Sam and I just read a Washington Post article about the hanky panky occurring in some of the Occupy encampments. Hah! We just knew there was something going on there besides taking over Wall Street. The Post article was reprinted in The Olympian, our local newspaper.
So, here we go again. First I missed out on the make-love-not-war deal, now I’ve missed out on the “cuddle puddles” of Occupy. Dang! Sam looks at me as if I’ve lost my marbles, but he’s been fixed, so he doesn’t understand. Not that I would have done anything . . .
The Washington Post article by Annie Gowen talks about couples who meet during the marches on Wall Street and during political discussions on Facebook and other such romantic Occupy activities. Then they move on to more swooney-type situations and some are now even planning to marry. Here comes the bride. Love and marriage go together followed by the baby carriage. The next generation will be called Occubabies.
My fertile imagination is trying to come up with a scenario more romantic and emotionally satisfying than meeting at a march or a political discussion though. Like, I’m reading the comic strip Bizarro and a doctor is telling this overweight guy, “Touching your toes isn’t everything Mitch. You can still touch other people’s toes, can’t you? And really, isn’t that more fun?”
I can imagine tiptoeing through an Occupy tent city checking out all the pretty ladies bare footsie digits sticking out of their sleeping bags. They would look so pretty in the moonlight, all pink and soft. Then I would spy one with red nails, American flags painted on them, and I would swoon. Love’s smoldering embers would burst into hot flames and my heart would be totally occupied. M-mm, M-mm! Or I would have a bad case of heartburn from eating all the pizza and other crap I would find in a tent city. Whatever.
But how to approach her royal objectess of my libidinous night crawling? Do I call softly into her tent? Yoo-hoo! Sweet love toes. Do I stand outside and sing a Latin love ballad? Do I recite some smarmy poetry underneath the street light as it casts romantic shadows through the branches of an overhanging tree? Do I just barge into her tent, throw myself on top of her sleeping bag and confess the need to quench my love thirst in the bosom of her political righteousness?
Phew! My glasses are steaming up. But I promise, this is as close to adult content as this blog will get. I think to be safe, I’ll just pull a couple of sleeping bags out of the closet tonight, throw the tent up in the back yard and try to talk my wife into painting her toe nails. Too bad it’s snowing out there, but her love can keep me warm.
Here’s a great opening line for a book: “Tis better to fall in love with toes than to fall on your face on your nose.” How about a title like: Love’s digits lost? You like it don’t you? Sam does, he’s barking at me and holding up a bag of poop.
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