Author: Fred Blahnik

Nothing lasts forever…..  Not happiness.  Not love.  Not life itself.  And not even sadness, as furiously as it so often tries.  Transience rules supreme, and temporariness ultimately carries the day.  The only thing that truly lasts forever is change…..variance…..instability…..unpredictability.  In light of this fact, never get settled too comfortably into an embarrassingly pleasing lifestyle, and don’t ever fret too egregiously about a bad twist of fate either; neither situation will last indefinitely.  Life is an obstacle course strewn with multiple barriers along its way, but there are unfailingly a multitude of convenient open spaces and rest-stops located between the various obstacles.  Take full advantage of these guaranteed respites before the next barrier unexpectedly pops up.  Avoid emotional peaks and valleys, and you’ll be able to enjoy life–both the bright spots as well as the rough spots–considerably more than if you blithely ride the crests of life without acknowledging its inevitable troughs.

NOTE:  The following humorous essay is drawn from the non-fiction book “A Family United Amongst Itself” and was authored by Barb (Blahnik) Smalley.  Said book was edited by Fred Blahnik and published in 2012.

 

One would think that having seven older sisters in my immediate Blahnik family–while acknowledging the fact twin Bonnie is only a few minutes my senior–as well as a mother, someone would have taken the time to explain and prepare me for the mystery and myriad physical demands attendant to reaching puberty.

NOT!!!!!

Seems that as I physically matured from a girl into a young woman, I was left to figure out for myself and subsequently handle solitarily every one of my body changes……like SHAVING, for example!!  Although in fairness I should be forthright with my readers and confess this point right up front:  I did enter puberty pretty early and was an exceptionally hairy young lady.  Sadly, my overly vain Blahnik older sisters did not even want me to borrow their sweaters and tops because I perspired a lot secondary to all the hair under my armpits.

The only bathroom in our leviathan house near Spring Valley, Minnesota while I was growing up was square and tiny, and was of course used by our whole Blahnik family.  There was a little shelf in one corner of the oversized cubicle where Dad kept his anachronistic shaving mug; inside it was an old steel razor that looked to be of about Civil War vintage.  I took keen note of the fact there was a shiny, very sharp blade mounted inside that razor.

Well, one evening when our Blahnik house seemed a bit less hectic than normal (Was it real or just my imagination?!), I crept into the bathroom and took Dad’s razor down from its perch in the corner.  Unbelievably, it only took a couple of swift strokes with that sharp instrument to remove all the hair from under both my armpits.  I hurriedly put the razor back where I found it.  Immensely relieved, I could now raise either arm fully in class to answer questions put forth by the teacher or play ball in gym class minus inhibitions due to the fear of being arrantly ashamed of my troublesome hirsutism.

As we all know, hair does grow–oftentimes very rapidly–so a couple weeks later I waited until no one was around and helped myself to Dad’s razor once more.  Although my confidence level was sky-high following my earlier conquest, for some reason this time the razor did not glide quite so smoothly over my pubescent skin–the blade actually seemed a bit duller than before–yet I still managed to finish shaving my armpits without undue incident.  But instead of stopping with those smooth armpits and quitting while ahead, I made the fateful decision to proceed onward with shaving my legs for the first time.

BIG MISTAKE, BARB!!!!!

The first leg went reasonably well, although that aforementioned blade seemed to be getting duller with each passage over my tender skin.  I stretched out my second leg to shave the hair on the front of my calf–my shin, in other words.  And then…..the combination of a woefully dull blade and unintentionally turning the primeval razor a bit on its side while I applied downward pressure forced it to slip, cut deep, and slice a sizable strip of skin from the front of my leg…..

JESUS, MARY, AND JOSEPH………OH MY GOD DID THAT SUDDEN INADVERTENT INCISION HURT AND NEXT BLEED LIKE HOLY HELL!!!!!!!!!!!

