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I Could Have Been Named What?!
Did you know that my nom de plume for this blog, Michael Cedarwood, was concocted by using the classic porn formula of (middle name) + (street you grew up on)?
But did you also know that like NBA legend Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo, I have more than one middle name? And that I grew up on more than one street? With all those names and all those streets under my belt, the identity of my blogging alter-ego had the potential to swing in many different directions.
I have compiled a list of my other middle names and streets that I grew up on. Let us now take a look at what could have been.
Girth McThickness
Cratch Sacknard
Barb Marbly
Veiny Von Opulent
Hoagie Flundlecrode
Baldy Waxmas
Hairy Crinkleheimer
Crusty Gustaffson
Squirt Terdhurdle
Caspian Vanderhoot
Blimpy Slipplenip
Whiffle Gristlesniff
Squizz Stinkelsteen
Firt Girdle
Berf Girkin
Lactose Jackson (not to be confused with Catfish Jackson)
Guest Post: The Hirsute Naked Man In The Gym Locker Room Discusses the Hashtag Nude Lives Matter Movement
Well, I’ve been in somewhat of a blogging drought lately, so I’m going to give sole control of today’s post to some hairy naked guy I met in the gym locker room. I made a deal with him: if he put on his damn underwear, he could write a guest post for my blog. Everyone wins: content is generated for you, the reader, and the pasty undulations in my immediate quadrant are veiled, if only for one night. So here is the first ever guest post on this blog, from The Hirsute Naked Man In The Gym Locker Room.
Hello, blog! NUDITY!!! OLD, NAKED MEN!!!!! HAIRY BACKS!!!!!! SCROTUMS SWAYING GENTLY IN THE GALE PRODUCED BY THE GLORIOUS POWER OF AN XLERATOR-BRAND HAND DRYER!!!!
I apologize. I was using the attention-grabbing tactic of beginning a manifesto with a series of edgy words. So don’t worry, it was all for show.
And now that I’ve got your attention, let’s talk about public male nudity in men over the age of 70. This is a demographic that has been pushed to the fringes of society, marginalized, insulted, and universally regarded as an outdated herd of soured, pickled meatbeasts with nothing important to say.
Well I importantly say this: public nudity serves many purposes in this crazy rat race we call life, which is sort of ironic, because if life really were a rat race, we would all be naked, like rats are all the time. You know what I’m talkin’ about, how they just crazily scramble around and pile up on top of one another, having hours and hours of naked rat fun.
When was the last time you saw a good old-fashioned fleshy pile of humanity, writhing around and whoopin’ it up, just like rats do every day? Time was, we called it Saturday Night. Now? Sheesh, I call it a win if I catch the vague outline of a man’s penis through his fancy dress pants.
Which brings us to the tale of how I landed this gig as a guest blogger. ‘Twas a Monday night. Or was it a Wednesday? Time and space bend in odd ways when you bask in the illumination of nudity, you must understand. Anyways, due to a remodeling job, the local gym has been rather empty lately. So, after patrolling the locker room for a few hours—nude, obviously—I realized I hadn’t seen anyone for a very long time, so I was about to call it a night and take my third steamy shower in the provided facilities when in walks some clothed gentleman.
Excellent, I think to myself, this room could use a fresh pair of bare buttocks. I lurked around the corner, waiting for him to derobe. I can’t tell you how disappointed I was when all the guy does is change from his regular short pants into his gym shorts. And to make matters more ridiculous, he was wearing some sort of garment under his shorts that covered his genitals while he made the switch!
My world was shook—left became right, up became down, all-out bare-assed glory became heavy winter-layering.
So I strut over there, throw my foot up on the bench, and lean my elbow on my knee, a position that is the absolute last word in nude comfort, plus it gives your hammy a bonus mini-stretch, and makes the upper parts of your lower body more readily available to receive any breeze that my happen to be blowing through. And I say to the guy, I say, “What better place than here, what better time than now, is there to be nude?”
He says something not pertaining to nudity, so I press on: “Nice locker room, right. Got showers and everything. Real nice showers,” the implication here being that showers require one to be naked.
Again, his retort has absolutely nothing to do with the action of being completely devoid of clothing, and then he mentions something about a computer blog. Who is this guy? For realsies?!
So, having accurately pegged this guy as a ‘clother,’ I try to coax him out of his shell by explaining to him my method of getting dressed, even though this event is very stressful to me.
