Everyone Is Entitled To My Opinion

I discovered a lot about perception, reality, and life on a beautiful May afternoon in Hudson, New York. It was my first job as an Account Executive for an Upstate New York McDonalds’ advertising agency.  I was 23. One of my duties was to manage Ronald McDonald appearances.

Now here’s a big secret up front. There’s more than one Ronald McDonald; actually, there are many Ronalds.  Regional “Ronalds” looked alike, had various “talents” – like juggling Big  Mac boxes -  and their own unique personalities.

“My” Ronald was an old magician who was cranky and didn’t like kids very much. But for some odd reason, he liked me – and I liked him. And I loved the fact Ronald McDonald appearances were so bizarre, they were like LSD trips without drugs. Ronald was the world’s most famous clown – with a lousy attitude.

On that first appearance, I drove Ronald in full costume to McDonalds with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. When we arrived, he told me to pull up to the side entrance and guard the bathroom.

Seeing my puzzled look, he said, “Look, you go in first , clear everyone out, then go outside and guard the door.  Shit, kids can’t see Ronald taking a leak!”

That made sense, so I did as I was told. Soon I saw two junior high punks walking towards me. The larger delinquent spoke first.

“We gotta use the bathroom.”

“You can’t use the bathroom right now. Ronald McDonald is using it,” I said with a straight face.

The punks looked at each other and burst out laughing. They obviously weren’t there for the appearance.

“Ronald McDonald is really in there pissing?” one sarcastically asked.

“Hey guys,” I said, “I don’t know what he’s doing in there. But you can’t go in until he comes out.” Of course this produced more loud laughter.

Suddenly the men’s room door burst open and there stood “Ronald” immediately taking in the situation.  He put his hands on his hips.

“Oooh Ronald,”one laughed, “why can’t we see you pee?”

And then in a voice cracked by more than 60-years of cigarettes and alcohol, my Ronald growled, “Because, you little bastards, I’ve got a schlong that’s this long (here he put his hands about a foot apart) and it would just scare the shit out of ya!” With that he turned and started clumping towards the McDonald’s entrance in his size 22 clown shoes.

The punks and I stared at each other in silence. After a second or two, I rushed to catch up to the world’s most famous clown.

Guys, if your lover asks for a ‘Sybian’ for her next birthday, try to get it right.  Maybe she just wants a fancy-ass cellphone by Nokia – or maybe she wants “the world’s greatest adult toy.”  If she wants the sit down machine, your days are probably numbered.

The Sybian was invented in the 1980’s and “designed for a woman’s ultimate pleasure”.  At first the inventors were going to name it “The Master Better” – but thought better of it.  It comes with four attachments – two insertable and two with different textures.  You can also buy a much longer attachment in black rubber (naw…I just made that up).

It’s quite a machine.  The attachment ROTATES using over .34 horsepower and VIBRATES using .59.  Horsepower is a good word to use because the woman sits or kneels astride the device (there’s no mention of sidesaddle).  It’s power is determined by a remote control device held by the user or anyone to whom she hands it.  Hourly use of the device may result in addiction and relationship endangerment.

When the Sybian first appeared, it cost over $1-thousand dollars.  Today they’re all over the internet for a few hundred bucks each.  A used Sybian (attachments are washable) is sometimes advertised on Crag’s List and I’ll bet there are a few good stories (maybe pictures) behind each and every one.

My gal-pal B. and I were lying around yesterday discussing the promise of artificial penis’s.

Penile implants have been around for years.  Their popularity has had its ups and downs (somebody had to say it) but  new technological advantages out measure their performance in years past.

Today, after a brief operation, the device pictured above is inserted into a non-working penile appendage. And then the pump on the right is repeatedly pushed through the scrotum to get the desired erection.  Of course you don’t get a larger penis, you just get what you had.

When I read about this, I had an idea. Unfortunately I shared it with my friend.

“Wouldn’t pumping the tire kind of take away from the romance of the moment?” I said.

B. looked at me suspiciously – I went on. “With today’s technology wouldn’t it  be better to push a button on a remote for takeoff  – and then casually turn over and push another button for landing – so to speak?”

Thoughtful silence.

“I have a better idea,” B. said, “What if the on-off switch was in a Clapper?  We’d have to change the name, of course – but besides that, it’s a great idea! Clap on – erection.  Clap off – over and out.”

I have to admit, I thought about it.

“Wait a minute, “ I said. “The Clapper won’t know who’s clapping.  The woman might clap and everything would go down.”