I still tremble and it gives me goosebumps today when I think about that sharp, dirty old razor cutting so deep into my puerile flesh.  The reader should further remember at this point, though, that I was doing my clandestine shaving without anyone else in our Blahnik household knowing about it; therefore I could not complain to anybody or seek out sympathy, even from my conjoined-in-spirit twin Bonnie.  Accordingly, for several days thereafter I had to baby my wounded leg, wear long slacks wherever I went, and take great pains to not let anyone witness the almost constant blood flow oozing from the long, macabre laceration.

Yet to make a miserable situation even worse, Dad got upset with brother Joe one evening and accused him of using his(Dad’s) razor.  Dad said he did not have enough money to purchase additional razor blades right then……and now his lone remaining blade was inexplicably dull.  Dad went on to roar that he could tell someone had been using his razor without his permission, and I imagine he thought carefree, easy-going Joe–a prolific blame magnet if ever there was one–was the only possible candidate in our female-dominated Blahnik household.

Despite the inherent logic of this argument, I still do not think Dad believed Joe and instinctively thought he was fibbing.  It didn’t help matters one bit that Mom decided to enter the fray at this juncture, piling on Joe and maliciously haranguing him about borrowing Dad’s razor without first seeking permission, and then compounding the magnitude of his original sin tenfold by blatantly lying about it. To his eternal credit, Joe fought back gamely and aggressively in defense of his honor.  He insisted to Dad that he had never used his razor, that he had one of his own–so therefore why would he have any need to be borrowing Dad’s?

I just stood quietly by in the background and took all of this in.  And, yes, Reader–I DID feel terrible about the volcanic, emotion-charged atmosphere I had personally created.  Certainly I felt bad letting the clueless punching bag Joe take all of the blame for a mess of my making, yet at my young age I still did not possess the requisite courage and character to speak up and admit any guilt, and besides…..I was more than a little embarrassed to talk about something as personal as feminine hygiene with my Depression-era father!! 

So, after all these years, allow me to start making amends:  SORRY, JOE, for the copious amount of grief and verbal missiles you undeservedly absorbed back then!!!  I never did tell Dad the truth regarding this misunderstanding and subsequent flare-up.  If it is any consolation, however, the shame I felt at the time did prompt me to speak with one of my older sisters about hygienically appropriate female shaving.  She then helped me purchase the supplies I needed so I thankfully did not have to sneak into our tiny bathroom and “borrow” Dad’s venerable old razor anymore in the future.

 

NOTE:  The following poem is borrowed from an anthology of poetry entitled “The Changing Seasons of Life”, which was penned by Fred Blahnik and published in 2017.

 

Tomorrow…..

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

 

Tomorrow is a gift, not a promise…..

A wish, not a right…..

A prayer, not a belief….

A dream, not a plan…..

A miracle, not an assumption…..

I thank God for each new tomorrow that comes my way…..

 

Tomorrow is a ghost, not a flesh-and-blood body…..

A mirage, not an oasis…..

A hope, not a certainty…..

A desire, not a realization…..

An endowment, not a legacy…..

I thank God for each new tomorrow that comes my way…..

 

Tomorrow is a favor, not an obligation…..

A vision, not a photograph…..

An idea, not an action…..

A premonition, not a revelation…..

A bullet still lodged in a loaded chamber, not a bullet spent…..

I thank God for each new tomorrow that comes my way…..

 

Tomorrow…..

 

Just the sound of the word offers the promise of hope and redemption and renewal for anyone who has ever lived and breathed and experienced human thoughts, but made some mistakes along the way.

 

And when the tomorrows one day stop coming, as I know they inevitably must and will—expectedly or unexpectedly, deservedly or undeservedly, painfully or with indolent ease–I will not despair and curse the many foibles of human mortality.  Instead, I will bow down and enthusiastically praise God for all those twenty-four gifts I was blessed with during my privileged tenure here on Earth’s verdant surface…..

