Fellow Friends,
I’m sure by now that many of you veteran and neophyte readers have created an image of me a something more than a normal man in lieu of my legendary female conquests, endless supply of eerily surreal wisdom, and unprecedented mastery of high-societal maneuvering. In fact, I’m certain that many of you are so in awe of my abounding smoothness in everything I say that you feel you cannot possibly relate to me and thus you feel may feel that my intellectual teachings will not apply to your little life. Well, my dissuaded darlings, I would like to let you in on a little secret that might help you to view me more in a form that you can understand with your average intellect...
As a cultured, well-rounded, and red-blooded American man, I have been watching the common mans time honored sport of American football over the past few weekends. Yes, yes you may be saying to yourself “how can a Higgins watch a commoner’s game?” Although the game themselves are occasionally entertaining, I find my attention continuously drawn to the collection of fine looking women adorning the sidelines of the gladiator gridiron. To primitive-minded men, these Phenomenal Professionals of the Pom-Poms are a temptingly tasty dessert starkly contrasting to the massive mammals annihilating each other behind them on the field. Each of these scantily clad women bouncing, posing, and preening themselves without any chance for the drooling dogs in the stands to touch.
In many ways, these Sideline Seductresses are like a neighborhood supermarket meat section. They display their high end pieces of meat comprised of rumps, thighs, loins, and breasts for thousands to see but not to touch. Now the common man would love to sample these juicy tidbits, but he is thwarted by the glass case of monetary means and societal status. These desirable delicacies are on display for these poor simple communal creatures, but are reserved only for those with the financial girth to match their fine status. The meat for the mean male masses is of the older, saggy, and leaky variety found in clearance bins (bars) down the isle (street). Furthermore, should an average chap be so blessed as to actually obtain these moist morsels, his is from that point forward doomed to crave for this tasty meal but is instead given moldy old meatloaf at home.
As a man of more than adequate finances and status, I have enjoyed many a luscious lunch on these moist morsels. Each year, the meats become more tender, juicy, and ravishingly succulent. It is my hope for you all, my evolving elegants, to someday feast upon these prize pieces of the flesh, and revile in all their pleasure and splendor.
“If most of us are ashamed of shabby clothes and shoddy furnitiure, let us be more ashamed of shabby ideas and shoddy philosophies…It would be a sad situation of the wrapper were better than the meat wrapped inside it.” – Albert Einstein 1879-1955
If you are ashamed of the wrapper on your meat of life, then just get better a better wrap for your meat. – E.R. Higgins 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Birthday Blues
My Contemporary Companions,
I apologize for my delinquency in posting this until now, but yesterday was a dark day in the distinguished history of Higgins. Many of you may know that on January 14th, I turned another year older and this year was, I’m afraid to say, the most difficult to date.
For as long as my rapier-like memory can remember, I have always been the most intelligent, the most sophisticated, and by far the most attractive man in the known world. Travelers would embark on treacherous pilgrimages on the chance that they would get to bask in the glory of my philosophical decrees, drink in my theoretical proclamations, to gaze at my Fabio like Physique. Women wanted to be with me and the men…well some men wanted to be with me too but that would have been a little awkward but not completely out of the question.
Up until yesterday, my life had been blemish-free. I had been happier than a Ricky at a Dungeons and Dragons Convention. January 14th, 2010, will go down as an infamous day in the history of Higgins. For upon yesterday, an ancient prophesy known only as Dita e Flamuri do Drop, was tragically fulfilled. As the Higgins genealogy traces back to its roots to prehistoric Albania, this archaic phrase is quite obviously in Albanian and the translation roughly translates into English as The Day the Flag will Drop. For those of you uneducated folks, the Flag was an old reference to the male reproductive organ. Drop was also a term that was synonymous with today’s term falter/quit/fade/etc. So quite literally, this prophecy may be modernized to read The Day the Weiner will Fail.
Yes, I am ashamed to admit that this prophesy did in fact come to fruition on my sacred birthday. A day that is sacred to all males to be the day that partaking in the pleasures of the female flesh requires absolutely no work on our parts and the tantrical fantasies are guaranteed to become a reality. I had the pleasure to be in the company of a women so outstandingly beautiful she could make Stevie Wonder's trousers dance.
We had met at charity function whose goal was to help recovering felonious financial investors find new elderly folks to prey upon and suck dry much a black widow to an aging butterfly. Neither one of us was intentionally looking for the other, but we locked eyes over the Rocky Mountain oyster buffet, and immediately fell under each other’s spell. As the evening progressed, we began to become intimately engaged in intellectual jousting, each trying to penetrate the other’s defenses without allowing the other to infiltrate our own barriers. Obviously you can see where this saga is trending…..
