from a newcomer Web site, A national spokesperson for those who blatantly cone on camera (he asks to remain politically and federally highway-funded anonymous) says, “There’s no real challenge to vegetables. Let’s face it: vegetables are cornball. No staying power.
“Road cones are ‘in’ in 2010. These bright orange, glow-in-the-dark markers offer unheard of he-men rites of passage. No veggie-weggie zip-lock hanky panky. Just hard-nosed behind, er, mind over matter. Inner-outer space whiz-bang bliss!”
BTL Advisory: Just don’t get caught coning it up during rush hour in oncoming traffic. And, for heaven sake, don’t juggle apples. McIntosh (or Queen Cox). Groan only if sexting. Or inadvertently getting hit on. By traffic, that is.

About the Author:

Charles Alexander