I won’t bore you with the details, but when I finally do get dressed, pants are the absolute last thing to go on. Even after the shoes. You’re probably asking yourself, ‘Doesn’t this cause him to wobble, teeter, and stumble around as he struggles to pull his pants over his shoes, grabbing on to whoever is near for support while his anus is exposed and his genitals swing free?’
The answer to that question varies. Sure, there have been times when I lost my balance and tumbled into an unsuspecting locker room patron. Whether or not any of my private parts brushed against that person is up for debate.
On the other end, there have been plenty of occurrences when I successfully pulled my pants on over my shoes, free of any incidental contact with standers-by. In the end, it all cancels out.
Anyways, all this talk of dress has gotten me off track. I, along with my fellow free-hanging septuagenarian brethren, have been hearing a lot about all sorts of lives mattering, with no mention whatsoever about nude lives. Where do we fit in to the mix, huh? Where’s all the coverage of police ruthlessly gunning down an innocent nude man? I haven’t seen any. Did you know that many businesses will flat out refuse to hire a naked applicant that fits all qualifications for an open position? How about the act of segregating us beautiful, naked, hairy nudes into a small locker room?
Hashtag nude lives matter, man.
So, where do nude, old, hairy men stand in today’s society? In America’s gym locker rooms, is where we stand, and soon we shall burst forth from these prisons, walking very slowly, carrying towels but not using them to cover anything up, and coughing every fifteen seconds.
The world will know us.
Hashtag Blog.
-love, the hairy naked man from the gym locker room
All Epochs Must Pass
I’ve been locked into a Cubist epoch for the past seven days. At the outset, I was extremely prolific, producing two paintings over the course of two days. Since last Friday, however, I have been toiling away on what I have decided must be the last of my Cubist works.
A floccinaucinihilipilificator might suggest this piece belongs in a dumpster behind an orphanage.
But it doesn’t. It is pulchritudinous. And sublime. And very, very lumpy.
Here is my ‘Late Cubism’ masterpiece, entitled Self Portrait, or also, The Bulge.
Self Portrait, or, The Bulge, by Michael Cedarwood. (2015) Microsoft Paint
Force Adrian Peterson To ‘Switch’ His Name
The recent Adrian Peterson controversy is one with many possible angles and viewpoints. Is it okay to beat a four-year-old child with a switch and rip open his scrotum if it is going to make him behave? We’ll never know. Is it okay to beat a 29-year-old man with a stick and puncture his nugget pouch for tearing into a four-year-old’s gonad bag? There is no scientific answer.
But the most disturbing question of all is this: why has no one offered up a proposal that would force the NFL star to change his name to Adrian Beat-his-son? It shames him, it’s a fun play on his real name, and the NFL would make even more money when Vikings fans have to re-buy updated number 28 ‘Beathisson’ jerseys.
All I’m asking is for the government and NFL to give some good old fashioned public humiliation a shot.
Hairy-Assed Baby Born
NEW ULM, MN—Last week, in the birthing unit of the New Ulm Medical Center, a baby was born with a very hairy ass, upsetting a tried and true cliché that the rectal regions of infants are the smoothest and softest surfaces known to man.
There was so much hair on the baby’s ass, nobody even bothered to check if it was male or female.
“There was so much, I, I, hold on, let me gather myself,” said the delivering doctor. “It looked like the anus of the baby had vomited up Bob Marley’s head. Excuse me,” he blurted out as he presumably ran to a sanctuary free of hirsute-buttholed newborns.
The flocculent anus of the baby is most unsettling to those who frequently lean on the phrase ‘smooth as a baby’s bottom.’ The isolated incident sent shockwaves through unimaginative people young and old alike, who now fear that they will have to wait for another smooth object to become accepted as a universal standard.
“This is one very big black sheep that no one saw coming,” said a professor of linguistics who happened to be hanging out at the hospital. “Which ironically is what that baby’s rear end looks like. A sheep.”
Artist’s rendering of the rectum in question
“Now when my husband shaves, what am I supposed to compare his face to? Sure as shit not a baby’s ass, thanks to that freak,” said one woman.
Another bystander was baffled as well. “I know it’s just one baby. But now, if I use ‘smoother than a baby’s butt,’ I can already see some semantic-minded jackass saying ‘not if it was that one baby with the hairy ass.’ This kid has ruined everything. I support abortion now.”
“So now what am I supposed to say? ‘That’s as smooth as a stone that has sat undisturbed in a gentle stream for hundreds of years?’ Fat chance. I say throw the thing off a cliff,” said the nurse.
The firestorm is expected to die down in a matter of weeks, when more and more people will discover that a watched pot always boils, so long as it is placed atop a sufficient heat source.