Back at the House of Higgins, we continued our battle of wits however we invited my dear friend Mr. Glen Fiddich to join us which created an interesting spin on our discussion points. Soon we began to explore each others terrain which rapidly progressed to foraging in one another’s foliage.
Suddenly, without warning, something terribly wrong happened. As I was preparing to make like Christopher Columbus and claim her unconquered territory, a deflating feeling came upon me and I realized that my Higgins Handle had begun to lose functioning. Nothing I could do would raise the Flag, rally the troops, rebuild the fort, etc. Fate had apparently deemed me to be the one in which the ancient foreboding prophecy to occur on. My female companion was crushed at the missed opportunity to experience a ride on the one of a kind Higgins Train of Pleasure. She took my receiving the prophecy as a personal failure and quickly excused herself from my presence into the cold dark night.
My dearest friends, I share my previous 24 hours with you not to make you pity me or to feel guilty if you sampled the female flesh while I was selected not to do so. I share this story with you to illustrate a point that fate truly does have EVERYTHING to do with happiness. As I have mentioned before, I have always been selected by the fates to be superior to others in all aspects of life. This one occurrence on my sterling record of conquests will haunt me for the remainder of my life, but it also will give others hope that even the elite of the elitists can be chosen to experience tragedy. The silver lining in this saga is that the ancient Algerian prophesy has been administered, completed, and now is dead. I may now go forth and conquer the vast female land that is eagerly waiting to be claimed by the Higgins without concern of the infamous Dita e Flamuri do Drop.
To conquer oneself is a greater task than conquering others - Budda 563-483 B.C.
All civilized men conquer fear and failure on a daily basis. A Higgins has no fear and has never failed so he is already better than all other men. E.R. Higgins 2010
I apologize for my delinquency in posting this until now, but yesterday was a dark day in the distinguished history of Higgins. Many of you may know that on January 14th, I turned another year older and this year was, I’m afraid to say, the most difficult to date.
For as long as my rapier-like memory can remember, I have always been the most intelligent, the most sophisticated, and by far the most attractive man in the known world. Travelers would embark on treacherous pilgrimages on the chance that they would get to bask in the glory of my philosophical decrees, drink in my theoretical proclamations, to gaze at my Fabio like Physique. Women wanted to be with me and the men…well some men wanted to be with me too but that would have been a little awkward but not completely out of the question.
Up until yesterday, my life had been blemish-free. I had been happier than a Ricky at a Dungeons and Dragons Convention. January 14th, 2010, will go down as an infamous day in the history of Higgins. For upon yesterday, an ancient prophesy known only as Dita e Flamuri do Drop, was tragically fulfilled. As the Higgins genealogy traces back to its roots to prehistoric Albania, this archaic phrase is quite obviously in Albanian and the translation roughly translates into English as The Day the Flag will Drop. For those of you uneducated folks, the Flag was an old reference to the male reproductive organ. Drop was also a term that was synonymous with today’s term falter/quit/fade/etc. So quite literally, this prophecy may be modernized to read The Day the Weiner will Fail.
Yes, I am ashamed to admit that this prophesy did in fact come to fruition on my sacred birthday. A day that is sacred to all males to be the day that partaking in the pleasures of the female flesh requires absolutely no work on our parts and the tantrical fantasies are guaranteed to become a reality. I had the pleasure to be in the company of a women so outstandingly beautiful she could make Stevie Wonder's trousers dance.
We had met at charity function whose goal was to help recovering felonious financial investors find new elderly folks to prey upon and suck dry much a black widow to an aging butterfly. Neither one of us was intentionally looking for the other, but we locked eyes over the Rocky Mountain oyster buffet, and immediately fell under each other’s spell. As the evening progressed, we began to become intimately engaged in intellectual jousting, each trying to penetrate the other’s defenses without allowing the other to infiltrate our own barriers. Obviously you can see where this saga is trending…..
Back at the House of Higgins, we continued our battle of wits however we invited my dear friend Mr. Glen Fiddich to join us which created an interesting spin on our discussion points. Soon we began to explore each others terrain which rapidly progressed to foraging in one another’s foliage.
Suddenly, without warning, something terribly wrong happened. As I was preparing to make like Christopher Columbus and claim her unconquered territory, a deflating feeling came upon me and I realized that my Higgins Handle had begun to lose functioning. Nothing I could do would raise the Flag, rally the troops, rebuild the fort, etc. Fate had apparently deemed me to be the one in which the ancient foreboding prophecy to occur on. My female companion was crushed at the missed opportunity to experience a ride on the one of a kind Higgins Train of Pleasure. She took my receiving the prophecy as a personal failure and quickly excused herself from my presence into the cold dark night.
