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| Blogs > horny4770 > The Essence of Life |
What We Have Here Is a Failure to Communicate
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What We Have Here Is a Failure to Communicate While it’s been said, “A picture paints a thousand words”, the gift of a well defined vocabulary can outshine even the most brilliant of photographs. When articulated in a concise and clear manner, the spoken word can express thoughts, viewpoints, warnings, and a wide array of various emotions that are simply unachievable by any other medium. However, there are times when even the most skilled and talented orator will stumble verbally and select less than the best terminology or timing to vocalize him or her self. At that precise moment the chain is broken, the transfer of ideas has now been corrupted, and the communication process, as it was previously known, has now, broken down completely... It had been cold all spring, unusually cold in fact. The early evening air had a cruel bite to it as the motorcycle they were riding rumbled along the back roads of the next county to the East. The sun was getting low in the sky as he turned west onto 300 North and eagerly headed for the warmth of home. Even with the soft glow of the sun now shining on his face and being sheltered by trees on both sides, it was still only slightly warmer. A heavier sweatshirt, glove liners, heck, even an extra pair of socks would have been warmly welcomed against the bone chilling frigid air. He felt her lean forward, pressing the softness of her leather clad figure against him as his own muscular form deflected the bulk of the passing cold air, protecting her from it as best he could. She pressed even tighter, leaned slightly over his shoulder, and spoke into his right ear a common and familiar term of affection. “Dear”. He turned his head slightly in the direction of the pleasant sounding voice without taking his eyes of the road and queried, “What”? Again she leaned into his strong shoulders and again she said, “Dear!” Once again he turned his head to the point of losing sight of the roadway and questioned, “What?!” For the third time, his persistent passenger pressed forward sharply and loudly called, “Dear!!” At the risk of sounding disagreeably impatient and with the distinct possibility of being ‘lovingly’ thumped in the back of his skull with her DOT approved helmet, also for the third time he responded with a bewildered, “WHAT?!?!” Her small gloved hand appeared quickly over his right shoulder clearly within his line of sight, index finger pointing a little ahead and towards the brush littering the fencerow on the north side. “No Dear, ‘D-E-E-R’,” she spelled both determinedly and distinctly. He nodded in acknowledgement as he noted the three creatures idly watching them from their partially concealed vantage point ahead. All had their tails down, obviously unalarmed by the sound of the approaching bike. Now stifling a mischievous grin, he turned back toward her and calmly asked. “Why didn’t you just say it that way to start with?” Without notice or much provocation, once again, the dreaded helmet bumped the posterior of his now completely chilled cranium. “What...?!” he asked as he shrugged innocently. “You know darned well what, Mister!” was her reply. Only a few days later, the same bike carrying the same two riders was witnessed traveling westbound on Highway 8 on a briskly cool and mostly cloudy day with the lurking possibility of a few odd sprinkles threatening to dampen their canopy free world. As the sun broke suddenly through the ominous and darkened clouds causing him to squint visibly, he turned toward his<b> rider </font></b>and stated bluntly, “The sun.” She leaned firmly against his sturdy back, wrapped her arms around his waist with her chin resting on his right shoulder as though expecting conversation and queried of him, “Which one?” Clearly confused he asked, “Which one, what?” “Which , yours or mine?” she asked excitedly. Clearly seeing this situation spiraling speedily downward, he shook his head, sighed, leather clad gloved index finger pointing skyward he said, “No, not S-O-N, S-U-N.” “Silly man” she said almost gleefully, “You are so difficult to understand sometimes.” “You should have said it that way from the very beginning; it would have been so much easier on both of us.” Once again, the innocent one, the helpless victim with both hands dutifully on the grips and eyes fixed attentively on the roadway ahead was the recipient of the all familiar ‘love tap’ to the backside of his sometimes rather dense and hard melon. Some days, there is just no winning when you’re a man and there is a woman involved, sitting directly behind you with nothing better to do, just patiently waiting there for yet another opportunity to use her shiny and officially stamped, DOT helmet for something other than stopping bugs. But I swear, I DID say it exactly that way. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it!  H.  MOOD: THERE ARE PASSENGERS AND THEN THERE ARE DRIVERS Horny4770 
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funny story  problem is if we women use more than one or two words we loose your attention  see there is no winning for us
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