Tag Archives: Ain’t Love Grand?

Dirty Undies All Over The Lawn

At the urging of a few readers (and with Cacky’s kind blessing, of course), I reproduce here a slightly edited version of my response to a draft sent to me last night by Cacky of her ‘Home Grown Tomatoes My Ass’ post.  The Editors are pleased to offer our loyal readers this rare glimpse into the byzantine inner workings of the Tactile Peggy empire.

Dear Cacky,

Oh, my. I have so much to say about this, I hardly know where to begin, so I’ll just jump in:  please bear in mind the enormous love and respect I have for you as I ask, what did you expect?  [G] has certainly demonstrated to my satisfaction that he is a romantically/emotionally retarded douchelord; are your evidentiary standards really so much higher than mine, or are you just that hopelessly in love with – forgive me, [Cacky] – this colossal, puckered asshole?  How many buckets of grit are you going to haul up from this well before you throw up your hands and look for a man who doesn’t conditionally, grudgingly, parsimoniously ladle out his love for you, but rather gives it freely, joyously – who is, indeed, unable to help giving it to you? At this time in your life, after all you’ve survived (and are surviving now), you deserve no less.  I may as well tell you now that I will keep saying this until it actually happens.

Oh, and can we now add megalomania to his ever-lengthening list of personal failings? I’m referring, of course, to the Steve Jobs comparison – I mean, dude, you gotta be fucking kidding me. Does he really take such an ultra-serious view of himself?  When he designs an iPhone, or a Sydney Opera House, or gets appointed to the fucking U.S. Supreme Court, then sure, I guess we can grant him a license to be a grim, towering rock of Greatness against which people who love him may unavailingly dash themselves while he thinks Deep Thoughts and does Great Things – but until then, he really ought to shut the fuck up about the commonalities he imagines he shares with Steve Jobs (and no, his saying “not to compare myself to Steve Jobs” immediately before comparing himself to Steve Jobs does not absolve him of egomaniacal overreach).

And another thing: this is relatively unimportant, but just for the record, I have never actually conceded that [G] is smart – though I guess I should, and do, what with all the fancy book-learnin’ he has. My comparison of him to Rain Man was based more on his staggering emotional ineptitude than anything else.

Buckets O’ Love,


PS   Oh yeah, the point I originally meant to make is that I love your post, and think it definitely belongs on TP.  Hostility becomes you.

If you were not convinced before that I am the last guy to look to for romantic advice, you should be now; and with that, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run along to deal with a terrible backlog of uncracked Republican skulls.


Home Grown Tomatoes My Ass

Last night I went to a lecture with the Douche Bag (aka semi-retired boyfriend person, also formerly known as Rain Douche, a title bestowed on him by none other than Pap Finn himself, a kind of combo Rain Man and Douche Bag).

Anywho, Douche Bag and I went to listen to this lecture given by a monk at the Self Realization Fellowship (SRF). (An editorial blog about these jokers and also about my recent run-in with a Catholic priest is forthcoming.  Stay tuned.)  At the end of the lecture, Brother Joker Jackass told a story about a woman he’d counseled.  She really wanted to pursue enlightenment via some Kriya Yoga techniques the SRF people tout as a kind of scientific, proven route to enlightenment.  The woman was having difficulty finding the time in her day to work in the practices.  Brother questioned her about her schedule and as it turns out, she spent her time each morning before work tending her garden of home grown tomatoes.  She was reluctant to give up that practice, she really loved those tomatoes, and so Brother’s response was something along the lines of “You have a choice between enlightenment and your home grown tomatoes.  The choice is yours.”

I’m gonna have to call Bullshit here.

I mean seriously, what the fuck?  Really?  In my book, that makes these jokers no better than all of the other religiously insane idiots wandering out there preaching salvation, but only to a precious chosen few.  Give me a fucking break.  Give the poor woman her tomatoes.  She loves her damn garden.  Not to go all Life Coachy on everyone here, but if I were Brother Fuckhead, I might wonder about her resistance to carving out the time.  In reality she could easily carve out the time if she wanted to.  She doesn’t need to be told to give up her damn tomatoes.  Maybe tending those tomatoes is her meditation.  If she wants to do the Kriya yoga, she’ll find a way.  Or maybe Brother Asshole could talk to her about what she really wants to do, what brings her joy, what brings her closer to her version of God.  She probably wants help figuring out her own resistance, she just doesn’t know to call it that.

Okay so the tomatoes led to another one of those conversations with me and Douche Bag about his “priorities” and once again, it was made clear to me that my rank is low on the list.  Yes yes yes yes YES Douche, I know I come after God, art, and probably a bunch of other stuff on your now famous “list.”  After way too much discussion, I decided to take a new route and just see if changing up the language might help, or at least make me feel a little less like pulling out his eyeballs.  So I suggested that instead of pointing out to me how important to him I’m not, he try giving me some verbal feedback about something positive.  In other words, instead of focusing all the damn time on me not being first, share with me what he does value about me and our relationship.  Give me some props damn it.

The next words out of Fuckhead’s mouth?  “Not to compare myself to Steve Jobs, but do you think he was a very present husband and father?”

Oh for real.  I’m not shitting you, this is what he said.  He insisted for the next 10 minutes that he was sure Steve Jobs had neglected his wife and kids in the name of progress, in the name of all he’d brought us, in the name of his “purpose.”  And Douche really wanted me to understand that that was okay, in fact that was the model of what a strong, purpose driven man is like.  And let’s not overlook the really personal affront here.  I just got through asking for some props, asking for something that didn’t include reminding me that I’d never be at the top of his priority list.  Literally the words had just come out of my mouth.  And his response was to launch in …again… about how unimportant relationships are to important men who are doing things.

I don’t need to hear, again, about how unimportant I am.  I pretty much have that one ingrained in me now, thank you very much Douche Bag.  And let me say it one more time: home grown tomatoes my ass.  I frequently find my God doing all kinds of things that have nothing to do with meditation or yoga or church or synagogue.  I have, in fact, frequently found my God while tending a garden.  And I really do wonder if God and enlightenment are so important to the dude, where it all fits when he’s sitting me to down to explain to me that there is no God to be found between us, what since God is first on the list and I’m third on a good day.  I wonder what God would have to say about that, and also about home grown tomatoes.