My dick’s not that big.  Hell, ‘that big’, it’s not even big.  It’s average (or people have been polite…and yes,  I wrote ‘people’…my dick has been admired by both male and female critics alike).

I’m not that tall but I’m not that short.  I’m not really smart but I’m not super dumb (and yeah, I realize it, I put one up on the tee for ya to take a free shot…set you right up to swing away).  I tend to hover around ‘average’ in most categories we humans have created to measure each and every one of ourselves for profiling purposes.  And you know what?  I enjoy runnin’ in the thick of the pack.  Being just an average human being average is OK with me.  My wave has crests and troughs that range into the ‘extreme’ territory but I generally reside in the comforting anonymity of the masses.  And I love the fuck outta me.  And I’m not more awesome than you are.  No, that’s actually the point I’m meandering toward:


The grass will eternally be green on the side of the fence you choose to look at…most people too often look to the opposite side of the fence from the one where they are standing…or for those wheel-chair bound, sitting on; however, all one must do is look down at their feet to see the green blades incessantly sprouting from between their toes and around their aluminum wheels.


A traveler’s life-style is often romanticized by those leading a sedentary existence, erroneously.  I am a traveler.  I am not the most traveled but by the majority’s standards, I am a traveler.  I say this without ego.  I’m not celebritizing it by any means. I write these words as microscopic creatures bully my insides in a third world country.  I have strategically planned the last several days of my life around distances and times between one toilet and the next.  I shit myself the other morning as breakfast was being served to my table…just as the waitress set my plate down and had time to walk several steps away I misjudged a fart for a shart.  My pride instantly deflated and you know what I did?  I finished my goddamn breakfast.  Third bout of dysentery in a year and a half.  I believe it’s not too far away from being the next craze-trend diet for all the waifs.Why am I telling you this?! Because I want to have gold fish dammit!!!  I want three of ‘em.  In a tall slender aquarium with black volcanic gravel in the bottom and huge chunks of fools’ gold sporadically placed across the bottom of the tank.  But I can’t!  I don’t know where home will be next month.  You can’t check a badass aquarium full of volcano rock and pyrite and goldfish at the airport.  My point is that even though you may pay rent or have been living in the same area code for more than a year you could probably make one of my dreams come true for yourself for forty dollars at your local pet store to-day.  But don’t make my dream come true…dream a little dream for…YOU!  Or just take comfort knowing that you have a home, hell, a roof.  Rejoice in your warm shower.   Find those blades of grass at your feet or wheels and water them, nurture them.  Your grass is just as green as any globe-trottin’ adventure-havin’ vagabond around.
Sure, I saw a Thai midget trip on the sidewalk and go face-first into the ass and smashed up cock and balls of a lady boy soliciting blowjobs to Westerners the other day…but you can probably drink your tap water without fear of becoming infected with worms that will burrow into your eyeballs.  And yeah, there was a fifteen-plus-foot python electrocuted on the power lines outside my apartment one morning but you have the excitement of over one-hundred channels on your cable T.V.!!!  OK, so that was riddled with sarcasm;  I didn’t want to start sounding all preachy.  Take stock of your fortune and be grateful for it.  I must go now, for my ass is about to explode.  Thank you for your time.



Keep your eyes peeled for the mouthy words of Mr. Ehren Bowling on his adventures abroad in his regular column: “Around The Bend”.