The Language of Love

What happens when you take a short story and run it through both Google and Bing translators a dozen times? You get a story that has traveled the length of English, Spanish, German, Arabic, Greek, Klingon --seriously, why that even a legit option?-- Japanese, Chinese, Mongolian, Latin and finally English again. 

You get THIS:

It is love at first sight.

When they first met Gregg Francis down. It ended suddenly, his arrival, and was successful. His duties from his exile home in 10 years, his wife's car and he was hiding under the mattress of angry 20 year old porn, dirty garage next door was stolen. 

As a busy masturbation Cough changes from the worst, he lost his right hand and draw your imagination despair recommends car. Gregg saw anger and resignation as dark tail lights has melted, still around his ankles, he ran out of the room on the second floor in pants and a brick.

When Gregg returned to the room, he saw. If you've seen the original masturbation room, or how much you are thinking. When he came into the room, so that further deterioration of attention. The door behind him, he's the best smile closed.

This is a six months ago. Gregg Bullock as two inseparable. Gregg has done it all. Watch movies, eat,Barnes Noble Bookstore & super. We should not close the position.

When possible, Gregg secretly watch the audience, still alone in a small apartment in rent Gregg in his audience. Please enjoy the beautiful curves of the body. Vision, cannot calm thinking outside touch her, really happy.

Gregg decided to Toledo, take the time to prepare. Cities, work and life, and you always want, all new life, Brooke knew found it to be rich! Got power and respect! And his team made by Brooke together.

Even in the Dim light of a summer evening, Gregg Avenue block, the Navy, banking system, he was on his way home. It is to get money, your life, as long as the Gregg plan, the unknown aspects of love and leave in the evening in Toledo.

Depart from several corners of the contact section, bare brick walls and fly to another block to the South.

Hi,» said the shadow. white meat, which stopped the steps to do it. "
Gregg looks very nice person to block off the road. Summer sun and Gregg young latin it looks a Glock 9 mm semiautomatic hand dryer with stand, I think fall. Gregg as bathrooms, drinking wine do not know the final product, you know, the usual signs of drug use. In his spirit and Bay Park Community Hospital, a few blocks away, perhaps the only escaped narkomanka Hospital program.

"You are what you want in an American just bad," said Gregg.

Gregg depending caused panic eyebrows and looked at me. "We'll talk to people. Close to hell and give me the money! "

"I will listen to you my wallet, but nothing. Gregg said, but you should be able to leave the woman alone!. "

What is it? Shut up and give me your wallet! "the response and drug addicts.

Gregg in the Pocket, slowly moving his left hand pulled back his wallet as well. I think he only depends on the maintenance of peace and peace go hard and Brock Lesnar would go ahead. "It's all over in a matter of minutes, and we will make the child quietly," she whispered.

Preparing to gently pull my wallet and took it to Gregg addicts, it happened. his eyes Gregg addiction, you are mistress no pressure. Street. Life. Brook jumped in after cooked my hands, and then he was shot in the lane. Fan-shot echo brick wall, everything seems to be, but in fact started taking a few seconds.

Gregg bow. Interest is addictive, signed in front of the hole in the Penumbra only bloody thing wrong.In the foot, a man near and Gregg. Head and a variety of drugs. Only produced softball size coarse or crude oil, about a big hole. Brain, even in the whole body of land who knows what. Gregg noted the women to abhor. Shake. See her suck.

"Love you Brooke", he said. "He saved our lives. Thank You. "

The only answer is still smoking pipe.

ORIGINAL VERSION

It was love at first sight.

Gregg Francis was down and out when he first met her. His life had come to an abrupt and complete halt. He had been fired from his job, kicked out of the house by his wife of ten years and his car had been stolen from the motel parking lot while he was busy inside his dingy room, furiously masturbating to the 20-year-old porno mag he found underneath the mattress.

He was lost in his fantasies and working the desperate motions of his right hand when the familiar throaty cough of his car’s engine caught his attention. Gregg ran out of his second-floor room with his pants still around his ankles, staring in anger and resignation as the tail lights melted away into the darkness.

When Gregg walked back into the room he saw her. He had no idea how long she’d been in the room or if she saw him in his earlier onanistic activities. But his concerns melted away when he entered the room. A smile appeared on his lip as he shut the door behind him.

That had been six months ago. Since then, Gregg and Brooke were inseparable. In everything that Gregg did, he took Brooke with him. To the movies, dinner, the local Barnes and Noble mega bookstore. She never left his side.

Whenever possible, Gregg would sneak looks at her in public, and when they were alone together in the small studio apartment that Gregg rented, he stared at her openly. Admiring her curves, her body, her beauty. His heartbeats would falter at the sight of her and at the thought that she was truly his. He couldn’t have been happier.

Gregg decided that he had spent enough time in Toledo and he was ready to move on. Find a new city, job and life, and he knew that with Brooke his new life would be everything he had always hoped for. He would be rich! He would gain power and respect! All because of what he felt he could accomplish with Brooke by his side.