My dearest friends, I share my previous 24 hours with you not to make you pity me or to feel guilty if you sampled the female flesh while I was selected not to do so. I share this story with you to illustrate a point that fate truly does have EVERYTHING to do with happiness. As I have mentioned before, I have always been selected by the fates to be superior to others in all aspects of life. This one occurrence on my sterling record of conquests will haunt me for the remainder of my life, but it also will give others hope that even the elite of the elitists can be chosen to experience tragedy. The silver lining in this saga is that the ancient Algerian prophesy has been administered, completed, and now is dead. I may now go forth and conquer the vast female land that is eagerly waiting to be claimed by the Higgins without concern of the infamous Dita e Flamuri do Drop.
To conquer oneself is a greater task than conquering others - Budda 563-483 B.C.
All civilized men conquer fear and failure on a daily basis. A Higgins has no fear and has never failed so he is already better than all other men. E.R. Higgins 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Ode to the Emo
Greetings Giants of Society,
I trust that the first two weeks of this New Year has treated you like the fine debutants that you must be as you’re worthy enough to peruse my priceless thoughts. Many are those who pine for the opportunity to witness my seemingly infinite supply of literary genius, however most are found unworthy on the Higgins Sophistication Scale. So, please count yourselves lucky much like I do on a daily basis for others bad fortunes making you look like societal kings. But enough about others, let’s talk about my thoughts….
I was reminded yesterday during one of my jaunts around the common man’s cesspool (also known as the mall) of a new wave of “fashion” that is quite frankly molesting the style of America. The so called “Emo” rash of dress is perhaps the most redonkulous idea that has been expressed since the advent of the Flowbee. I cannot fathom why a normal young lad would want to turn himself not only into a skinny damsel, but a skinny damsel with Saran Wrap for jeans and shirt, hair that makes Tammy Fay Baker look human, and scarves that have patterns that would make Pink Floyd stare in awe.
Now really, folks, I implore you to seriously ask yourself if this is what our future should look like. Compounding the issue is the fact that this style of dress is accompanied by an annoying behavior of self-pity and apathy. Instead of working to overcome your problems, these Goth-lite folks cling to the mindset that they are misunderstood/judged/targeted/misfits. Well, if I decided to wear clothes so tight that let everyone know my circumcision status and whether or not I was a brief or commando person (for your reference, a true Higgins is always free from all constraints; inside AND out), and styled my hair to resemble a wet obese Marmot, then perhaps I would be rightly labeled as the village obtuse.
Finally, this lifestyle apparently requires its disciples to write dark and brooding poetry, mix it with an atrocious amount of distorted guitar sounds, and try to pass it off as art. Oh I long for the days of The Lawrence Welk Show where you would have your ears massaged with musical masterpieces from the late great Ralna English and Guy Hovis.
So, my fellow high-level homosapiens, I urge you to greatly lower your standards and help these misguided followers of Freakville. Perhaps all they need is some like yourself who will explain to them in a language they will understand that feathered hair, bandanas, tight jeans, and a dark attitude will never lead to the inner circle of Higginism.
Never judge a book by its cover – Cary Grant in The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer 1947
To dress like a schmuck is to be labeled as such. To dress among the elite of the elite is to be labeled a Higgins – E.R. Higgins 2010
I trust that the first two weeks of this New Year has treated you like the fine debutants that you must be as you’re worthy enough to peruse my priceless thoughts. Many are those who pine for the opportunity to witness my seemingly infinite supply of literary genius, however most are found unworthy on the Higgins Sophistication Scale. So, please count yourselves lucky much like I do on a daily basis for others bad fortunes making you look like societal kings. But enough about others, let’s talk about my thoughts….
I was reminded yesterday during one of my jaunts around the common man’s cesspool (also known as the mall) of a new wave of “fashion” that is quite frankly molesting the style of America. The so called “Emo” rash of dress is perhaps the most redonkulous idea that has been expressed since the advent of the Flowbee. I cannot fathom why a normal young lad would want to turn himself not only into a skinny damsel, but a skinny damsel with Saran Wrap for jeans and shirt, hair that makes Tammy Fay Baker look human, and scarves that have patterns that would make Pink Floyd stare in awe.
