The La-Z-Boy Boogie by Ric Myworld |
I’m a better golfer than a writer, and a better fighter than a lover. But I’ve chosen writing over golfing, since a writer can excuse his lies as fiction. And a golfer can only use his foot-wedge when no one is watching, and only if his conscience will let him cheat. After many butt whippings as a boy, I finally learned to fight back, and found all those battles had made me mean and handy with my fists and feet. But lovers always have a cuddle-buddy who knows the other’s limited bag of tricks and mysteries. Confidentialities snugglers can hardly wait to tattle, with eager ears anxious to listen. Their versions twisted to suit themselves. Secrets that when told, are no longer secrets. Just idle boastings, or negative and hurtful babble. Then, things change when shoulders, knees, necks, and backs wear out, pop, crack, and slow to a creaking crawl with achy joints arthritic and swollen. It’s time to stop fighting, worrying about the spread of our intimate rendezvous’, and seeking unfair advantage by kicking our balls from behind a tree on the course. It’s time to write stories and tell everything the way we wish it could be. We can become the hero or villain, world’s greatest whatever, Warren Buffet, mad scientist, or President for a day. All matters of choice, our choice. Experience a world of danger and deceit. Safe and secure in the confines of home. Limited by nothing but our vocabulary and imaginations or grammatical efficiency. Cheers! To living life relaxed and assuaged in our La-Z-Boy recliner. Mountain-drama thrills, ocean quests, greatly exaggerated love lives, money, fame, daredevilish antics and escapes, and all from comfy-butt seats sipping tea, coffee, or a crackling iced cocktail. ***** No imminent chores, I could recall. So, I flipped my legs up, and leaned back. My eyelids, like lead weights, clamped shut and the adventure began. Swirling seas rougher than a carnival ride, and I hadn’t even had to buy a ticket. The vessel pointed toward a sky of blue, speckled with gulls and a puff of clouds, I soared without wings. A stiff gust shivered me timbers for real, not a comic oath. Face and hair stretched back tighter than a dry birth squinting my eyes like an unmasked ninja. My stomach rushed-up into my throat as the ship dove straight down into a bottomless pit of fury. Then, smashed with the force of Niagara Falls, I gulped and gagged, the wall of water rolling over my barrel-less body. And before I could catch my breath, the ship’s nose shifted upward, the centrifugal force yanked my arms almost out of sockets at the shoulders and elbows. The rope slid hotter than molten lava through my disintegrating hands, and the vacuum nearly sucked me overboard, into the churning saltwater foam. Someone yelled my name, “Hello, Ric . . . Ric, say something? Hey, where are you?” Startled, I jumped up blurry eyed trying to catch my bearings. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, then my fingers, until I could make out the image entering my den. “Hey, Harry, how did you get in without a key?” “Through your front door, Ric, you left it standing wide open. I was concerned.” “Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry. I guess, I just sat down for a minute and fell-off asleep.” Damn that Harry, waking me before the best part. Where I would become Sir Gallant, save the damsel in distress, and be rewarded with her family jewels. The sparkling diamonds, emeralds, and hidden treasures of pleasure. Yes, a rather fruitless ramble and I apologize for your wasted time. But after reading the notice that I need one more post to be recognized on FanStory, I paid dearly to post this foolishness and fill my quota. I sincerely appreciate your time.
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Ric Myworld
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