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I Would Like to Have a Seedy Blog on the Outskirts of the Net
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I Would Like to Have a Seedy Blog on the Outskirts of the Net Yeah. I'd like to have one of those kind of blogs. A blog where everyone could just be themselves and let it all hang out. Where participles could dangle freely and infinitives split often. And prepositions flowed freely. A blog where all the nouns were free, the verbs were bold and the adjectives, shocking. And mispellings? Fughettaboutit! We all know what you're talkinbout. Maybe someday. Until then here's another man's dream, FrankPicasso ( in the comment below ). One of the funniest things things I have ever read here or anywhere. So let's hear it for Frankie and hope he stops plucking that banjo long enough to get back to writing. And that aint no euphemism! Most people are other people... FUCKING CHARACTER LIMIT!!! ~Oscar Wilde |
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I Would Like to Buy A Seedy Bar on the Outskirts of Town I think I might like to buy a seedy bar on the outskirts of town. I think that that would be a great location for a seedy bar - on the outskirts of town. Don't you think that that would be a great location for a seedy bar - on the outskirts of town? I do. You? Me, too! Unfortunately, there is no seedy bar on the outskirts of town for me to buy, so I guess I'd have to build one. I'd want it to have really creaky floors with rotting wooden planks that buckle whenever you walk across the room. And there'd be a decrepit old staircase leading up to the second floor, where you can rent a room and even hire a hooker for the night. Or maybe you're just tired from driving all night long, and you need a place to crash, but the nice hotels downtown are all booked solid, and a shitty room at my joint is the only place with a vacancy. The roof leaks, even when it's not raining, the plumbing never works right, and you always get a shock when you plug your radio into one of the electrical outlets. Yes. That's the kind of place I'd like to own. That would be pretty good for me, I think. The lighting in the bar area is decidedly inadequate, so when you walk through the entrance, it takes a few minutes for your eyes to adjust, but once they do, you look around and think, man, this is one seedy bar I've stumbled into ... on the outskirts of town! What a shit-hole, indeed! But perhaps I'll stay for a drink, anyway. The old jukebox in the corner is always on the fritz, but whenever it is working, it only plays three or four songs, which can become repetitive and drive you crazy if you stay too long. There's a Hank Williams number, one by The Bay City Rollers, an obscure song by Timbuk3, and the complete "Ring Cycle" by Richard Wagner. The guy who's supposed to update the music on the jukebox doesn't come around anymore because of a thyroid condition. And if you put in a quarter and select "The Ring Cycle" by Richard Wagner, you have to listen to the whole thing, because there's no way to stop it. But people dance to it anyway, because people will dance to anything if they don't have a choice. And that's a long motherfucking song to have to dance to, man. My seedy bar on the outskirts of town is so seedy that the rats won't even frequent the joint. So I pay a couple of local mimes to dress up in rat costumes, and make 'em scurry around in order to contribute an element of filth to the seedy atmosphere. It's the small details that most people don't think about, but those are the kinds of things you have to consider when you're the proprietor of a seedy bar on the outskirts of town, you know. People meander on up to the bar and order drinks, but since my liquor license is revoked, I give them all bathtub gin, which I make out back ... in a bathtub. Actually, I never applied for a liquor license; I only tell people it was revoked, because that's what people expect to hear from the proprietor of a seedy bar on the outskirts of town. But people don't seem to mind, and although they tell me that my bathtub gin tastes like battery acid, they drink it anyway, because people drink whatever I give them to drink in my seedy bar on the outskirts of town. The bar top itself is horribly warped, its surface uneven, and if you don't hold onto your drink, it'll spill all over the bar and onto the floor. I always have to have a mop handy, because if the spilled bathtub gin sits too long on any surface, it'll start to smoke and eat a hole through the wood. There are a several tables scattered throughout my seedy bar on the outskirts of town, but you can't really sit at them because they're all pretty busted up. The chairs, too. You see, fights are always breaking out