Happy Holidays Dearest Friends,
Today’s elegant entry is centered on the giving season. While some less-than civilized people may be under the influence that “it is the thought that counts,” they do not matriculate in the societal circles that the select few of us do on a daily basis. To give a gift that could be found in a Wal-Mart, Target, or Kohls is on the same class level as bringing Arbor Mist to a Bordeaux tasting.
When you find that perfect present for that special someone, you must deeply ponder whether or not it will floor them like Mike Tyson on Vern Troyer with its majesticness. If someone opens their gift, and they respond by saying “I love it” or “it’s just what I wanted,” then you have failed, my silly little naive friend. The true test of the impact factor of the gift is the ability for the gift to render the recipient speechless.
The scientists at the Honorable Institute of Gothical Graduate International Neo-linguistic Station (H.I.G.G.I.N.S) have undertaken intense studies on what is actually occurring in the sub-cerebellar part of the sub-conscious during this process. They have dubbed the condition Higgins-itis, as it often is a result of a gift given from a Higgins. The shear shock of such a classy gift triggers a release of the chemical farkinawesome (pronounced FARkin Awesome) which inhibits the trigeminal nerve and temporally paralyzes the vocal cords for a minimum of 30 seconds. I myself witness this syndrome every time someone is lucky enough to receive a gift from moi.
There are two treatments for this Higgins-itis. The first is simply to allow the gift’s shocking effect to wear off. The second is to immediately place your hand softly on her shoulder and whisper sensuously in her ear, “Please accept this gift as a pathetic attempt to please someone of your unfathomable status.” This strategy makes her think that you are humble in addition to being uber-classy. The end result usually involves tears, hugs, and you may use your imagination on what follows later on….
Hopefully those readers who look at Higgins’ as a role-model have learned something from this entry and can put into practice some of these methods for couthness. I hope all have great end to 2009 and more importantly, have a prosperous 2010.
“That’s the gift that keeps on giving the WHOLE year.” – Cousin Eddy, Christmas Vacation, 1989
“A gift that keeps on giving for a year should receive immediate medication, quarantined, and surgical debridement.” – E.R. Higgins, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Fasion faux pas
Loyal Literates,
Yesterday I had the unique pleasure to personally encounter a phenomenon that is sweeping through our nation’s culture like Tiger Woods at a Playboy Convention. I was leisurely sauntering through the ladies intimate section of Dillard’s perusing the lacey lingerie, nylon negligees, and bountiful bras looking for a gift for my dear sister, Honoria. Honoria is a most exquisite young woman who enjoys accessorizing her breathtaking exterior fashion with untamed undergarments in the same way that Higgins’ have done for centuries. But I digress…
During my underwear undertaking, I heard a voice that was asking questions in an impatient manner. Thinking there to be dame in distress, I ducked under a pair of gargantious granny panties, slid past a silk slip, and came face to rump with what looked like a red anorexic whale’s tail emerging from a sea of grey cotton. This filmy fabric was plastered to the lower back of a rather robust lady who was bending over fiddling with something that I couldn’t quite make out. She raised her head and without standing up said in a loud voice, “What do you think of this?” Thinking that this portly woman was much like my dear Honoria, and with my expertise in the realm of female fashion, I felt obligated by my Higgins Honor to provide her with a rapid response.
I said to her, “dear woman from the Hefty side of Heaven. What did that innocent piece of fabric do to you that you felt compelled to wedge it between two massive rump roasts and stretch it to the brink of disintegration? Although some lower caste Neanderthal males may find that act attractive and provocative, a pure-bred male like a Higgins finds that fantastically nasty and atrociously arduous. It is my recommendation, madam, that you release that textile from its sinful straits immediately, and in future endeavors find something a bit more on the tasteful side for gluteal garments.”
This wide woman spun around at my comments, and looked at me with utter shock and surprise. It was then that I noticed that she had not been addressing me with her questions, but rather was speaking to a wizened old lady nestled in a wheel chair hidden in front of her fortress-like frame. I could only assume this to be her grandmother. Upon the woman’s feet were a pair of reindeer slippers and I realized that she had been modeling these booties for her grandmother, and not her booty for me. As I’m certain that she was terribly embarrassed at her mistake and greatly inconveniencing me, I thought best to excuse myself from the situation and retreat back home to my 50-year companion Mr. Fiddich.
Upon reflection of this awkward encounter, I realized that this was not a one time happening. All across our nation, women have embraced this new wardrobe as a way to advertise for the less than desirable men. The poor sloths who are attracted to this violation of undergarment etiquette only further prove that we elitists have superior taste when it comes to the women of this world.
