Hermit's Scrapbook
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Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Hermit's Scrapbook: The Truth About Bathsalts
Bath salts gained a bad reputation after last summer’s report of a deranged man shot by Miami police while making a meal out of some homeless dude’s face. Now I’m not opposed to consensual cannibalism but I was always taught better than to misuse a cleaning product.
What many don’t realize is that bath salts have been around for over a century and have many legitimate uses.
Take for example dear departed Grandmother Hermit. She was a strict Baptist and a member of the Steamfitter’s Union Local 353. Grandmother was righteous and upright, a woman of impeccable virtue. She would bristle at the telling of lies and tremble with rage at the utterance of profanity. Woe be to the child who dared use vulgarity in her presence.
I can still recall the horror of being bent roughly over the Kitchen Sink Altar as a sacrificial offering to the God who abhors filthy language.
The bitter taste of dirty hand soap forcibly shoved past my unclean lips in order to cleanse the palate of my iniquity.
The gagging and coughing as I gasped for breath between sharp rebukes and numbing blows to the side of my head from Grandmother’s swift and terrible hand of righteousness. Make no mistake, Grandma was the last person to use a product in any way other than how the Lord had intended.
Despite her charm, virtue and rock-solid strength, Grandmother had an Achilles heel along with bunions and Plantar fasciitis. To ease her aching feet she would spend her evenings sitting in the living room listening to The Lone Ranger on the radio with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and a copy of Popular Mechanics across her lap, soaking her sore feet in a tub of warm water laced with Epsom Salts. The salts would soothe her aching bunions and cause pleasurable electrical sensations in her ankles and nipples.
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Tuesday, January 8, 2013Hermit’s Scrapbook: “Liberation”
Here’s a little morose poetry from the great Hermit’s Scrapbook:
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Janet was determined not to follow the path her Mother had taken. Born out of wedlock, Janet was witness to Mother’s endless parade of lovers who grew progressively more sleazy and less wealthy in direct proportion to her advancing age and diminishing beauty. Janet’s own romantic life was a confusing jumble of hurried, backseat sex and promised phone calls that never came. The men who substituted for lovers in Janet’s life smelled of stale cigarettes and false bravado, rap music and chrome rims, court dates and ankle bracelets. The faint whiff of body odor breaching cheap deodorant.
Harvey was a frequent customer at the Quik-Stop where Janet worked. He was middle-aged and overweight and his pockmarked face was testament to some past battle with acne. He was shy and clumsy, but drove a new Audi which indicated steady employment and relative financial success. Janet secretly fantasized about the things she could buy with Harvey’s money and when he began his awkward flirtation Janet flirted back. After just a couple of dates he asked for her hand in marriage and young Janet pounced like a she-lion on a wounded zebra.
Janet’s newfound prosperity was nice, but as those who marry for money soon find out, it comes with a heavy price. The long weeks spent pretending. The tedious visits with his mother. The tacky wallpaper. The suppressed giggles from her friends. His propensity for cross-dressing. But, by far the worst, was Harvey’s foul breath blowing heavily into her face as he pressed his flabby bulk against her small, young frame during coitus. It was more excruciating than any poverty and sent her into soul-crushing despair.
When she finally informed Harvey that she was leaving it was as if the gates of a hellish prison had been flung wide open.
The crushing news, coupled with Janet’s unchecked exuberance, caused Harvey to promptly drown himself in the closest body of water, much to the horror of the miniature deep sea diver, the bubble-blowing clam and the assembled tropical fish.