in my seedy bar on the outskirts of town, and the chairs and tables are always getting overturned or hurled around during these fights. I can't even afford to replace them because I'm broke, but that's to be expected when you're the proprietor of a seedy bar on the outskirts of town. And the cops don't even bother showing up to stop the fights and make arrests, so you take your life into your own hands when you opt to frequent my seedy bar on the outskirts of town. As the bartender in my seedy bar on the outskirts of town, I always take great care in maintaining the appearance of a slob. I have three-day-old stubble, unkempt hair, and messy and stained clothes. My clothes are actually clean; I just stain them manually with tea, and crumple them up after I take them out of the laundry. And people always come up to the bar, and while they're downing a glass of my bathtub gin, they say stuff like, "Hey, Frank. What're you doing wasting away in this seedy bar on the outskirts of town, anyhow?" "It's just a job," I tell them. "But once something better comes up, I'm fuckin' outta here, man!" "But Frank," they might say. "Didn't you have this place built specifically to look like a seedy bar on the outskirts of town?" That's when I lose it! Incensed, I spit on the floor, grab a bottle of my bathtub gin, and smash it over the top of the bar. Then I take what's left of the shattered bottle by its neck, and hold it in front of the guy's face. "You tryin' to be a wise-ass or something?" I growl menacingly. "Fuck you, man! Mind your own goddamn business, and quit asking me questions!" "Okay, okay, Frank," he says, backing down. "Don't get all bent outta shape, man. Look, I'm sorry, okay?" I nod slowly and condescendingly, and then I toss the broken bottle in the corner along with the others. I mutter incoherent insults while I grab my mop. That's my routine as the cranky and resentful bartender/owner of the seedy bar on the outskirts of town. And I like my routine; it works okay for me, I think. It's pretty good. At around midnight, I hop over the bar and onto the dance floor. It's show-time! I proceed to play drunken air guitar to whatever song is playing on the jukebox, which can indeed be an odd site, especially if it happens to be a majestic aria from "The Ring Cycle" by Richard Wagner. And all the patrons are required to watch me as I rock out, and even though I don't drink, I have to pretend to be drunk, because only a drunken individual would ever consider playing air guitar to a majestic aria from "The Ring Cycle" by Richard Wagner, at midnight in a seedy bar on the outskirts of town. And when I'm finished playing drunken air guitar to the majestic aria from "The Ring Cycle" by Richard Wagner, I smash my air guitar and light in on fire, Jimi Hendrix style! Yeah, man ... it's pretty groovy. And as I stumble back toward the bar, all the customers erupt into an awkward smattering of applause, which is also required by me! For I am the fake drunken, air guitar playing bartender/owner of the seedy bar on the outskirts of town. Of course, any and all sexual acts are not only permitted, but also encouraged to take place on the dance floor of my seedy bar on the outskirts of town. You can perform a seductive striptease if you'd like, dance naked on the busted tables, or have group sex right there on the dance floor. You don't need to hide in the corner, either; you can do it all right out in the open, because that's what people do in a seedy bar on the outskirts of town. However, if you'd prefer to perform sexual acts in a dark corner of my seedy bar on the outskirts of town, that's okay, too. Masturbation is also allowed, especially if you're a squirter! But whether you're male or female, you don't have to worry about cleaning up any bodily secretions, which might spew forth onto the dance floor, tables, or walls. For I shall always have my trusty mop at the ready, and a towel, too! You see, I'm always on cleanup duty, because that's one of the many hats you have to wear when you're the proprietor of a seedy bar on the outskirts of town. 2am-3am is "Cunnilingus Hour," during which all female patrons get to have their pussies eaten by me, the proprietor of the seedy bar on the outskirts of town. The line forms at the outer perimeter of the dance floor, and one by one, women walk into the middle of the dance floor, where I lie waiting for each one to come and sit on my face. When a woman, whose pussy I'm eating, reaches orgasm, she is required to squirt her juices across the dance floor, projectile fashion. Distance is measured by the rat-mimes, and the winning female squirter gets to fuck me for an entire hour. 3am-4am is "Fuck The Proprietor of the Seedy Bar on the Outskirts of Town" hour, during