So I ask you, my loyal literates, not to lower yourselves by encouraging the adorning of these unsightly undergarments by our lovely ladies. Maintain your high standards of cultural conduct and don’t assume the role of a Societal Lemming.
When a man loves a woman he can't keep his mind on nothing else – Percy Sledge 1966
When a classy man loves a woman he keeps his mind perfectly balanced with the universe. E.R. Higgins 2009
Yesterday I had the unique pleasure to personally encounter a phenomenon that is sweeping through our nation’s culture like Tiger Woods at a Playboy Convention. I was leisurely sauntering through the ladies intimate section of Dillard’s perusing the lacey lingerie, nylon negligees, and bountiful bras looking for a gift for my dear sister, Honoria. Honoria is a most exquisite young woman who enjoys accessorizing her breathtaking exterior fashion with untamed undergarments in the same way that Higgins’ have done for centuries. But I digress…
During my underwear undertaking, I heard a voice that was asking questions in an impatient manner. Thinking there to be dame in distress, I ducked under a pair of gargantious granny panties, slid past a silk slip, and came face to rump with what looked like a red anorexic whale’s tail emerging from a sea of grey cotton. This filmy fabric was plastered to the lower back of a rather robust lady who was bending over fiddling with something that I couldn’t quite make out. She raised her head and without standing up said in a loud voice, “What do you think of this?” Thinking that this portly woman was much like my dear Honoria, and with my expertise in the realm of female fashion, I felt obligated by my Higgins Honor to provide her with a rapid response.
I said to her, “dear woman from the Hefty side of Heaven. What did that innocent piece of fabric do to you that you felt compelled to wedge it between two massive rump roasts and stretch it to the brink of disintegration? Although some lower caste Neanderthal males may find that act attractive and provocative, a pure-bred male like a Higgins finds that fantastically nasty and atrociously arduous. It is my recommendation, madam, that you release that textile from its sinful straits immediately, and in future endeavors find something a bit more on the tasteful side for gluteal garments.”
This wide woman spun around at my comments, and looked at me with utter shock and surprise. It was then that I noticed that she had not been addressing me with her questions, but rather was speaking to a wizened old lady nestled in a wheel chair hidden in front of her fortress-like frame. I could only assume this to be her grandmother. Upon the woman’s feet were a pair of reindeer slippers and I realized that she had been modeling these booties for her grandmother, and not her booty for me. As I’m certain that she was terribly embarrassed at her mistake and greatly inconveniencing me, I thought best to excuse myself from the situation and retreat back home to my 50-year companion Mr. Fiddich.
Upon reflection of this awkward encounter, I realized that this was not a one time happening. All across our nation, women have embraced this new wardrobe as a way to advertise for the less than desirable men. The poor sloths who are attracted to this violation of undergarment etiquette only further prove that we elitists have superior taste when it comes to the women of this world.
So I ask you, my loyal literates, not to lower yourselves by encouraging the adorning of these unsightly undergarments by our lovely ladies. Maintain your high standards of cultural conduct and don’t assume the role of a Societal Lemming.
When a man loves a woman he can't keep his mind on nothing else – Percy Sledge 1966
When a classy man loves a woman he keeps his mind perfectly balanced with the universe. E.R. Higgins 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Lost Lady of the Wooden Eye
Dedicated Readers,
Today I thought I would retell one of my favorite sagas from the Archives of Higgins. It takes place roughly 10 years in an era that many of you uncivilized rapscallions would call the Naughty Nineties. I will admit, however, that back in these dark days, I was not the perfect being that you see in my current portrait. I still had a curse from my fetal life; a hair lip. Lucky for me, I had, and still have a phenomenal mane of hair on my upper lip that I was able to hide my minor flaw.
As I am very much still today, I was quite a dashing debutant back in 1999; the desire of the damsels, the envy of the elite. In a nutshell, every woman wanted to be with me and every man wanted to be like me.
Over a colorful period of approximately 5 years, from 1994-1995, I was in the presence of easily over 1200 intoxicatingly stunning women without finding one female who could connect with me on a cerebral level. Every lady that I attempted to match neuronal wits with quickly wilted like a rose in the Sahara desert. I soon began to drown my frustrations with an old friend, Mr. Glen Fiddich, resigning myself to a life of unquenched intellectual promiscuity.
One day, while sitting in my favorite tavern, enjoying a conversation with a 30 year old Mr. Fiddich, I was approached by a heavenly form so perfect it could have only been created by the artists at Victoria’s Secret. This angelic woman had the body of Venus and smelled of rich mahogany. Her hair was like cinnamon and her voice was like the chortling of underwater jelly fish. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, I was astonished to find out that not only was her intelligence rapier-like sharp, but she also proved to be quite adept at contemporary cultural topics.