So in the gloaming one summer night, Gregg and Brooke made their way down Navarre Ave. to the bank machine nearest his apartment. Gregg’s plan was to get out as much money as he could and leave Toledo that night for parts unknown, with the love of his life.

 As the couple turned the corner on South  Coy Rd., a shadow detached itself from a brick wall and bared their way.

“Hey whitemeat, not another step,” the shadow said, “you’re just gonna stop right there.”

Gregg took a good look at the person blocking their path. In the sinking summer sun Gregg could see that he was a young Latino with a visible twitch and a 9mm semi-automatic Glock in his hand. Though Gregg wasn’t familiar with drugs past the alcohol he didn’t drink so much as bathe in, he recognized the signs of a habitual drug user. It made sense, Bay Park Community Hospital was just a few blocks away and this junky had probably just escaped from a treatment program at the hospital.

“We’ll do whatever you want man, just don’t hurt us,” Gregg said.

The junkie just stared at Gregg, his eyebrows dipped in consternation. “You don’t need to talk man. Just shut the hell up and give me your money!”

“Listen, I’ll give you my wallet, but there’s nothing in there. But please just leave the woman alone!” Gregg said.

“What? Shut up and give me your wallet!” the junkie replied.

Gregg slowly moved his left hand to his back pocket to pull out his wallet. He just wanted to keep the junky calm and get the ordeal over with so that he and Brooke could go in peace. “Keep quiet baby and this will all be over in a minute,” he whispered to her.

Cautiously, Gregg pulled the wallet out and brought it in front of him and got ready to give it to the junkie when it happened. Gregg looked into the junkie’s eyes and could just see that he and his lady weren’t going to make it off of S. Coy Rd. alive. The next thing he knew Brooke had leapt into his hands. Then a shot rang out in the alley. The echo from the gunshot reverberated on the brick walls for what seemed like an eternity, but was really just a few seconds.

Gregg looked down. At his feet lay the junkie, a small hole in his forehead and a light trickle of blood were the only signs that there was something wrong. With his foot, Gregg turned the guy over. The back of the junkie’s head no longer existed. All that was left was a large hole, about the size of a softball, which was ragged and raw. Brain matter and who knew what else, littered the ground underneath the body. Gregg turned away, disgusted, to focus his attention on his lady. She was shaking. He sighed contently.

“I love you Brooke,” he said. “You saved our lives. Thank you.”

Silence was the only reply from the still smoking barrel.

Does the Red Carpet Match the Drapes?*

Every February we’re made to fulfill some sort of unspoken social agreement by taking a few moments out of our lives to pretend to care about something that we instantly forget about by the end of the news cycle. But enough about National Weatherman’s Day.** I’m going to talk about the Oscars instead.

Boy oh boy. So the Oscars are tonight. What is this, the 99,923^rd Academy Awards show? I’ve lost both count and interest. And who can blame me?

Typically, if history is any guide, I’d use this opportunity to talk about the movies that are up for awards, and possibly give quick synopses of their plots. But my customary Sunday afternoon ennui is preventing me from rolling out of bed, let alone being bothered to see what movies have been nominated this year. Probably something foreign. Maybe something with Judy Dench in it. Perhaps something historical, or even a biopic? The latest Adam Sandler rom-com? All of those are valid options.

I know one thing for sure when it comes to movies that are up for “Best Picture”: they’re never fun movies that people like. The flicks nominated for that category are usually movies made by one part of Hollywood, for another part of Hollywood. Complete industry insider bullshit. We call that CINEMA. Meanwhile, the popular movies are tossed away as offal for the masses.

Don’t get me wrong. I know the difference between good and popular. Back in the early “naughts” I had an argument with a guy who kept telling me The Strokes were the BEST, because they had the highest-selling album of the year. I laughed at him. For a long time. A decade later and time has borne my truth. Half of you are asking who The Strokes even are!

I also know that there are plenty of award shows and competitions out there where nominees are voted on by the cretinous whims of the Great Unwashed. Hell, that’s how we elect our leaders. But to me, it seems odd that the Oscars are so mainstream for such an insider event.  Why are we supposed to care what filmmakers think about other filmmakers? It certainly doesn’t shame the bad filmmakers into quitting (isn’t that right Brett Ratner?). Are we being guilted into liking movies that don’t really appeal to us? Why do I have to like Whiplash? The concept of jazz drummers has never been interesting to me in the least. And I don’t want to feel bad because my commoner brain was entertained by Lucy.

There are people who do their best to go out and watch each “Best Picture” nominee picture each year. You probably know people like that too. Investing far too much effort, time and energy into watching movies that you wouldn’t normally watch on your own, (and you don’t get paid for it, no less) seems like the height of masochism. Actually, I take that back. Veganism is the height of masochism. And then, when they finish their viewings, these people can sit back and cultivate opinions on things that they never had input in. Sounds productive!

I think movie awards should be given out like Guinness gives records: the award stands until a better movie can beat it. If that means I, Frankenstein is the best movie for three or four years, then so be it. We could go some years with no Oscars being given out at all!

