Sexual Innuendo

I’ve always loved innuendo and have found that men, more so than women, can make an innuendo out of anything.  For example:  I was at Les Schwab the other day buying tires when a lady walked in and asked to have her tires rotated.  My first thought was, “Boy would I like to rotate her tires.”

 

Have you ever looked up the definition of “Sexual Innuendo”?    Just for S & G, I looked it up.  It is defined thusly:  “The term sexual innuendo has acquired a specific meaning, namely that of a "risqué" double entendre by playing on a possibly sexual interpretation of an otherwise innocent uttering”.  BORING!  I think “we need to go deeper” -  get it?  I recently stumbled upon the “Uncyclopedia” and found their definition to be much more to my licking, I mean liking:

 

Sexual innuendo (pronounced "in you' end, ho") is a hard topic to stay abreast of. As a humor tool, it stands erect in the English language. While there are no hard and fast rules as to what constitutes sexual innuendo, many people have mass-debated over the ins-and-outs of the topic, and now the general principles at the root of the topic are firm and well-rounded. However, full penetration of the subject requires that the reader take a long, hard look at the target and be a cunning linguist in order to avoid limp phrases and imbibe the phrase with a large handful of meanings. The topic can become hot by attempting to grasp it, and the more one experiments with it, the more interested they become. Also, as the language changes innuendos must change in order to fill the newly created holes and satisfy listeners.

A common problem with sexual innuendo is the recipient being unable to wrap their hands around the intended meaning. In this case, an individual using sexual innuendo will often start slow and eventually build up, increasing depth more and more until the recipient feels the actual thrust of the point and the innuendo climaxes. An innuendo is always the most pleasing when no one sees it coming, often by entering the mind through the rear. Some skilled people are even able to use several sexual innuendos quickly in succession, resulting in multiple innuendo-esque climaxes. Key phrases can grasp the sentence by the ankles and part its long clauses allowing the orator to penetrate the essence of the sentence. In this regard, the key is to avoid stiff, rigid words, for ones that give the meaning of the sentence a firm rise in innuendic possibilities. Some regard sexual innuendo as an art form, and it goes without saying that one needs a certain level of oral skills in order for the fluidic exchange of innuendo to succeed. However, this is not enough to fill the requirements. One needs to pay special attention to the region of the sentence to which the innuendo will enter. For lasting effects, it is most important to enter deep within the recipient's consciousness and to ensure that all of the seeds of humor have flowed forth. This is not an easy task for most people, so it is only through rigorous repetition of the insertion of sexual innuendo that one can fully master the uplifting effects it can have on vocabulary.

 

Although sexual innuendo requires masterful manipulation of parts of speech (and sometimes the skillful use of body language), for most people it comes quickly. There is currently much debate over whether an extended innuendo can substitute for technique.

 

Is that a mouthful, or what?  Or, to quote Anthony Michael Hall from he 80’s classic “Weird Science”, “Anything more than a hand full and you run the risk of spraining your thumb.”

Living In Oblivion

Mr. Peabody, set the way back machine for the “Decade of Decadence”:

Guys:  Collars up … Check!  “Members Only” jackets on … Check!  Swatch on, with Guard … Check!  Hair “business up front and party in the back” … Double Check!

Ladies: Leather and Lace or Spandex and Legwarmers … Check!  Ultra-teased hair or pony tail off to the side … Check!  “Val speak” fluent … Fer Sure, Fer Sure.

Then let’s start “Living in Oblivion”.

The 80’s were, like, “Alive and Kicking”, for my wife and I Saturday night when cover band “Tainted Love” took the stage and, like played one totally awesome 80’s song after another for two and a half hours straight.  It, like, totally reminded me of when you had to have your MTV (back when the “M” stood for Music, not Mundane, Duh).   Tonight, Michael Jackson was still black, Jordache Jeans, with a flat-handle comb in the back pocket, were cool and, to “Party like its 1999”, seemed so far away.

Even though the 80’s are loved by both sexes, tonight was definitely ladies night.  Lots of couples were there, of course, but, like, oh my god, the ladies seemed to have come out in droves, with all their girl friends in tow.  Twenty-somethings came for the 80’s experience, and Forty-somethings came, to feel like twenty-somethings again.  And the fashion explosion of colors (lots of neon) and styles was, like, totally grody … gag me with a spoon.  There were Madonnas, Belinda Carlisles and Debbie Gibsons for as far as the eye could see, but no Cyndi Laupers, which was such a drag. 

Now to the dancing, oh the dancing.

I hate to say it, but it’s true; white men simply can't dance.  It's just not in our blood, nor in our culture. Two words: Vanilla Ice. Stiff pale bodies, two left feet, no awareness that knees bend nor that hips sway or move. Every part of the white male body appears to act independently when attempting to dance, jerking rigidly to and fro, without natural flow. Which is the perfect form for Country-line dancing, the white man's triumphant contribution to the art of dance.   I actually saw, what Billy Crystal referred to in the classic 80’s romantic comedy “When Harry Met Sally”, as the “White Man’s Overbite”.  The only men who are any good at dancing do it professionally; the rest of us are grunting clodhoppers, as can be seen at any given wedding, nightclub or “Tainted Love” 80’s retrospective.  Most women, by contrast, are capable of moving in an attractive way no matter what they do.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and at 11:30 pm it was time to head, wait for it … “Back to the Future”.

“Wait a minute, Doc. Ah... Are you telling me that you built a time machine... out of a DeLorean?”
“The way I see it, if you're gonna build a time machine into a car, why not do it with some style?”

“This is uh... This is heavy duty, Doc. This is great. Uh, does it run, like, on regular unleaded gasoline?”
“Unfortunately no, it requires something with a little more kick - plutonium.”
“Uh, plutonium? Wait a minute. Are-  Are you telling me that this sucker is nuclear?”
“No, no, no, no, no. This sucker's electrical. But I need a nuclear reaction to generate the 1.21 gigawatts of electricity I need. “
“Doc, you don't just walk into a store and-and buy plutonium. Did you rip that off?”
“Shhhhhh!  Of course. From a group of Libyan nationalists. They wanted me to build them a bomb, so I took their plutonium and in turn, gave them a shiny bomb-casing full of used pinball machine parts! Come on! Let's get you a radiation suit. We must prepare to reload.  If my calculations are correct, when this baby hits eighty-eight miles per hour... you're gonna see some serious shit.”