As with all things, there was a small runner in the panty hose of life. This woman confided in me that her left eye was actually crafted from a piece of wood. She had lost the eye in a whaling expedition and had hand-carved a replica from the oar on the sailing vessel. It was a nearly identical match to her right eye and only with extreme scrutiny could you see a difference. I did not let this dissuade my admiration for her, and I in turn confided in her of my miniscule imperfection aka Hair Lip. We both embraced each others minor flaws and soon they went the way of the Dodo.
We spent the next several days together discussing our contemporaries who were so far beneath our status as to not waste our time with trifle interactions. Dinners at elegant restaurants, drinks at the most intimate of brothels followed by entertainment by the finest roller-derby and mud-wrestling competitions. One night, she asked if we could skip our trip to see professional wrestling in lieu of an opening of a new dance club downtown. As the Higgins men have always been exquisite dancers, I thought this sounded like a wonderful idea.
We arrived at the club, Boogie Knights (a medieval themed club), got some glasses of mead, and obtained a table near the dance floor. After 20 minutes of watch the people on the floor, my companion must have gotten a little anxious about experiencing the Higgins dance moves. She looked at me, and in a voice that was a little loud and tinged with nervousness and said, “WOULD YOU LIKE TO DANCE?” I was a little startled by this blunt proposal and became momentarily rattled. I stammered and stuttered out “Would I….Would I……” She became instantly enraged, and yelled back at the top of her lungs, “Hair Lip….Hair Lip.” Needless to say, that was the end of our courting.
I apologize to my readers who were looking forward to a sweet, sweet end to this sad saga. In this case, however, it was not meant to be. Since that time, there have been many more women who have experienced “The Higgins” but none have approached this Lost Lady of the Wooden Eye.
As the old saying goes “you win some, you lose some, but mainly you call them the wrong name at inopportune times and they get mad.” ER Higgins 2009.
Today I thought I would retell one of my favorite sagas from the Archives of Higgins. It takes place roughly 10 years in an era that many of you uncivilized rapscallions would call the Naughty Nineties. I will admit, however, that back in these dark days, I was not the perfect being that you see in my current portrait. I still had a curse from my fetal life; a hair lip. Lucky for me, I had, and still have a phenomenal mane of hair on my upper lip that I was able to hide my minor flaw.
As I am very much still today, I was quite a dashing debutant back in 1999; the desire of the damsels, the envy of the elite. In a nutshell, every woman wanted to be with me and every man wanted to be like me.
Over a colorful period of approximately 5 years, from 1994-1995, I was in the presence of easily over 1200 intoxicatingly stunning women without finding one female who could connect with me on a cerebral level. Every lady that I attempted to match neuronal wits with quickly wilted like a rose in the Sahara desert. I soon began to drown my frustrations with an old friend, Mr. Glen Fiddich, resigning myself to a life of unquenched intellectual promiscuity.
One day, while sitting in my favorite tavern, enjoying a conversation with a 30 year old Mr. Fiddich, I was approached by a heavenly form so perfect it could have only been created by the artists at Victoria’s Secret. This angelic woman had the body of Venus and smelled of rich mahogany. Her hair was like cinnamon and her voice was like the chortling of underwater jelly fish. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, I was astonished to find out that not only was her intelligence rapier-like sharp, but she also proved to be quite adept at contemporary cultural topics.
As with all things, there was a small runner in the panty hose of life. This woman confided in me that her left eye was actually crafted from a piece of wood. She had lost the eye in a whaling expedition and had hand-carved a replica from the oar on the sailing vessel. It was a nearly identical match to her right eye and only with extreme scrutiny could you see a difference. I did not let this dissuade my admiration for her, and I in turn confided in her of my miniscule imperfection aka Hair Lip. We both embraced each others minor flaws and soon they went the way of the Dodo.
We spent the next several days together discussing our contemporaries who were so far beneath our status as to not waste our time with trifle interactions. Dinners at elegant restaurants, drinks at the most intimate of brothels followed by entertainment by the finest roller-derby and mud-wrestling competitions. One night, she asked if we could skip our trip to see professional wrestling in lieu of an opening of a new dance club downtown. As the Higgins men have always been exquisite dancers, I thought this sounded like a wonderful idea.