I’m not going to watch tonight. I never watch. Even with the gaffs, the flubs, the snubs, the grubs and the droogs, it’s not worth it. I’ll just have to find out tomorrow morning whose speech was cut short, who was wearing what Italian designer, (whose spring line us normies will run out to buy ASAP) who won for best Key Grip and the reasons behind why Kanye was even at the show in the first place, let alone whose speech he drunkenly interrupted.

And then next year, when February rolls around once more, we’ll poke our heads out of our burrows, like the majestic groundhog, cast our gaze across the barren winter landscape, sniff the fetid air, pretend like last year never happened, and proceed to do it all again.

Let’s just hope that next time, the Academy will stop ignoring Bruce Campbell’s many achievements.

*Could have gone with a period joke. Almost did. But didn’t. You’re welcome.

**A real thing. Never let it be said that you don’t learn shit reading my ridiculousness

A Lovely Partnership (or, How To Get Married and Mean It)

A few weeks ago, in the Washington Post (motto: “Newspapers--not just for lining the bottoms of bird cages!”) I read this fascinating wedding announcement.

               

  “Woah, woah, woah, Josh,” You’re no doubt saying out loud to yourself like a crazy person. “Why, in the name of Zeus, are you reading wedding announcements in newspapers?” And the answer is simple: I am too weird to even understand myself sometimes. Also, I had finished with the comics but my compulsion to laugh was not yet satiated. And what better way to enjoy a hearty guffaw than by reading about voluntary imprisonment in the name of love?

                

And then I encountered a story that not only shocked the eyebrows right off of my forehead, it also gave me renewed hope in love, marriage and the knowledge that there are people out there who get it!

               

I discovered Ann Belkov, 75 and Jerry Lewis, 81. You see, Ann and Jerry met ten years ago, at the young virile ages of 65 and 71 respectively. And after ten years of “dating”* they decided to get hitched. It’s not Jerry’s first time. He’s been shackled to a broad before and got kids and grandkids for his troubles. But I guess Good ‘Ol Jer is a masochist, because he felt the need to marry again.

                

It’s interesting that Ann has never married before. But much as women these days, in their 20s and 30s, can sometimes feel the internal call for success overpower the call to settle down and focus on family, Ann decided to put her career and desire to enjoy and experience life before her need to get married. For decades she dedicated herself to breaking glass ceilings and manhandling the scrota of her male colleagues. In short, while her lady friends were all busy teaching their children not to eat glue or shit themselves, Ann was off taming lions and doing body shots off of Ernest Hemingway or whatever.

                

While that alone is intriguing and refreshing, it’s not what caught my attention. To me, what really stood out is the fact that these two fossils have no intention of living together. Think about that for a moment. Let it roll around your simple brain like a fine wine caressing your palette. Open your mind to that concept and let it move in for a spell. Marvel in the simplicity of such a novel, (yet devastatingly brilliant) idea.

               

We’ve all seen tv shows and movies from the 1950s and 60s where the chaste married couple sleep in separate but equal twin beds (Plessy v. Ferguson v. Serta**). And I once had a girlfriend with whom I had more than one conversation about marriage, and we always talked about having separate bedrooms. Good times. But this couple! Man, they just get it.  They went the next step of separate beds, separate rooms and separate houses.

                

What’s even better is that they’re only going to hang out and do stuff together on the weekends. On week days, they’ll each do their own thing in their own homes. Though, to be honest, I really have to wonder what things they’re getting into at such advanced ages. Alone. I’m guessing Tinder is involved.

                

That all sounds so fabulous and smart to me. Far too often I’ve seen relationships destroyed because couples are forced to interact with each other. Sometimes daily. That can be a real strain. But when couples only spend a couple days together a week, they get to keep things fresh and interesting. “Gee, I wonder if Jerry is still alive to come over this weekend,” is probably something that goes through Ann’s thoughts. Now that’s exciting and spontaneous!

                

Of course, the couple realizes that they’re getting up there in age and won’t be able to commute to love forever. But it’s okay, they have a backup plan for that. When the day comes that Ann needs to live with her part-time husband, she will take up residence in his house.

                

In the basement.

                

Yeah. She’s going to move into this guy’s basement (no word in the article on how many floors his house is, but I’m going to guess conservatively and say at least four) and they will maintain the schedule of only seeing each other on weekends. Do you hear me? They will live together in the same building and continue to only see each other on weekends. That’s heavenly. Short of one’s hubby being incarcerated or in a coma, this is the best possible situation for a married person to be in!

Man, I can’t wait to be old so I can shed the time-wasting games and stupidity that overcome people in love and instead focus on being pragmatic and sensible. It doesn’t make love less romantic; it makes the lovers smarter and more in tune with each other and our severely limited time on this planet. More people should consider this vista. I think these two wacky kids have a real future together. And if they don’t, I’m sure I’ll read about it. Because I cruise the obituary section too.

*Seriously though? Dating? That’s got to be an incredibly loose definition of what a date entails. I’m sure there were a lot of oxygen tanks and long rests on park benches involved in whatever they did together.

**This joke brought to you by Black History Month. “Black History Month: it’s that thing that teachers and old people guilt you into caring about.”