Plasmapheresis—The Silent Savior
Image from http://www.inc.com
I just went through plasmapheresis. Somebody owes me big time. I technically own another human’s life force now. Big responsibility there. The only trouble is, with all the bureaucratic buffoonery and red tape down at the donation center, they won’t even let you behind the counter to see where something that used to be in your body is going to be shipped, let alone who they’re going to put it into.
Is anybody reading this a detective? I want to hunt down whoever has my plasma. But not in a mean way. All I want is a sincere thanks, and for them to buy me a sandwich every week for the rest of their life. Pretty reasonable, because I know I could demand much more than that.
I could have people, pumped up to their eyelids with my plasma, washing my car, fetching my groceries, naming their children after me. Children that have a piece of me in their veins. But I don’t think of stuff like that.
I am however, in the preliminary stages of having my testicles, kidneys, liver, and even unused parts of my brain tested. In the world of medicine, sick people are so grateful to receive these body parts that donating them guarantees you a rent free existence on Easy Street at least until you are old, and then I think the government pays for you to stay alive after that.
Delusional Mother Genuinely Believes Her Toddler Is A Good-Looking Genius
A beautiful August afternoon was recently ruined by a local woman, known as Jane Everymother, who sat on a park bench talking about her toddler, Titus, to anyone within earshot. “Look at him,” she said as the tiny human picked up a discarded candy wrapper and licked it. “So curious. He could be a scientist someday, don’t you think?” she asked, nudging the elderly man next to her, not realizing that he was blind, and also defecating into his adult diaper.
“He looks just like his father,” she said, referencing her husband, the owner of both an ever-expanding waistline and equally contracting hairline, who also suffers from mild albinism, which lends a horrific red tint to his eyes. “He’s going to be a lady killer someday. I just hope there’s a girl out there good enough for him.”
The toddler’s nine-year-old sister, Gertrude, was asked to weigh in on her mother’s comments. “People thought I looked like my dad at that age too, now look at me,” the balding, red-eyed second-time first grader pointed out. “Lady killer? I’m calling it right now, I will be that turd factory’s prom date.”
Jane then brought out a book designed to teach colors to children, and let Titus page through it. “What color is that?” she asked, pointing to a red fire engine.
The child made a farting noise with its mouth.
“Red! He said red! Red is correct! He’s so smart!” Everymother exclaimed. “How about this one honey? What color is the big yellow sun?”
The boy looked at the image, then yelled “POOP!”
“HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!! The sun does look like poop, doesn’t it honey! It really does!” she said, forcing herself to believe that the bright yellow sphere actually did look like fecal matter.
Gertrude again lent her opinion. “That kid ain’t goin’ anywhere. We share the same genes, for Pete’s sake. I failed 1st grade math. 1st grade math. Think about that. We never did a problem that added up to more than ten.”
At that moment, Titus took off running, tripped over his own feet, and landed in the sandbox.
“Ooooh, did you see how far he jumped?! Does anyone know where the Olympics are in 2033? I can taste the gold already!” Jane squealed, garnering the heartfelt sadness of surrounding parents, who realized that she wasn’t joking.
“I don’t understand why they praise him so much,” Gertrude said. “He craps on the kitchen floor, and they act like it’s a goddam Bernini sculpture. I crap on the kitchen floor, and they literally rub my face in it and put me to bed without a bath.”
Moments later, Jane Everymother vacated the bench when a man sat next to her and pointed to his five-year-old nephew, who was doing pull-ups on the monkey bars. “Ugh, nobody cares,” she said, walking away disgusted. “Let’s go, Titus. We’ll watch Inception before your nap. Because you can understand it.” She paused for a moment, wiped a tear from her eye, then repeated, in a low whisper, “Because you can understand it, dammit.”
Happy Birthday To My Mother
Well, today is the birthday of my Mother. She taught me a great deal about frugality, which is why I’ve been using the same sandwich bag for over five months now, and haven’t flushed my toilet in three. She’s on vacation Brazil at the moment, but this is the conversation we will have when she gets back in a week or so.
Me: I got you flowers on your birthday, but they got old and I had to throw them out.
Mother: You shouldn’t have!
Me: Oh good, ‘cuz I didn’t.
Lesser mothers would be disappointed, maybe even insulted. Mine however, will be happy that I thought about getting her flowers. Then, she will be even more happy when she realizes that I was able to brighten her day without spending any money at all. Happy birthday Mom!
The Philosophunculist 