There are two very different types of stubbornness: “Smart” stubbornness and “stupid” stubbornness.  “Smart” stubbornness is when you are absolutely certain you are right and hence refuse to budge even one millimeter in the name of compromise and “being reasonable”.  And why should you?!  Oftentimes the truth lies in a nebulous gray area and cannot be reliably discerned, but on other occasions it is as black and white as the stripes on a zebra.  When this is the case, stick to your guns; compromising in the name of avoiding conflict and appeasing wrong, bullheaded people is definitely no virtue.  Good commendable stuff, “smart” stubbornness is.  “Stupid” stubbornness, on the other hand, is when you only THINK you are right, yet nonetheless refuse to budge even one millimeter because you are mightily concerned that you would subsequently look like a lesser person and a weakling.  But in actuality, the opposite is true.  Self-assured people can readily admit when they are wrong and usually do, whereas fools insist on projecting an image of perfection, even when it is clear to everyone around them such is only a laughable façade.

NOTE:  The following piece is excerpted from the unpublished essay “A Manifesto on Time, Mathematics, Infinity, and Related Issues” by Fred Blahnik.

 

If we as humankind cannot grasp the numerical relevance of infinity, then how can we grasp the concept of infinity per se?  How can we smugly assign a descriptor to something we do not come close to comprehending?  How indeed??  It is one thing to say that something goes on forever, but “forever” is an undefinable concept that we as men and women can never come close to comprehending.  What exactly is “forever” anyway?  How can we possibly conceive of something that abstract?  How can we know there is not a termination point at some undetermined juncture on the number line or at some point in the future?  Humans are adept at describing entities with distinct boundaries, but less so—wholly incapable, in fact—at describing entities that do not fit within bounded sets and subsets.  Infinity obviously falls within this grouping.

Case in point:  We do not even possess names to designate numbers beyond a certain threshold on the number line.  If one cannot fathom or ascribe a definitive word to represent a certain quantity, how can we then say such a quantity even exists?!  Numbers hold relevance only if they can be suitably pigeonholed and described.  You cannot say an impossibly large number exists if you have no way of accurately identifying same.  At that point we are little different than toddlers or Tourette sufferers, i.e. people who routinely invent silly words on the fly with no thought to meaning.  Short of this absurd juncture, and we are left staring into some amorphous abyss where everything is indescribable and nothing therein has any shape, mass, or texture.

…..she didn’t believe in the concept of time, inasmuch as prior to the Big Bang everyone–including the scores of prestigious bigwig astrophysicists regularly featured in those esoteric scientific journals no one ever reads–agreed that such a thing couldn’t have possibly existed. And if that were true, how then could such an entity not only exist now…..but arbitrarily rule every facet of life for the human inhabitants who call the small satellite planet Earth home?  She didn’t wear a watch on her wrist for that inherently sensible reason, but everyone around her thought it was because she was a comely, strong-willed young lady who was making a powerful fashion statement regarding the silliness of jewelry…..

NOTE:  The following non-fiction essay is borrowed from the book “A Family United Amongst Itself”, which was written but primarily edited by Fred Blahnik and published in 2012.

 

The Peculiar Balloon

By Joseph R. Blahnik

 

Young Joey Blahnik, standing at the far edge of the country schoolyard, shook his head in wonderment; he just couldn’t believe his incredible good fortune!  He continued staring down admiringly at the object nestled in the palm of his outstretched hand.  It was quite unlike any other balloon he had ever seen before in his short life span.  Long, narrow, tannish-green in color, still damp from the morning dew–but lacking the narrow neck and bulbous configuration characteristic of the other balloons he was more familiar with–Joey furtively looked around the playground to see whether anyone had seen him pick the mysterious item up from the ground.

SHOOT!!!!!!!!

Three bigger boys–his older brother Jim and even-more-elderly neighbors Ronnie Macal and Bobby Wendorf–were standing nearby and had witnessed him snatch the odd balloon from the brownish prairie grass.

