Johnnersintheraw's Blog

April 29, 2010

I was Born a Naked Sprog, Part II (the lecture and the free harangue, NOT the ballad)

Filed under: Comedy,Comedy Rants,Rancid Comedy,Really Dumb,Twisted Fables,Uncategorized — johnnersintheraw @ 6:19 am


It may come as a shock to most of you, but I was born naked. That’s right! From top to bottom and down to my toes I was in a state of shameful undress.  Everything was there for all to see (and I am led to believe that the nurse’s aide actually took a peek and fainted. Or, perhaps, she laughed herself to death.  I’ve never been sure).

Now nakedness (or ‘nudity’ or ‘au natural’ as it is called in politer circles than mine) was common in my family.  At least on my father’s side.  He was, you see, Swedish, and the Swedes  – as you well know – are famous for taking off their clothes at the drop of a hat and for any reason whatsoever, such as before they enter a bath or before they go swimming or before they go walkabout during the first mosquito hatch of the season.  Don’t ask me why?  Pure stubbornness, I suppose, coupled with staunch Lutheran genes. Plus the fact that many of them do not have a great deal of body hair and, therefore, look like plucked chickens unless they roast themselves to death under a scorching midday sun.  And of course, since they only ever get redder and not browner – a trait their Viking forbearers passed down to the Irish and the Scots – their persistence in exposing themselves to the solar furnace whilst all their danglies flop hither, thither and yon, demonstrates a certain grim lack of joie de vivre, as well as Puritanical inclinations and masochistic tendencies.  And last but not least, it shows an appalling hatred of sex.  For nothing retards one’s libido quite so completely as constant and obsessive flag-waving. 

As for any abhorrence for sex, I cannot, of course, speak for my father.  As far as I am aware, he did sire two sons – me and the other one (ol’ ‘Whatisname’).  If this be the case, then I suspect sex might have played at least a peripheral part in his psyche, though possibly a negligible one. I mean, although I shared a house with my parents from time to time (after all, one is forced to bring one’s beloved child home from school at least once every ten years), I never actually heard them grunt or groan or scream out each other’s names in ecstasy.  And I never once saw them emerge from their bedroom all sweaty and with snot dripping from their noses, or with scratches up and down my father’s spinal column.  If that is not a proof of total sexual indifference, I don’t know what is.

Now, whenever I was inclined to spy (for what else does one do when one is seven years old), I was always very discrete.  My two favourite disguises were, respectively, an aspidistra (painting my lower half as a jardinière) or – alternatively – a grandfather clock. Either way, I would do my best tableaux vivant routine by standing in a darkened corner of the hallway, and pretending to be inconspicuous. Believe me, it was not a good idea for one’s treachery to be discovered.  First of all, I didn’t want to be screamed at.  And secondly, I knew that if my parents even suspected I was conducting the old Do My Mother and Father Actually ‘Do It’ survey, my mother (who had the hearing of a terrier, the temper of a lioness and a deadly sense of humour) would have yanked open the door and – while standing there in the all-together, but draped in amber beads  and with a fearful look on her face – demanded to know why I wasn’t out in the stable mucking out the horses or doing my homework.  Or cleaning a saddle.  Or perhaps even cooking breakfast.   And then she would rub salt into the wounds by making unkind remarks about my costume.  Remarks such as, “oh, haven’t we got a tiny pendulum for such a tall clock,” or, alternatively, “it would have been more realistic had you been disguised as a Johnny Jump-up.”  But, as we all know, mothers always hit below the belt.

Neither of my parents particularly worried about strolling around the house in the altogether.  In fact, I don’t think they even noticed it.  I suspect that sometimes it wasn’t only because they liked the feel of arctic gales caressing their skins (and here I’m speaking of the draughts blowing through the old, rattling windows and down the chimneys). Or because it seemed to embarrass the dogs.  However, having said this and knowing what they were like, both of these things might have been contributing factors. Be that as it may, I think it also had something to do with the fact that, very often, they simply forgot to get dressed.  Both my parents spent an enormous amount of time dashing about and doing things and being busy, and this leads me to suggest that – with the busy lives they both led – occasionally their clothes simply got tired of trying to keep up with them and, as a result, sat down for a rest and let my parents go on without them.  I can see it now:  My father’s shorts, out of breath, gasping to my mother’s bra and girdle that he simple could not go any further, and that he had to have a good lie down and perhaps a nice cup of tea.  And since my mother’s undergarments were (as one says) married to my father’s underwear, and since they were both faithful unto death, the bra and girdle remained behind with their spouse. And there they remained, drinking First Flush and eating ginger biscuits and waiting until their owners deigned to remember where they had left them. 