which the winning female squirter gets to fuck me, the proprietor of the seedy bar on the outskirts of town. This takes place in the middle of the dance floor, and the winning female squirter gets to choose whatever position she wants, and can switch whenever she wants. Wait! I'm changing it slightly! The winning female squirter can't use a strap-on in order to violate my rectal orifice, or any other orifice for that matter, okay? Let's just get that straight! And no guys dressed as women, if you please. However, I think I'd be able to tell the difference during the "Cunnilingus Hour" festivities. I'm pretty intuitive when it comes to stuff like that, you know. So no fellas sneaking into line, thinking you're going to trick me! While the winning female squirter and I are fucking during this particular hour, I do not ejaculate; I save that for the next hour. However, she can have as many orgasms as she wants, and she can squirt as often as she wants. All the other patrons must stand around and watch, applauding periodically and randomly. And they can masturbate, too! I have to temporarily turn over my mop duties to the mime-rats, but they can handle it, I think. 4am-5am is "Blow the Proprietor of the Seedy Bar on the Outskirts of Town" hour, during which all the female patrons once again line up and take turns administering fellatio on me, the proprietor of the seedy bar on the outskirts of town. Again, no guys during this particular segment, okay? The mime-rats are in charge of checking, so don't get any funny ideas about trying to trick me, fellas! As I stand in the middle of the dance floor, each female patron walks up to me, gets down on her knees, and administers fellatio on my throbbing penis. She has three minutes to make me ejaculate, and if she fails to do so, she goes back to the end of the line. The first female patron that gets me to blast my load wins a free drink; however, if no one is successful when the 5am buzzer sounds, I masturbate until I reach orgasm, and shoot my wad all over the dance floor. I certainly know how to put the seed in seedy in my seedy bar on the outskirts of town. At precisely 5am, I yell at the top of my lungs, "Closing time! You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here!" And then I guffaw loudly because I think it's a funny line, but everyone's heard it before, so no one's laughing along with me. They all simply leave my seedy bar on the outskirts of town. I pay the rats in cash because that's all I have, lock up the joint, turn out the lights, and stumble upstairs in a drunken stupor. But since I don't drink, I have to pretend to be drunk, because that's what you do when you're the drunken proprietor of a seedy bar on the outskirts of town - even if no one's watching. When I get up to my room, I sprawl out on my ratty old bed and fall asleep. Of course, I snore loudly in my sleep, but since I've been told that I do not, in fact, snore, I have to pretend to snore, because snoring is expected from a sleeping, drunken proprietor of a seedy bar on the outskirts of town. And when I wake up at around noon, I stumble out of bed with a horrible hangover, but since I don't really have a hangover, I have to pretend to have a hangover, because a hangover is expected from the drunken proprietor of a seedy bar on the outskirts of town. After I down some cold pizza and a couple of milkshakes, I shake off my fake hangover, and race downstairs with giddy anticipation. It's time to reopen my seedy bar on the outskirts of town! Man, you know what? I forgot all about the customers and the hookers upstairs. I hope they're okay. Yes, they're probably just fine, right? I mean, they didn't show up again in this story, so no news is good news. You don't think they all skipped out in the middle of the night without paying me, do you? Man, there should've been an upstairs orgy, or something of that nature. Fuck it! I'm going back upstairs to check on them! Goddammit! Guess what? They all split without paying me! I've been screwed by imaginary hookers and room-renters. Oh well, what can you expect? That's what you get when you're the owner of a seedy bar on the outskirts of town. Goes with the territory, I suppose. You know something? I think I might like to own a place like that. I'd be very happy being the owner and proprietor of a seedy bar on the outskirts of town. That would be pretty good, I think. Frank Most people are other people... FUCKING CHARACTER LIMIT!!! ~Oscar Wilde
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It seems both yous guys ain't been (or maybe you have been) spendin' too much time hangin' around seedy truck-stops, conveniently located next to every interstate... on the outskirts of every town. They're all that--and more.  Solar...
