Friday, March 27, 2015

Me v. Dad

Dad and I both recently sent off our respective masterpieces to The New Yorker. Between my cartoons and my dad's prose, who will "win"? Vote for the winner in the comments! (Or are we all losers...?)

First, Dad's necessary synopsis (all sic):

Asleep, While Predators Prey: a short story

In a Colorado ski town an alcoholic young, Ryan Ellingford, rises from poverty with education and mentors to see how mammoth finalization has erupted to extremes threatening everything. With mentor, Reggie [!!!!!], a Wall Street escapee, he realizes it's been going on since America's founding when most money creation was relegated to intermediaries, not the government.

Now, my cartoon:

(This is where the pounding most agreeably takes place.)

Back to Dad:

Ryan worked for a bank in Steamboat Springs, Colorado and had a degree in economics. His agile muscular body, had allowed him to get an athletic scholarship for the degree.

And now me (we're neck and neck!):

And now Dad, unrelentingly:

Being a hunk with hair that looked like the wind on a motorcycle had "styled" it, attracted sexual predators. He, was willing "prey." One, curvaceous cow-booted Mariah in skin tight levis, soon had him corralled, "hi cowboy, I'm that kind of girl. How'd you like to go for a ride?"

Off to rodeo in his apartment they went. He sank into that crazy-ass mare, she bucked, he thrust, she bucked.... he rode her hard till wet. Mariah rose, dressed and left in a breeze looking for more. Only too much was enough for her.

Back to me, jackassily:

Apparently, Dad and I are on a mission to sex up the pages of The New Yorker.

More Dad (I hope you're keeping score):

A hot bartender greeted him, "it's whiskey weather out there handsome." Seeing her fired his itch to perpetuate the species, he soon tossed down his drink. He left to get some, which in his mind, was either predestined by astrology.... or three adult beverages, either way he'd take it.

His erection pulsed to life with a mind of its own. They left. The street was wet but the rain had stopped. They were just getting going.

And now me (ehhhnnn, dizzy... I think... I can feel my life force ebbing...):

Who wants more Dad?!? (Shut up, stupid crickets!)

Then without a word he stood, came around the table and gently picked her up like she was a feather. She felt his athleticism. She was wet, her body tingled in anticipation. He carried her to the bed room. Clothes off, condom on, he slowly slid into her. They milked every sensation. It wasn't long and they were at light speed..... the rocket burst time and again, as they rode orgasmic waves through the night to an exhausted dawn.

I think we can all agree that just writing "They had some sex" is kinda lame.

All this sex talk makes me think of camels doing it.

Who's man enough to take some more? YOU, PUNK?!?

"Usually when their so-called deficit spending creates money, and banks leveraging it, is too much currency falls in value. The...." Missy interrupted them, she came from telling her mother of Ryan's bedroom prowess. It made her wet. Missy said, "it's late, let's go. Dad's heard enough."

Driving her Audi home, he said, "we were discussing important issues."

"And this is an urgent issue I'm handling too," fondling the bulge in his pants to life. Home. Quickly they were at it with vigorous hip grinding, ended with a shattering orgasm.

While convalescing Ryan wrote on how interconnected banking, and corporatocracy, cripple the economy. None published. And did a book manuscript on how financial illiteracy harms all. No interest. He wrote blogs. Few followed. [HEY]

All right, I know when I'm beat.

Now I'm off to see my therapist. Sigh.


  1. I'm sorry to say that using the word hunk in a completely non-ironic (or Alanis Morissette way) gives your dad the win.

  2. The word "wet." Gag. Now I am off to, pack. [HO]