This one time, I worked at a law firm. All I did was photocopy and file Elvis Presley music copyright documents. For hours. It’s pretty mind-numbing. And then all of a sudden you see Johnny Cash’s signature and you’re like, “That’s cool.” And then you go back to fixing the paper jam.
I was listening to Etta James’ “I Just Wanna Make Love to You” on YouTube when I found this awkward Elvis fan video:
My favorite part is at 1:25 when there are TWO replays of him catching a pair of panties. We humans are a horny bunch.
Speaking of horny bunches, I was catching up with a friend online who I met years ago in a college dorm room. I don’t really know why we talk to each other, except that a few drinks in I told him that I read his blog. And we’ve just talked ever since. See? Keep a blog, make friends.
We were talking about sex, love, and happiness, and how sometimes, or often, those three things go hand in hand…or, you know….other things in other things. I have absolutely nothing profound, funny, or interesting to say about love, but my friend did:
Somewhere deep down in my dark twisted soul, I’m a romantic. Underneath all the science, atheist books, and gigabytes of porn, I can appreciate love for what it is.
I really like it. I could be wrong, but I feel like those are two sentences that most people could change a few of the adjectives and nouns to make it sum up their general feeling, too. For insance, Elvis Presley’s might read something like:
Somewhere deep down in my pelvic thrust of a soul, I’m a romantic. Underneath that weird lip thing I do, the rhinestone-laden leather jumpsuits I wear, and the terribly depressing way I will die on my bathroom floor, I can appreciate love for what it is.
And now, for no reason in particular, I will speculate on how the man on the boxes of Quaker Oatmeal would adapt those two sentences. Wikipedia says, “It is popularly believed that the man on the box is Province of Pennsylvania founder, namesake and Quaker William Penn. The company states that ‘The Quaker man is not an actual person,’ but is instead a generic representation of a ‘man dressed in Quaker garb.'” Mysterious. I’m not sure I buy it.
Somewhere deep down in my pedophiliac leer, I’m a romantic. Underneath the illegal paraphernalia I store within my billows of white locks and underneath my traditional black cap, I can appreciate love for what it is.
He creeps me out.