Wednesday, October 28, 2009


Okay, it's time for another one of my silly scribblings.


I don’t want to talk about it.

Now there’s a brilliant essay for you. Seven words. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Period. It reminds me of an essay I did in grammar school titled, “What I Did on My Summer Vacation.”

“My family and I went to the mountains for two weeks. We stayed in this crummy log cabin with about a million spiders, and Dad kept yelling at me not to scream and throw his good shoes at the walls. The bathroom was in this old house outdoors, and Dad kept yelling at me because I wouldn’t go in there and sit down. I didn’t do my business for three whole days. Mom yelled at me too when she caught me whizzing on some lady’s flowers. We came home ten days early because Mom and Dad were tired of yelling and I really had to take a dump. We had fun, but I just don’t want to talk about it.”

The reason I don’t talk about sex is because I don’t talk about sex. I could care less about other people’s sex lives. The same goes for celebrities and pseudo-celebrities (although I thought the Monica and Bill thing was amusing). The same goes for gays and lesbians. What people do in private is their business—not mine.

So whether my sex life is between Martha and me or just between me, it’s none of your business. If I am straight, bi-sexual, gay, or any combination of the three, it’s none of your business. If I’m a cross-dresser or get dressed in the crosswalk, it’s definitely none of your business.

I will tell you one thing, though. I didn’t marry a good Catholic girl.


“Okay, Charlie, I’ve taken both my oral and rectal temperature—”

“—I hope you took the oral temp first—”

“I’ve counted backward fourteen days, counted forward fourteen days, computed the mean, median, and mode, checked the Xs on the calendar, and I’ve been watching the moon on the Weather Channel. Everything is favorable, which means we can have sex within the next twelve minutes.”

“Gee, honey, you didn’t have to go through all that for a simple quickie. You sound like Mission Control.”

“A QUICKIE! Do you think I’m having sex with you for FUN? This is for making a little Mary or a Benedict XVI."

"Great. We can call him Bennie. Or ExVeeEye. Or better yet, 16. 16 Callahan—I like it."

"Now turn off all the lights before I take off my clothes—and don’t you dare try to peek at me either, you filthy pervert.”

This just in! A memo from Martha:

“Thank you for keeping your big trap shut for once and respecting my privacy and womanly dignity. You’re right: the story about you trying to put a conundrum on in the dark is nobody’s damn business."


Barbara Bruederlin said...

This blog is getting far too racy for me, a nice Agnostic girl!

Robert the Skeptic said...

In this category, I am more of a "do"er than a "talk"er.

Pat said...

To hell with who's business it is. That gave me a real belly laugh and I'm going to read it again just for the joy.

St Jude said...

I'm chuckling here!

Charlie said...

BARBARA: I apologize for offending a nice Agnostic girl. I go back to reviewing children's books so that you'll stick around.

ROBERT: I don't want to talk about it.

PAT & SAINT J: I still think of Englishwomen as Victorian; I guess I should get my head out of the 19th century and into the 21st.

Nonetheless, thanks to both of you for laughing at me (or at least chuckling).

Kim Ayres said...

To talk about it I'd first have to remember what it was...

Kevin Musgrove said...

I can never remember which partner it is that has to clean the oven...

Jimmy Bastard said...

Sex between a man and his wife is a loving act. Sex between a man and his wife's sister is a bloody hard act to follow.

Wandering Coyote said...

I am killing myself laughing over your conundrum! That's just hysterical.

But yes, it's no one's business, especially when there is a spouse involved. You do have to respect her privacy.

Tiffin said...

Martha's dead right: no one needs to know about you putting a puzzle on an enigma in the dark. As for people who do talk about sex, have you ever noticed that the degree of boredom is amplified precisely ten times in proportion to the degree of disclosure? I forget the name of this is quite different from the Inverse Proportion Law which states that the size of a certain feature of the male anatomy is decreased proportionally relative to the amount of force used to rev the accelerator at a stop light.


Tiffin said...

p.s. that Hah was a gust of laughter at your writing, Charlie.

Charlie said...

KIM: Bullshit. (Was I a bit blunt?)

KEVIN: Sex in the oven? That's disgusting. In any event, I don't want to talk about it.

JIMMY: Thank you for your . . . wisdom?

WC: Thank you for catching (and enjoying) my little word play!

TUI, TUI, TUI: You're just too funny. Could it be the Law of Diminishing Returns? I bet Kim Ayres knows, and I'll refer it to him.

And thanks for laughing at my writing.

Alice said...

Geez, I miss a day, I miss a lot. Probably not your point, but your childhood essay was priceless! My dad always tells me about the poem he had to write in highschool.

I had a doll.
I hung it on a wall.
That is all.

Not as elaborate but just as inspiring.

Charlie said...

ALICE: Your dad's poem comes close to haiku. Or sudoko. I get the two of them mixed up.

Meg said...

I liked the story about the conundrum in the dark. I read that back when I was innocent. I think you aided in my corruption.