Now really, folks, I implore you to seriously ask yourself if this is what our future should look like. Compounding the issue is the fact that this style of dress is accompanied by an annoying behavior of self-pity and apathy. Instead of working to overcome your problems, these Goth-lite folks cling to the mindset that they are misunderstood/judged/targeted/misfits. Well, if I decided to wear clothes so tight that let everyone know my circumcision status and whether or not I was a brief or commando person (for your reference, a true Higgins is always free from all constraints; inside AND out), and styled my hair to resemble a wet obese Marmot, then perhaps I would be rightly labeled as the village obtuse.
Finally, this lifestyle apparently requires its disciples to write dark and brooding poetry, mix it with an atrocious amount of distorted guitar sounds, and try to pass it off as art. Oh I long for the days of The Lawrence Welk Show where you would have your ears massaged with musical masterpieces from the late great Ralna English and Guy Hovis.
So, my fellow high-level homosapiens, I urge you to greatly lower your standards and help these misguided followers of Freakville. Perhaps all they need is some like yourself who will explain to them in a language they will understand that feathered hair, bandanas, tight jeans, and a dark attitude will never lead to the inner circle of Higginism.
Never judge a book by its cover – Cary Grant in The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer 1947
To dress like a schmuck is to be labeled as such. To dress among the elite of the elite is to be labeled a Higgins – E.R. Higgins 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
New Year's Philosophy
A Warm Higgins Hello,
For starters, I would like to wish all my fine followers a Happy New Year. New Year…. it has an attractive auditory allure to it. Much like the scent of a finely rolled Cuban cigar, a glass of perfectly aged single-malt scotch, the softness of a sophisticated woman’s touch…pardon my temporary tangent.
To begin a New Year is to completely eliminate the previous year’s achievements and failures from memory. To wipe clean the proverbial slate in preparation for a whole new year of opportunities is one of the most refreshing activities a man could ever perform, secondary to a good ride on a freshly installed bidet.
Many are the common people who make so called “New Years Resolutions.” These resolutions often are silly and juvenile like give more to charity, quit smoking/drinking/hooking, volunteer for soup kitchens, etc. Obviously these are the proclamations of those less-than-sophisticated cretins who also think that “going green” has anything to do with saving the earth’s resources when we intelligent folks know it is a Mongolian reference to money.
As a member of high society, it is in my Higgins Honor Code to guide those less fortunate than me, which is nearly everyone, in how to start off the New Year right. Please read the following and try to follow them to the letter of the word;
1.) According to the ancient Mayan Calendar, this is Annus of Verus Vir or The Year of the Real Man. For those of you who have been accused rightly or wrongly of being feminine/weak/submissive, this is the time to drink in your testosterone, flex your man muscle, and mark your territory. (yes, I intend literally)
2.) Those people who resolve to lose weight, work out, or become better looking this year need to save your breath. People are born attractive, so if you have not achieved it by now, then society has deemed you unworthy and you cannot rise in physical status. A real man does not need to work out, as by flexing his intellect and working his social muscles will keep him in perfect shape and smelling much better than a ghastly smelling Weddle-used gym jock.
3.) Those who wish to be more charitable, serving, and community-service minded must realize that people are in the predicaments in life that they are for a reason. For example, as I am a pure bred Higgins from a long line of Higgins’, I am destined to be superior in all aspects to the common man. It does no good to give a commoner such as a Weddle, Crab, Smith, or Ogden any assistance in climbing the societal ladder as it will only serve to frustrate them when they cannot maintain the high level of competence required to reside this high in the ranks.
4.) The bad habits that you have spent the last year nurturing, coddling, and perfecting will not be broken simply by making a silly resolution. The only Higgins-endorsed way to break a bad habit is to throw enough money at the problem that it goes away. For example, prostitution. I have an acquaintance that for the sake of argument we will call “Jessie” who has an addiction to prostitution. His addiction is NOT employing these street walkers, but rather playing the role of one. He constantly feels the need to dress in drag and in his size 10D 4 inch stilettos, parade down the streets of a town called “Overland Park” pleading for business from the wealthy members of the community. Jessie has longed to escape this lifestyle, but the feel of the stilettos, the embrace of fishnet stockings, and the comfort of the crotchless sequence thongs make this a difficult activity to dispose of. For Jessie to finally break this habit, he must find an investor who is willing to pay for a $10,000 Clockwork Orange-style therapy session to brainwash him out of this lifestyle. Being the selfless Higgins that I am, I am happy to donate $5 toward this noble effort. Good luck, “Jessie.”
5.) Last but not least, if you are a hapless married man who has not engaged in an appropriate amount of “intimate moments” with your wife, then your problem is simple. You must not be a refined enough man for a woman to want to present her lovely woman spirit to. Try and spending a little more time on pubic hair grooming, ear cerebrum extraction, and inguinal massaging. These are some of my own exquisite hygiene rituals that have gotten me more female attention than baby-oil-covered Bradley Cooper (Phil from the Hangover.)