We arrived at the club, Boogie Knights (a medieval themed club), got some glasses of mead, and obtained a table near the dance floor. After 20 minutes of watch the people on the floor, my companion must have gotten a little anxious about experiencing the Higgins dance moves. She looked at me, and in a voice that was a little loud and tinged with nervousness and said, “WOULD YOU LIKE TO DANCE?” I was a little startled by this blunt proposal and became momentarily rattled. I stammered and stuttered out “Would I….Would I……” She became instantly enraged, and yelled back at the top of her lungs, “Hair Lip….Hair Lip.” Needless to say, that was the end of our courting.
I apologize to my readers who were looking forward to a sweet, sweet end to this sad saga. In this case, however, it was not meant to be. Since that time, there have been many more women who have experienced “The Higgins” but none have approached this Lost Lady of the Wooden Eye.
As the old saying goes “you win some, you lose some, but mainly you call them the wrong name at inopportune times and they get mad.” ER Higgins 2009.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Financial Fathoms
Salutation Loyal Followers,
I thought that I would center this entry on the one of my favorite topics; time share real-estate. I myself dabble in the real-estate world, and I’ve found that not only is it a fabulous way to attract the high-class women but it also can turn a pretty penny into a gorgeous grand. Many of my friends love the fact that I sign them up for incessant calls from time share companies who offer them opportunities of a life time. I cannot fathom anyone who wouldn’t want to pay a measly $10,000 per year for a prime piece of property that gets less use than a Jim Bob Duggar condom.
True, some less than couth individuals may not have the cerebral heightness to fully appreciate my stance on financial spending but let me try and break it down into these 3 basic concepts.
1. Money is like fish bait; if you don’t drop it blatantly in front of people; they won’t chase it and won’t chase you.
2. Spending, not saving, shows what a classy man really is. Dave Ramsey’s silly principles do not apply to us elitists.
3. A man who leaves money to his friends, family, or community does not understand the concept of “live life to the fullest.”
In summary of this entry, I would like to encourage all of my faithful readers to immediately sell any worthless items they currently possess (wedding rings, cars, cell-phones) and immediately invest in time-share real-estate. “Time” is not on your side.
To delay is to be slovenly; to be unslovenly is to be Higgins – E.R. Higgins 2009
I thought that I would center this entry on the one of my favorite topics; time share real-estate. I myself dabble in the real-estate world, and I’ve found that not only is it a fabulous way to attract the high-class women but it also can turn a pretty penny into a gorgeous grand. Many of my friends love the fact that I sign them up for incessant calls from time share companies who offer them opportunities of a life time. I cannot fathom anyone who wouldn’t want to pay a measly $10,000 per year for a prime piece of property that gets less use than a Jim Bob Duggar condom.
True, some less than couth individuals may not have the cerebral heightness to fully appreciate my stance on financial spending but let me try and break it down into these 3 basic concepts.
1. Money is like fish bait; if you don’t drop it blatantly in front of people; they won’t chase it and won’t chase you.
2. Spending, not saving, shows what a classy man really is. Dave Ramsey’s silly principles do not apply to us elitists.
3. A man who leaves money to his friends, family, or community does not understand the concept of “live life to the fullest.”
In summary of this entry, I would like to encourage all of my faithful readers to immediately sell any worthless items they currently possess (wedding rings, cars, cell-phones) and immediately invest in time-share real-estate. “Time” is not on your side.
To delay is to be slovenly; to be unslovenly is to be Higgins – E.R. Higgins 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Virgin Post
Ladies and Gentlemen:
I would like to begin my virgin post by introducing myself to you all. My name is Edward R. Higgins, but you may refer to me as Ed Higgins as I’m sure that we will all be close friends in a short time.
Many people in my illustrious life have commented on my suave personality, my dashing wit, and my unparalleled skill for charming the female gender. I accept all of these complements but the aspect of me that I treasure most is my incredible level of humility.
As this blog adventure goes along, you will learn many things about my past, my current state, and my future endeavors. I hope that you do not judge me based upon my feelings and philosophies, but rather on the intent of said thoughts.
So in conclusion of this initial blog, I would like to welcome you into the inner workings of the Life of Ed Higgins. Please pour yourself a drink, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.
I would like to begin my virgin post by introducing myself to you all. My name is Edward R. Higgins, but you may refer to me as Ed Higgins as I’m sure that we will all be close friends in a short time.
Many people in my illustrious life have commented on my suave personality, my dashing wit, and my unparalleled skill for charming the female gender. I accept all of these complements but the aspect of me that I treasure most is my incredible level of humility.
As this blog adventure goes along, you will learn many things about my past, my current state, and my future endeavors. I hope that you do not judge me based upon my feelings and philosophies, but rather on the intent of said thoughts.
So in conclusion of this initial blog, I would like to welcome you into the inner workings of the Life of Ed Higgins. Please pour yourself a drink, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.
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