B. just smiled and nodded her head.

Betty Cooper and Veronica Lodge, both rumored to be girlfriends of Archie Andrews, the red-haired, wholesome 85-year old Riverdale High School student, will actually marry each other in Los Angeles next month. Ms. Lodge made the announcement in front of a rack of flannel shirts in a Modesto, California Sears store with the blushing Betty Cooper at her side.

Speaking out of the side of her mouth with a non-filter cigarette on the other side, Ms. Lodge said, “Yah, I figured I’d make an honest woman out of her. I’m sick of the fact the FBA keeps getting more fingerprints than the FBI!”

When asked what ‘FBA’ stood for, the burley Veronica snarled, “Freakin’ Betty’s Ass”. The couple plan to marry on September 15th, the anniversary of  the marriage of the late J. Edgar Hoover and Clyde Tolson, Former Director and Mrs. Director of the FBI.

Archie Andrews appeared shocked at the news. When asked if he ever “got any – on the side?” from Ms. Lodge, Mr. Andrews said, “I haven’t gotten any in so long, I didn’t even know they moved it.”

Human test trials for the male birth control pill are now going on in England. The pill should be on the market in a few years. The research money spent on this stupid project was wasted.

WOMEN – here’s a hypothetical test:  you meet a really hot guy at a cool party. There aren’t any telltale tan lines of a wedding ring on his finger. He’s clean, kind of good-looking, and is neither a hairdresser nor an interior designer. He’s actually asked you three questions about your life and only spent about three quarters of the time talking about himself.

A bouncing boobed bimbo shakes on by and he never takes his eyes off you. Bingo! You’re slightly drunk – so you invite him back to your apartment “to talk.” When he actually pays for the cab ride and gives the driver a good tip, you think – “should we rush a June wedding….or wait another month?”

As soon as you enter your apartment, passion melts the wallpaper! Clothes fly everywhere and at one point in the melee, you kiss your own forearm! After tumbling into bed, you open the drawer in your night stand, take out a condom and hurriedly hand it to your new lover.

He smiles and says, “I really don’t need that, Baby – I’m on the male birth control pill.”

WOMEN, Do you say …….

A. “Wow! You really DO have a great sense of humor!” or

B. “You HAVE to – I don’t want to get HIV again!” or

C. “Good! I WANT to have more children!” or

D. “Geez – I thought only prison inmates said that!” or

E. “Right. How selfish of me to put an unwanted pregnancy before your minute and a half of pleasure!”

Male birth control pills will become viable only when women trust men enough to put down the toilet seat every night.

J. is a woman who came from a broken home – in a small town – became a “dancer” in the city – and took a dive into a world of drugs and decadence. Today she’s beautiful at 45 – when she was 20, she was stunning. J. was racing towards an abyss-of-death. Until her daughter was born.

J. quickly dedicated her life to that child. She bought a small house so her daughter could have the security she never had growing up. She took a series of mundane jobs that were respectable – but paid little.  J. had every middle class dream for her daughter – especially the ones about a bride in white and giving her grandchildren.

But that dream exploded when her daughter told her she was gay. “Say what? Gay? GAY!?!”

J. was DEVASTATED. She cried and prayed and denied it and begged her daughter to seek “help”.  But it didn’t matter. Water is wet – the sky is blue – some people are gay. Finally J. accepted what she could not change. To express her love and acceptance of her daughter, she marched with her in a Gay Pride Parade.

“Franco,” she said, “I was shocked! We walked by a group of militant Christian activists who pointed their fingers at us and started chanting ‘You’re going to hell!’ . There was hate POURING out of their eyes and mouths!”

“I was overwhelmed! But then a strange thing happened. I immediately calmed down and started saying, ‘I love you’ to the protesters. I just kept  repeating, ‘I love you,’ ‘I love you.’ But that seemed to make them angrier still! When that parade ended, I knew my daughter and I were even closer.”

I wondered,  what if Jesus was in that Pride Day parade? Would He thank the protesters? Would He be angry? Would He be embarrassed?

I told this story to a friend who’s a believer. She just  looked at me like I was an imbecile.

“He was there, Franco,” she said. “Why do you think J. answered hate with love?”

I never took a photography class – but I always liked taking pictures of people.  I learned right away how to please myself (and usually the people I shot). I’d focus on the eyes – get as close as I could until they got out of focus – pull back an inch – and push the button.  People go to a 4-year college for this?

I wonder where Sylvia is today?