Dang it all, there went his secrecy!    

Joey thought briefly about stealthily tucking the balloon into his front trousers pocket and carrying it into the school house with him, but then thought better of the idea.  Mrs. Nelson was a nice pleasant lady and a fine teacher as well, but if she caught him playing with the strange balloon in her strict classroom…….well, there was no telling what the prim lady might do! Still, this new prize belonged only to him.  He had found it all by himself, and thus he shouldn’t have to worry about those big boys–who typically bullied their way around the schoolyard acting like they were kings of the world–shoving him to the ground and thereupon stealing the peculiar balloon from him, even as he howled in displeasure.  Besides, blood being thicker than water and all that other trite nonsense, his big brother Jim was there to back his claim to ownership too if push ever came to shove.

Obviously the country school preceptor would confiscate it from him immediately and stick the thing in the top drawer of her wooden desk, but then he probably would face additional humiliating punishment for willful misbehavior–not to mention his parents would almost certainly be notified and he would consequently have to face their venomous wrath later at home.  No, the best thing for him right now would be to just blow the balloon up out here on the playground and it enjoy it to the max until the moment arrived when that accursed school bell rang, signifying the official beginning to yet another boring academic day.

Joey was outside relishing a few minutes of exercise before classes began on this particular day.  The other students attending the school–neighbor kids spanning the first through eighth grades–were clustered outdoors with him.             It was a crisp Monday morning in September of 1949.  Joey Blahnik–six years old the previous January and now going strong on seven–was a curious first grader at Mower County District #101 country school, and it was his first year of formal education given the fact kindergarten wasn’t routinely offered in any Minnesota lyceums back in those Neolithic days.  The diminutive school building was located five miles northeast of Austin, Minnesota on a standard one acre plot of land with a single in-drive, and although its location wasn’t truly remote…..the bantam-sized structure did enjoy an inarguable degree of rural privacy. 

All fourteen of them…….

 Joey had to smirk again when he thought of his pure luck in finding the balloon on such a gorgeous autumn morning.  So often he had to “suck hind tit” behind all the bigger boys at school as they continually  pushed and bossed him around and relegated him to chronic second-class status, but this time he had managed to outdo those tormentors.  He had found the balloon first, it was his alone, and hence he surely wasn’t in any mood to share his treasure with any of those older scofflaws.

Joey finally tired of his gloating and drew the balloon up towards his mouth, inhaled a deep breath, puffed his cheeks way out like a fat pocket gopher’s, and prepared to purse his lips around the neck of the translucent rubber vessel.

He glanced over, and the older neighbor boys were grinning at him now–big, shit-eating, Cheshire grins—and giggling conspiratorially as they pointed at the peculiar balloon with their fingers.  He heard Bobby Wendorf whisper to Jim, who was standing nearby, “Pssssssssttttt, Blahnik…..doesn’t your little brother even know what the hell he’s holding in his hand over there?  That smelly son-of-a-bitchin’ thing was stretched over some guy’s cock while he was humping a woman!!!  Are you actually going to let your little brother stick that filthy thing into his mouth and blow it up?!?!”

Jim spoke up automatically then, snorting gruffly “DON’T DO THAT, JOEY!!!  THROW THAT DAMNED THING BACK ON THE GROUND WHERE YOU FOUND IT!!!!!” while he shook his head back and forth in feigned disgust–even though he had never seen such a weird contrivance before in his life either, and had absolutely no inkling what it actually was until having been enlightened just seconds earlier.

Only then did Joey peer more closely at the enigmatic balloon he held in his hand, squished down on its soft latex, and noticed there was some sort of puke-green liquid squirming about in the very tip of the receptacle.

Joey Blahnik was holding a soiled condom inches away from his mouth……

 

NOTE:  The following non-fiction short story is borrowed from an anthology of poetry entitled “The Changing Seasons of Life”, which was authored by Fred Blahnik and published in 2017.

