And What's With This Masonic Shit Anyway?

I had a blog before this one, but I killed it, and it's dead. I cut its nuts off, and they rest, in a state of unsettling decomposition, inside a little velvet-lined gilded box on my nightstand.

This blog got bornded on Friday, March 13th, 2009, if you can believe that. We're just about at 611 posts or so, for those insufferable pedants who like to keep track of such things, and I'd like to say that "we've come a long way together" but, um, it's been largely a lot of the same around here. Fortunately, you probably hadn't noticed, until I was kind enough to point it out to you. I guess you won't be coming back here anymore. But, before you let the door hit your tight little ass on the way out, I think I at least owe you a post about the name of this here bloglette.

My Masonic Apron.

What the fuck is that about anyway?

Well, I don't know, really. Blogs need to be called something, don't they? Especially "anonymous" blogs. Because, if it wasn't anonymous, I could stick my name in the url and we'd be all gtg and shit, but, you know I can't do that. Because, in 2009, I worked with children. And, in 2010, I work with psychotic people. So, we're going to keep me in the shadows a little while longer, if that's okay with you. Because I don't want my nuts ending up inside some velvet-lined gilded box.

Anyway, when I was thinking about what to call this blog, one of my favorite Monty Python sketches of all time popped into my head. No, it's not the motherfucking dead goddamned parrot or the jesuschristing gay lumberfuckingjack.

Sorry. I just get so... you know.

It's the sketch that leads off Episode 17-- the Architect Sketch, which I first saw at age 12. In this sketch, John Cleese, a burgeoning, young and enthusiastic architect shows off his scale model of a block of apartment flats to two prospective investors, Terry Jones & Michael Palin. Unfortunately, Cleese is a bit manic and homicidal and the apartment building he is proposing is actually an abattoir, complete with "rotating knives" and "the last twenty feet of the corridor are heavily soundproofed. The blood pours down these chutes and the mangled flesh slurps into these..."

Whereupon he is cut off, in the polite, goodnatured fashion that British people have cut other British people off in for centuries. Cleese leaves in rage-filled, frustrated embarrassment, also an English tradition, and in comes another architect, Eric Idle, to have a go with his model, which falls apart and spontaneously catches fire during his presentation. His proposal is unanimously accepted by Jones & Palin's characters, because Idle's architect character is, say it with me now: a Mason.

And they all do a super-cool, secret Masonic handshake that gets done again in a super-cool, secret, slow-motion BBC Action Replay.

Can you discern why I was not universally liked by other twelve-year-olds?

So, Masonic business was funny to me, because I learned about it from Monty Python. I mean, it is funny, just like the idea of the Church Police is funny, and just like men wearing women's clothes is funny. When I went to New York City with my long-defunct best friend to visit the grand lodge of the white knights of the masons or whatever the hell it was called, I was on the verge of cracking up the whole time we were there, because of Monty Python.

That sonofabitch.

Apparently, there is this great, vast mythology surrounding Masons that goes back a long way. George Washington was a Mason, and he was pretty cool, even though he looks like an elderly lady. My wife's uncle is a Mason, apparently. He is short, overweight, bald except for a Hershey's kiss swirl on top of his head, and his voice is a mixture of Pee-Wee Herman and Buddy Hackett. So, I don't know what's so cool about being a Mason, but it can't be that cool.

And I've further urinated on its real estate by defaming their most sacred symbol, the masonic apron, by making that the title of this here bloggery.

What kind of monster am I?

How many self-respecting masons have Googled "My masonic apron" in some misguided attempt to learn how to fold or wash or starch or embroider their own towelette and found their way to this blasphemous, pornographic, Jewish little blog? Many. I have no doubt. Masons Google themselves a lot. I read about that on the handmirror of a Korean prostitute somewhere.

Okay. Um... I don't know exactly what the hell this post was, but it's done now, I swear. I'm good. You can... you can go now.