Bookkeeping For Sexual Misfits

I was sure the rather large round box on the back step of my boathouse contained a snare drum. How did I know this? Well, I might as well tell you....I am a mentalist.

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I'm not dissimilar to The Amazing Kreskin, though I don't project nearly as sexy an image. I use my logic and enhanced powers of deductive reasoning to determine what belongs where, and a snare drum couldn't be beaten as my front runner of choice. I had two other thoughts as to what was in the the box; an ugly hat with fruit on the top was in second place, but that was a dark horse at best. My third thought was not of a dark horse but rather a dark raccoon, with eyes like a rabid Olsen twin, preparing to lunge as I cracked open the lid. Cautiously I pried open the cover. In my hand was a defensively held canister of WD-40, in lieu of Olsen-B-Gone which I was out of.

What the...!

I found a melange of items inside. In no particular order were two ancient, pre-Flintstone era toasters, a creepy little doll with bad hair (see image above) and large coffee table book entitled 'The Ultimate Sex Book'. I immediately took offence to the book's title. I mean, what's the difference between the 'ultimate' sex book and the plain old sex book. Isn't it the ultimate just to be having it?

I've got a pretty good idea of who left the items on my back step, and I barely need to rev up my Kreskin-like powers to take a guess. I consider myself to be the village idiot here in Cambridge-Narrows, but if something were to happen to me, then someone would need to step in and take my place. That person would be Ken Appleby. Ken gives me a run for my money as the village idiot, and no one else comes close. Bill Jeffrey (sorry, Bill) is a distant third. Pern Tupper doesn't live in the village anymore, so he's out.

Some of you don't know these people, so here's a brief summary:

Ken Appleby - Ken is like a wonderfully fermented, Teflon coated bag of manure. As the Chief Executive Officer of the Cambridge-Narrows Beautification Brigade, he outwits the naive summer students by convincing them that whipper-snipping a fifteen acre park is fun. Ken is doing his best to clean up the village and he's doing a great job (not withstanding that everyone knows it's the summer students who do all the work). As a former employee of Air Canada, Ken is immune to incoming abuse at any level, though he dishes it out like a seasoned veteran. It's best to stay on the good side of Ken (upwind).

Bill Jeffrey - if you remember the television show Cheers, you'll remember the character Cliff Clavin, the know-it-all postal employee. Here's how Cliff's character was described "Cliff became known for his outlandish stories of plausible half-truths, irrelevant trivia, and ignorant misinformation." Now, replace the name 'Cliff' with 'Bill' and, well, you get the picture. Bill drives around the village all day long, lurking at the end of your driveway with two tires in the ditch. He does this while sitting in the passenger seat, listening to Tom Young on the redneck radio network (News 88.9). In hindsight, Bill is not such a distant third runner.

Pern Tupper - Pern has only been disqualified because he recently moved out of the village into a more rural setting. If Pern still lived in Cambridge-Narrows, then Ken and Bill's status as the William and Harry in waiting (for the village idiot crown) would be in jeopardy. Pern is the WalMart of Queens County. He would/could sell anything to anyone. Pern's the kind of guy who could ride his Harley to the general store, work his magic in the parking lot, and return home driving a Cadillac convertible towing a lawn tractor and a rowboat. Pern would probably have sold his wife years ago if only he knew how to cook!

That's got me thinking of toast. As in, I am. I half expect Ken, Bill and Pern to show up at my door with a pot full of tar and a bag of feathers. I'm sure that it was Ken that left the 'presents' on my back step. Given my recent blog posting alluding to my inability to make toast, the toasters make perfect sense. I'm still baffled by the doll that came with careless package, I just hope that it's not related to the sex book. The sex book is perfect for me. At age forty-five, I should be preparing for ultimate sex, if you take ultimate to mean 'final' or 'last'.

Thanks Ken!

I should explain that there was a yard sale at a village owned property across the road from my house yesterday. There were lots of old household items for sale and I'm sure that's where the toasters came from. I hadn't realized that the village sponsored yard sale allowed for individuals to sell private items as well. It just goes to show the level of selflessness exhibited by Ken. That he would sell his doll and sex book to raise money for the village is a tribute to his love of this place.

The Ultimate Sex Book looked like it had never been opened, though the original dust jacket had been chewed off by mice or men. The virgin state of the book's inner pages meant that someone (Ken) already knew too much or knew nothing at all (still Ken)...not sure which. Coincidentally, to be the village idiot you must simultaneously know too much and too little. Of course I had to flip through the book myself to see if it was suitable for my wife to view. I got hung up on pages 22-23, the only two pages that didn't show naked, groping yuppies. The book was first published in the United States in 1941, an odd thing to be writing about while Pearl Harbor was getting nailed.

Another odd thing about the Ultimate Sex Book was that it featured case studies. A man and woman would be profiled as to their sexual wants/needs by a therapist. In one case study, a guy called Steve was profiled. Steve was thirty-one and an accountant.

I put the book down immediately. An accountant having sex?? Puleez.