Cushy Conversation

As I was surfing the web to come to this blog today, I think that I counted at least five times in which I stopped and asked for directions to this place.  If you’re a woman reading this, yes, I did say, “asked for directions.”  Special thanks for this achievement of unmanly-like routine goes out to the “Howcast” videos on youtube.  You have my lifetime subscription and support.  Now that I’ve identified this broken down shack excuse for a blog, if I could only remember what the four-digit security code was…

Since we are in the midst of the Holiday Season, it just wouldn’t be fitting if we did not mix the words “Politically Correct” in with the other characters of the Nativity Scene.  Now, I’m no Merriam- Webster Dictionary; however, I would like to throw a few punches below the belt line of these two words together by dipping them in the chocolate of sarcastic definition.  So, with that being said, incline your ears to the following brought to you by Lancer the Willy Wonka of word associations.

Politically Correct, it’s the fibbing contestant in the game show “To Tell the Truth.”  The “befriend everybody” routine the tongue acquired from facebook’s founder Mark Zuckerberg.  A verbal, fancy driving, cruise control that dressed up in a “tippy-toe through the tulips” costume at a Halloween party. Clocking out for recess, words that gather around the oral playground and engage in the game called ring-around-the-rosey.  Talk turned hybrid in order to communicate with less smog; therefore, not polluting the attitudes of the listeners.  Speech that is as backwards as Edward Scissor Hands giving a full-body massage.  Words that leave a substance like that of floating feathers after a nasty pillow fight due to all the fluff released by the speaker.  Communication wrapped in the soft, swaddling clothes worn by the Michelin Man in order to market itself as inoffensive threads to the beholder.  Chat that hasn’t taken a shower in days yet bears a compelling smell due to all the cologne that was dumped upon it by the illegitimate schmoozing.  It’s the sleep number bed of the tongue that contours to everybody’s tastes. The modern day Romeo wooing outside the general public’s bedroom window.  A discussion that comes prepackaged with painkillers in order to numb the nerves of the recipient.  Dialogue that is smooth as freshly-laid asphalt spread by a cheap construction company of illegals, and covers the potholes of controversial subjects.  Lastly, it’s the generic brand of talk that rides the fence smoothly like a Buick LeSabre with the “Dynaride” feature.

As I end, my fingers, reaching the peak of edginess and their tongues sticking out, exit the stage and call for curtains.  I more than likely have used that line once before, but found it fitting to insert as a conclusion for this blog.  The middle one (finger) could have made a statement by itself, but wanted to follow the guidelines expressed in the HANDbook which requires this part of the hand to be escorted out by other fingers.  It would have been a politically correct statement saying, “You’re number one.”