 

Puppy and Skunk

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

 

Puppy is vain and bombastic and hubristic and embarrassingly in love with himself…..

Skunk is none of those things…..

So it stands to reason that if the two should ever meet there would be fireworks, yes, lots and lots of fireworks…..

And they did…….and there were…..

Very much so!

 

Puppy insisted that because he was so much bigger and stronger and noisier than Skunk, he should naturally therefore be the boss of bosses and run the whole show…..

Skunk–a perfect little gentleman with impeccable manners–quietly disagreed with Puppy’s assessment of the situation……

This pair of inordinately disparate rivals could come to no sort of compromise…..

So Puppy thusly decided to take matters into his own hands……

And teach that tiny, disrespectful Skunk trespassing near his master’s property a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.

 

A valuable lesson was learned that night, all right…..

But not by Skunk……

Oh, no no no, not by Skunk!!!

You see, the eagerly aggressive assailant–Puppy–caught a full dose of highly redolent, signature civet cat perfume right beneath his furry chinny-chin-chin……

And that instantly and effectively ended the assault against his seemingly overmatched smaller rival.

 

Skunk walked away from this brief skirmish proudly and with his dignity intact…..

Sadly, Puppy could not say the same…..

He slunk back to the rural acreage where he lived–tail tucked rigidly between his hind legs–while repulsing everybody and everything within fifty yards with his thoroughly disgusting odor…..

But the following morning, Puppy awoke with his tail wagging buoyantly once more and his confidence and curiosity and courage NEARLY restored to their previous stratospheric levels……

Yet he nonetheless was not the same reckless, uber-confident young dog from yesterday…..

No, today Puppy is one day older and one day smarter and a little less vain and bombastic and hubristic and he no longer is so embarrassingly in love with himself.

 

Oh, but that uber-energetic little rascal still reeks hideously of skunk spray and no living creature dares to come any closer than a stone’s throw away from our youthful, tail-wagging scalawag who just cannot understand this sudden, “inexplicable” dearth of love!!!

NOTE:  The following original, copyrighted joke is off-color in nature.  If that brand of humor is personally offensive to you, stop reading at this point!

 

A father and his rambunctious young son were visiting the local zoo one Saturday morning. The pair stopped by the monkey cage and–Lo and behold!!!–one of the male monkeys inside the enclosure was hunched way over giving itself a blow job and grinning rapturously all the while!  The boy stood transfixed for a few seconds as he gawked at the obviously extremely pleasured monkey, before wheeling and addressing his somewhat red-faced father.  “Daddy, daddy……..can I do that?!  Can I?!  CAN I?!?!” he implored while motioning toward the mischievous primate.  The father–a real stickler for proper English usage–instinctively moved to correct his son’s faulty grammar.  “May I do that, Junior!!  May I!!!!  MAY I!!!!!!!”  The small boy stared at his father with a puzzled expression etched across his confused face.  “Gosh, I don’t know, Daddy……..do you think you’re limber enough at your age???”

 

Everyone seems to applaud the concept of living life “on the edge”, of doing daring and innately dangerous things purely for the sake of gusto. But what of those who die prematurely as the result of such recklessness?  Was it really worth it for them?  Was gutsy bravado a worthy trade-off for a half or even two thirds of a normal, albeit somewhat mundane, life?  Adrenaline junkies surely draw a lot of predictable envy from boring, stolid watchers living their boring, stolid everyday lives in their boring, stolid, cookie-cutter communities, but that envy comes to a screeching halt when the daredevils die a premature death and unwittingly forfeit a surfeit of good years they might otherwise have savored.  Just remember this:  You don’t get any mulligans on living; one life is all you get.  Adventurism is great and intoxicating and as a whole to be commended, but there is a razor-thin line separating adventurism from recklessness, and reckless people typically wind up meeting their Maker far sooner than everyone else.