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Solar, I got one and only one story about a seedy truckstop. And it wasn't on the outskirts of town. It was in the middle of absolute nowhere in Iowa. You see I was driving back home to GA from a vist to the folks in SD, and I had just made the left turn at Des Moines and was heading west at a good clip. And then it was that Mama's Big Midwestern Breakfast struck a low blow. Something wasn't playing nice anymore, and I suspect the bacon and the eggs had ganged up on the hashbrowns. But anyway, the rumblings had begun. Not bad enough to make me head back to the amenities offered in Des Moines yet, so I figured I'd have plenty of opportunities as the road led off into a beautiful sunrise. As the sun rose higher on the horizon before me things were heading steadily downhill below me. I searched the roadside with increasing desperation for any sign that might lead to an offramp and a fast food joint or gas station. Just mile after mile of nothing. As my stomach started cramping and my forehead broke out in a sweat I searched for anywhere to stop. Hell! I'd have pulled over for a sturdy looking tumbleweed, but this time of year everything had been plowed under from roadside to horizon. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Then I saw it, the sign announcing that the Lagest Truckstop in the World lay only 85 miles ahead. I pressed that pedal to the frickin' floor. The old truck was giving its all at about 85 miles an hour, and at that speed you really have no control over a minitruck. But fortunately the road was flat and absolutely straight. Straight into the relentless glare of the rising sun, and with the sweat pouring down into my eyes...... And at this point I didn't really care if I lived or died, truly on the highway to hell. The cramping and sweating and chills grew incrimentally as each new sign flashed past, and I had to take my hands off the stearing wheel, not that, that mattered anyway, to wipe my eyes so I could read how much closer I was to salvation, 80 miles, 74 miles, 65 miles, give me a break! Then finally 14 miles, and 10 miles and my spincter making the squeeky squeeky pooka pooka as I closed in. Then it was there, off in the distance like Shangri La, The World's Largest Truck Stop. The most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Those truckers must squat on the finest porcelain in cool marble stalls and wipe their asses with silk. Lucky Bastards! I slid into a parking spot in more ways than one and left the door hanging open as I hustled with clenched buttocks and shaking knees into the World's Largest Greasy Spoon at the World's Largest Truck Stop. What a sight I must have been as I franticly searched for the men's room. After what seemed like eternity, I found the door and opened it. My relief lasted less than a second. The door was in the left corner of the room, directly ahead were about 10 sinks, and on the side opposite the sinks were about 20 urinals. And there, on the back wall, in the corner directly facing the door, without a stall, without a lid on the tank, with its seat leaning against the wall in the corner, was the toilet. The only toilet. Without so much as a urine-soaked newspaper to hide behind so all the patrons of The World's Largest Greasy Spoon wouldn't see me if someone opened the door. I swallowed hard, let the door close, wiped the sweat off my brow, got back in the truck and drove the 60 miles to the Quad Cities in shock. No more truck stops for me. I have been to the mountain. Most people are other people... FUCKING CHARACTER LIMIT!!! ~Oscar Wilde
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Iowa--I hear they shuck some big ol' corn-cobs up that way, bud. There's only one thing I can ask--did ya make it that extra 60 miles? 20 some years ago, I used to drive 600 miles every weekend in summer, from the Bay up to where I am, now, to work on the property. I stopped off, a couple times, at the Pantyhose Junction truck wash and motel/shower extravaganza (the true name--honest, as the day is long) down on I-5 where it passes through (or more like bypasses through) Dunnigan. The motif is early '50s (not really a motif--it's just that the place was built in the '50s); and the waitresses all wear (still in business) little maid dresses... complete with thigh-high fishnets (go figure how they came up with Pantyhose...) and heels. Now, don't get me wrong. I kinda like the style. ( Jesus, I don't know, Spinner; why ya gotta ask me something like that--I suppose some latent Oedipus thing. ) BUT--I'm sure it would have gone a ways further toward more repeat business on my part... had they all not been pushin' 70.  [In retrospect... maybe I should take a drive. After all, I ain't gettin' any younger; neither are they, I suspect.]  Solar...
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Kemosabe, the Quad Cities never saw a bigger cobb shucked, and the imprints of my fingers are still probably on that seat. I know they were still on the steering wheel of the truck when I sold it. I don't see how you, anybody, could possibly resist stoppong at a place called Pantyhose Junction. It's the sort of place where a man could find out if Flo is short for Flossy. Glad to hear you were never tempted to try the pie. The crust was probably pretty dry. And something tells me the place hasn't changed a bit. I hope not. Those are the places that are truly irreplaceable. Most people are other people... FUCKING CHARACTER LIMIT!!! ~Oscar Wilde
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Stella, thanks for participalating! Nice to see you again! And I've already witnessed enough of the poignant underbelly ( and that is a euphemism ) of this place to ever want to jump the fence. Most of the seediness here comes from the Y chromosome ( probably more than a few double Y's ) element. Boys will be boys, and you still like us. It's the only thing we have going for us. Most people are other people... FUCKING CHARACTER LIMIT!!! ~Oscar Wilde
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Ahhh. Memories, light the corner of my mind. I wondered if we'd ever see a seedy bar again. Thank you for the reminder what a great establishment that joint was. That was the way we were.