Come to think of it, it must be a very lonely life for the clothing of nudists.  A life full of abandonment and emotional scars. And it’s a wonder why more of them don’t report their situation to the social services, and have their owners dunned for neglect and inflicting emotional damage. And while I’m at it, shouldn’t garment workers’ unions claim that naked bodies are acting in a manner that blatantly discriminates against clothing and, therefore, against sweatshop workers of third world countries and minorities?  Ergo, nudists are synonymous with members of the BNP.  And if you look at it from that perspective, doesn’t BNP actually stand for Bolshie Naked Perverts?

In the event you weren’t paying proper attention and forgot I that was talking about my family, let me remind you that, but a few sentences ago, I was being chided by my naked mother for doing what comes naturally to a seven year old boy: spying. And now that we are back on track, I wish to make one thing perfectly clear.  When guests were invited to dine (yes, we did that sort of thing in our house) the clothes in our wardrobes clothes finally got dusted off.  And also, when there happened to be people working for us (don’t get excited), dressing gowns were brought out of the mothballs and given an airing, as were layers of shapeless gardening clothes (you know the ones: the corduroys and tweeds that get passed down from generation to generation and spend much of their lives having patches sewn on to their elbows and knees).  And as for myself, when I was at home I was either exercising horses, riding out on the gallops, mucking out,  grooming or cleaning tack.  And none of these things, my friends, should really be done in the altogether.  Not only will the horse think you’ve lost your mind and try to find out what you taste like , but think of all those lovely sharp odds and ends lurking in the barn; for as sure as da sun do come up in da morning, they will seek you out and invade your bare extremities at every opportunity.  Plus, anyone who thinks God intended males to ride buck naked, has obviously never been near the back of a horse.  Of course, I cannot speak for women (not having been one, or at least not to the best of my knowledge), but…but…. (and I’m going to leave this sentence before I say something stupid, such as, ‘perhaps it brings them closer to nature’s fundament’).  I will simply add that clothes do provide a certain amount of protection, as well as padding.  And if you can’t figure that one out for yourself, then go ahead… only don’t ask for any sympathy from an equestrian (at least not from a naturist one like me).  And nor do I think any insurance company is going to pay out for any injuries sustained while riding unclothed.  

And while I’m wading into the shit by antagonising other naturists (especially ones who like riding in the nude and are blessed with testicles of iron), I am going to bury myself even deeper by touching on another little niggle. After all, I did promise both a lecture and a harangue for the price of a simple lecture, so consider this a freebee. And don’t forget I did give you a little song yesterday as a special treat.  And as my mother might have said, “too many treats in a row without a gravitas-break works havoc on your endorphins.”

This particular harangue concerns cooking in the nude.  Now, I’m not talking about making a salad or a sandwich, because – safety wise – as long as you’re clean and careful with your implements, it doesn’t matter what you are or are not wearing. And as long as you remember certain rules governing personal hygiene, why not?  Having said that, however, I spent more time than I care to admit slaving as a cook in a restaurant.  And along the way, one thing I discovered was that there is a reason why professional cooks wear steel-toed shoes, sturdy trousers and jackets, and aprons.  And it’s not only because of mindless regulations passed by government nannies (unlike the wearing of goggles when playing conkers).  It’s because kitchens are (to put it mildly) extremely hazardous places in which to work.  Even the most conscientious chefs are routinely injured.  Now, at the best of times knife cuts and burns are no fun, but please, don’t put your important bits at risk. At least let us put on some shoes and cover our burnable dangles with a stout apron. After all, our bodies are the only bodies we have (unless, of course, we are The Terminator). And I don’t know about you, but I love my body even more than I love the pet dog I don’t have at the moment. And I would like to keep it safe and happy as long as possible.  Or at least until I finally do get another pet dog, and then it will have to take its place in the queue for my affections.

Another harangue is all about picnics and dining al fresco, but, children, I don’t think we have enough time today.  After all, you must polish your shoes, and iron the shirt you’re not going to wear tomorrow, and feed the dust bunnies under your bed.  But never fear… for as Little Orphan Annie was always singing, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, there’s always tomorrow/tomorrow’s a day away.”  And if that is not enough to convince you of my intentions, let us ask Scarlet O’Hara for her opinion.  Didn’t she say something like, “tomorrow’s another day?”  Personally, I don’t give a shit, but if she didn’t say it, that’s what she meant, and that’s good enough for me.


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