Caveman Entertainment Network (CET). Bullies in a blender. Reality TV.

Me and my cavemen counterparts were drooling and scratching our nether regions when all of a sudden there arose such a clatter.   My friends and I are as dumb as a box of rocks and say,  “ugh, alot”.  Very profound commentary for us.  But we do have very strong opinions on everything including our cave chicks.  Errr,   Cave Ladies.

We have discussed boobs,  moobs and Jiffy Lube.   The last is a mystery still til this day.   And why do those cave ladies always make remarks that we can’t understand.    The size of our sticks to the best of my understanding.

Now that our cave darlings feel empowered they are making extensive ‘Honey Do Lists’.     We would rather brood in our so-called mancaves and listen to crickets harmonize by the lake than carve out holes in the walls,  to display their fossilized knick knacks.    Hell,  my old lady and I mean really old lady,  wears granny pants and panties.   Kind of like those basketball shorts in the NBA and cargo pants that are bloused and squared away.   Better than those sexy ladies with the hamburgers in their mouths,  if you ask me.

Which one of these three do not belong?

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But one thing that really bugged us and that is,  is wrastling fake?   Or any more fake than Reality TV?  For one,  does anyone believe that Rick’s son Corey actually knows anything about much except that handshake he does? I mean it is like in the hood with the gun thing.   I wonder if he has maybe a gatt or Tech-9.

Now me and the cave morons all agree, that the Amish Mafia can’t be real because how can you commit arson on TV and get away with it.   And we wonder about his nice car.   Okay,  I got a horse and you got a Mercedes.  To be protected from what?   Teen girls smoking straw and overnight and illicit games of Scrabble?

The most inane TV Series is a tie between about 100 Reality TV Shows and ‘The Match Game’ and Gene Rayburn’s microphone.   I am not sure if that is cattle prod for ‘The Butthole Surfers’  or that staff that Moses had in that movie where he was a Pharaoh in training.

As to any of the shows where they are breaking the law what do they think because doesn’t law enforcement have TVs too?  So,  those Moonshine dudes, are on TV and you figure that they would be all in jail by now.    And anyway what happened to the Shapely Sonja on ‘Operation Repo’?   I love that ghoulish makeup and her awesome hair!   Even Billy the Exterminator knows she is a hot ticket in a donut factory.    I do want Billy’s electric Tennis Racquets because I want to nail some churlish wasps while they are sleeping.

Burn baby burn!

When my brother and I were younger he was a rascal.   One day he hit a honey bee hive with a rock and those overly sensitive bees chased us down.   I got stung a few times but rightfully my brother got x10 as many.   Sheez.   Or the day we were playing with Scorpions.

Now why is it when you have shows like the fishing shows that they are always whining like middle school girls?   Cave dudes love to mock and deride other dudes on the deck when the head cave dude is watching WWE and eating Doritos, the insect flavored brands.

Greenhorns my butt,  it is easy to create drama when one does not get enough roe.   Roe this, roe that,  row your boat whiner boy!   In the Storage Wars,  you have Brandi and Yuuuuuuuuup.    The rest is as staged as the Cowardly Lion biting his tail.

But if you want a real classy show,  you have that ‘Ginger’  with the hot ass cave chicks and their good manners.   That poor boy is probably for real,  like they are not my family.    The older guys are just as lame,  still trying to figure out their Tom-Toms and lava lamps.

Could you imagine one of them on a speed date?   “I  like chewing toe bacco and Cave wall porn.”    “My brother’s sister sure does like fyn!” Grunt!!!

I wonder if their National Anthem is Cocaine?   I mean cave dudes are in control of one thing and that is their TV remote controls and their ten foot satellite dishes.   I wonder if Cave chicks had tramp stamps?

I am 59 and it is the best year of my life.

In a matter of moments the countdown to 60 begins in earnest.   So,  59, huh?  I try to think of something about my age,  like maybe a race car number of my favorite car or a date that I find cool.

Hurtling towards obscurity I notice new things or more accurately slowing down to see what is there.    More stopping and actually feeling and sensing what is around me.   WordPress is opening my mind more and considering I am from a different generation,  that is something.

But I embrace the photos and the poetry and notice the common threads.   I find that I am not so different and for every misstep,   I am not the only one.

I remember the first thoughts about something different from childhood.  The inexorable flood of emotions and the subsequent stray thoughts into feelings I could not comprehend.  Like the classic nerd I am embraced my nerdiness and found solace in dreams.

One thing that is absolutely true,  is that as we age certain things will never be as they were.  Alliances meant to get us through the torturous teen years become all for about self.   The world becomes dog eat dog and the wisest have a star over them.

Getting aged is hilarious.   Especially anatomically.   Hair grows in new place and trees know your name.   That and your underwear keeps growing and velcro is an alternative to tying shoes.   But do not fear there is always next year as the tide rolls in.   Confused yet?  Me too.

I think too many of us climb the stairs too late,  that radiance becomes transposed and the mortality can wait.    We buy a new car with wide wheels and a pair of rose-colored glasses.  Myself,  I drink Viagra and breathe Cialis.   I wear a bald-headed toupee and do my little strut.     I also realize in those commercials the two in separate bath tubs and I think I know what the problem is.    It is elementary my dear Funk and Wagnalls.   You youngins may go and want to look that up.

I am just waiting for stem cells to make me less ugly.    I already have enough legs but a few active brain cells and a subscription to Sports Illustrated.   (The Swimsuit thingie) and I will be in business.    I do not want to be a Hugh Heffner.   Partly because I do not want to be a caricature of myself or an embarrassment to my daughter.

Imagine the resentment of the girls who sleep with a zombie with a shrinking member.   They may get a credit card but the interest due is beyond reconciling.   I could have liposuction on my brain and that way maybe get rid of some accumulated caloric content.

In my next life I am going to live in a Petri Dish.   However that doesn’t include being a virus or an infection.

Well I got to go to Punxsutawney and upstage my name sake in the critical decision of whether there will be six weeks more of winter or an Indian Spring.