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Frank is a legend. You must have saved this because he deleted it. I wish I had thought of doing that. Thanks for posting it! I love the jukebox with Wagner's Ring Cycle. John Lee Hooker Recommended: [blog lucyjane78]
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Puzzle and Walter - Hums, " You want to go where everyone doesn't knowwwww your name...." I did save this. That man could write some hilarious stuff. His blog was one of the reasons why I had to keep a roll of paper towels by my monitor for mopping up all the coffee spewage. If anyone has a copy of "Damn Those Hooligan Hands of Mine" or "Spreading the Seeds of Love" please post them here. And let's all send some love Frank's way! Most people are other people... FUCKING CHARACTER LIMIT!!! ~Oscar Wilde
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We keep in touch offsite and tried to encourage him to come out of retirement. (fingers crossed). Oh don't forget the Olympics one!
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Puzzle, I knew more than a few folks around here had to be in touch with him. Please send him my best ( which includes wishes for wellness, happiness and vast monetary success so that I might call upon him in my decripitude when I need cash ) . The Olympics Post was an edifice of flagrante delicto! I laughed. I cried. I ate my hat. Another Must Have! Most people are other people... FUCKING CHARACTER LIMIT!!! ~Oscar Wilde
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You said it, Frank! Never read anything that fit this place so well before or since! So? Uh? Any plans for some newsworthy gala extravaganzas complete with trapezes, gondolas and a killer hot rod Zamboni chase scene or three all properly fleshed out with nympho, lesbian, Amazon Fembots? Anything at all coming down the pipe, so to speak? Anything on the back burner? In the works? Under wraps? Inquiring minds want to know, my friend. Most people are other people... FUCKING CHARACTER LIMIT!!! ~Oscar Wilde
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thanks for re-posting - just as good the second time around. Is it sick that I got a little turned on by the account of the 2 am - 5 am activities? *laugh*   
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I believe my all time favorite was Masturbation 101. I had to come back to it 3 times because I was laughing so hard. I miss Frank.
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Smartee, MzBB, and Margot, Thanks for stopping by. A fan of Franks is good people. Most people are other people... FUCKING CHARACTER LIMIT!!! ~Oscar Wilde
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Awwwwwww, Larry! I missed that one! Someone, somewhere has it. And the Seedy Bar has brightened more than a few of my days. Always makes me laugh when I revisit. Most people are other people... FUCKING CHARACTER LIMIT!!! ~Oscar Wilde
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Molly - welcome here. He did, did he? Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. Say no more. Say no more...... Most people are other people... FUCKING CHARACTER LIMIT!!! ~Oscar Wilde
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Ah Molly, sorry to say that your notoriety has escaped me thus far. I know. I know. Completely inexcusable. But after a good chiding, I have taken notice. I don't e-Flirt ( makes my butt cringe, to tell ya the truth ). I'm only marginally more crushworthy than Abe Vigoda, in his prime or not. And I'm not paying for the privilege of quoting comments again in this lifetime. So I'm high maintenance and time consuming as I demand the pleasure of a revisit if you want to partake in all my witty banter and neurotic bullcrap. I can MIA with the best of them, but I always drop back in to check up on those few here who have literally carved a place in my heart. I already have everything I need, and after years and years here I'll take a good laugh over a great rack any day of the week. They don't all look the same, but any more, I pretty much feel the same. Not sure if we're starting out on the right foot, but you made me laugh. So read my blog and decide if you really want to stick around. I'll do the same, best I can. Thanks. You're more than welcome. Most people are other people... FUCKING CHARACTER LIMIT!!! ~Oscar Wilde
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