In closing, this is an exciting time in beginning a new year. I have many plans for this year, and if you are deemed worthy enough by the Higgins Class-O-Meter, you may get to partake in these functions.
"The reason people find it so hard to be happy is that tthey always see the past better than it was, the present worse than it is, and the future less resolved than it will be" Marcel Pagnol 1895-1974
Last year is in the past and this year is in the future. Don’t mix them up. E.R. Higgins 2010
For starters, I would like to wish all my fine followers a Happy New Year. New Year…. it has an attractive auditory allure to it. Much like the scent of a finely rolled Cuban cigar, a glass of perfectly aged single-malt scotch, the softness of a sophisticated woman’s touch…pardon my temporary tangent.
To begin a New Year is to completely eliminate the previous year’s achievements and failures from memory. To wipe clean the proverbial slate in preparation for a whole new year of opportunities is one of the most refreshing activities a man could ever perform, secondary to a good ride on a freshly installed bidet.
Many are the common people who make so called “New Years Resolutions.” These resolutions often are silly and juvenile like give more to charity, quit smoking/drinking/hooking, volunteer for soup kitchens, etc. Obviously these are the proclamations of those less-than-sophisticated cretins who also think that “going green” has anything to do with saving the earth’s resources when we intelligent folks know it is a Mongolian reference to money.
As a member of high society, it is in my Higgins Honor Code to guide those less fortunate than me, which is nearly everyone, in how to start off the New Year right. Please read the following and try to follow them to the letter of the word;
1.) According to the ancient Mayan Calendar, this is Annus of Verus Vir or The Year of the Real Man. For those of you who have been accused rightly or wrongly of being feminine/weak/submissive, this is the time to drink in your testosterone, flex your man muscle, and mark your territory. (yes, I intend literally)
2.) Those people who resolve to lose weight, work out, or become better looking this year need to save your breath. People are born attractive, so if you have not achieved it by now, then society has deemed you unworthy and you cannot rise in physical status. A real man does not need to work out, as by flexing his intellect and working his social muscles will keep him in perfect shape and smelling much better than a ghastly smelling Weddle-used gym jock.
3.) Those who wish to be more charitable, serving, and community-service minded must realize that people are in the predicaments in life that they are for a reason. For example, as I am a pure bred Higgins from a long line of Higgins’, I am destined to be superior in all aspects to the common man. It does no good to give a commoner such as a Weddle, Crab, Smith, or Ogden any assistance in climbing the societal ladder as it will only serve to frustrate them when they cannot maintain the high level of competence required to reside this high in the ranks.
4.) The bad habits that you have spent the last year nurturing, coddling, and perfecting will not be broken simply by making a silly resolution. The only Higgins-endorsed way to break a bad habit is to throw enough money at the problem that it goes away. For example, prostitution. I have an acquaintance that for the sake of argument we will call “Jessie” who has an addiction to prostitution. His addiction is NOT employing these street walkers, but rather playing the role of one. He constantly feels the need to dress in drag and in his size 10D 4 inch stilettos, parade down the streets of a town called “Overland Park” pleading for business from the wealthy members of the community. Jessie has longed to escape this lifestyle, but the feel of the stilettos, the embrace of fishnet stockings, and the comfort of the crotchless sequence thongs make this a difficult activity to dispose of. For Jessie to finally break this habit, he must find an investor who is willing to pay for a $10,000 Clockwork Orange-style therapy session to brainwash him out of this lifestyle. Being the selfless Higgins that I am, I am happy to donate $5 toward this noble effort. Good luck, “Jessie.”
5.) Last but not least, if you are a hapless married man who has not engaged in an appropriate amount of “intimate moments” with your wife, then your problem is simple. You must not be a refined enough man for a woman to want to present her lovely woman spirit to. Try and spending a little more time on pubic hair grooming, ear cerebrum extraction, and inguinal massaging. These are some of my own exquisite hygiene rituals that have gotten me more female attention than baby-oil-covered Bradley Cooper (Phil from the Hangover.)
In closing, this is an exciting time in beginning a new year. I have many plans for this year, and if you are deemed worthy enough by the Higgins Class-O-Meter, you may get to partake in these functions.
"The reason people find it so hard to be happy is that tthey always see the past better than it was, the present worse than it is, and the future less resolved than it will be" Marcel Pagnol 1895-1974
Last year is in the past and this year is in the future. Don’t mix them up. E.R. Higgins 2010
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Gift that Keeps on Giving
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
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 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.
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