R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 28

Homophobic Terrorist Freed Because of Facebook? Maybe.

Homophobic Terrorist Freed Because of Facebook? Maybe.

You may recall that just before last year’s Labor Day weekend, a homophobic scumbag known in central and south Florida circles named Craig Jungwirth posted a series of menacing messages on Facebook, like “if you losers thought the Pulse nightclub shooting was bad, wait till you see what l’m planning for Labor Day.” In one of his other messages he revealed the locale for his supposed attack: the bars of Wilton Manors, South Florida’s gay ghetto and a vacation destination for millions of both domestic and international tourists annually. And this was just one of a number of evil acts this unhinged guy committed on other gays.

Okay, they caught the jerk, living with his mommy, and threw him in jail to await trial on hate crimes or worse. But earlier this week he was freed because the judge claimed the case made by the prosecutors was “weak,” despite the fact the threats were sent from his mommy’s laptop. It turns out Jungwirth maintained FIFTY NINE profiles on Facebook and investigators were unable to identify which profile he made the threats on.

So free he goes.

Should we blame Facebook for this mess? I mean, why should anyone be allowed FIFTY NINE profiles? I was frozen out by Facebook once for 30 days because the shadow of my penis was supposedly showing through my shorts in a pic I posted. To get back on I had to take a pic of my driver’s license and e it to them to show I was me. And the prosecutors and FB who they turned to for assistance couldn’t figure out which profiles were Jungwirth’s?

Sloppy! Or maybe nobody gives a shit.

Will the gay community suffer the same fate as mainstream society where some nut who perpetrated a heinous act was later found to have been monitored, then dropped by authorities? In fact, the FBI had Omar Mateen under investigation for nearly a year, then stopped. Will Pulse be only the beginning of our own terrorist streak?

Will the bigots figuring they got a license to “bigot” now that their man is in the White House up their acts against us?

What do you think?

Mariah Give It a Break!

This almost isn’t even worth a footnote.

The pop media has been buzzing all week about Mariah Carey’s audio malfunction on New Year’s Eve. It’s obvious she’s pumping it for every ounce of publicity she can get out of tit. With a wildcard President taking office in two weeks, millions of Syrian refugees flooding Europe, and acts of terrorism becoming as common as catching a cold at work, is the plight of some diva who was lip-syncing her own shit anyway all we’ve got to talk about?

Who gives a fuck?

Fifty Shades of Gay: II

Fifty Shades of Gay: II

Sure, there are as many shades of gay as stripes in the Pride Rainbow flag. But what I  disagree with which is against prevailing propaganda in our so-called collective LGBT community is that gay girls, gay guys, transgenders and transsexuals are all cut from the same cloth. I think there are very different psyches operating within and between homosexual women, homosexual men, guys who get their kicks dressing up, and individuals who genuinely think and feel like one sex but have the equipment of the other between their legs.

We are not all alike and, frankly, I’m tired of all of us being thrown in the same sandbox, not only by “society” but by this “Community” the media, show biz, and some activists have created, often for their own self-interests, not mine.

Now, I can’t speak for gay girls or transsexuals since I haven’t known enough of them in my life to play even dime store psychiatrist, but when it comes to transgenders, please, pray tell me, what fucking gay man who likes his own sex would willingly have his dick sliced off, huh??

Nor am I being judgmental when I say this since I truly believe that as long as someone does not physically and/or psychologically abuse another individual and is not looking for a hand-out to carry on a lifestyle, it’s that person’s business how he or she conducts his or her life. Hey like I’ve written in previous blogs, I’m even entertaining having sex with a transgender.

That’s not to say the world is ready to accept all of us with open arms, but we all have to concede things are a thousand times better no matter what our “kink” than they were just a generation ago.

But let’s get back to what it is to be homosexual for me. There are some gays, not the majority, but some who love the lifestyle as much as or even more than the “Sexual Act.”

They’re the ones who bankroll, chat on, even write pro-PR blogs about the bars and the parties and the events and the cruises and the music and the celebs and the GQ look. All very nice, even envied by some outsiders (read straights) looking in, but very surface and cursory.

Me? Sure I drift in and out of that world as I choose – like a cafeteria Catholic who picks  and chooses what the Vatican wants him or her to believe, I consider myself a cafeteria gay –  but the reason I like, yes, like being gay is because I’m a regular guy who tries to stay in shape (but not as a steroid junkie, gym addict or leather man) because I want to feel like a man when I’m fortunate enough to have a like-man next to me where I can feel and smell (no deodorant please) his masculinity. Otherwise, wouldn’t it be a hell of a lot simpler and far more socially acceptable just to do it with a woman?

The problem for those of us who think like me is that all that other shit – society and our own “coveted” Lifestyle – gets in the way.

Fifty Shades of Gay

Fifty Shades of Gay

If you were an alien from some outer galaxy monitoring American life, you’d think that everyone entered a voting booth at age twelve and a half and yanked a lever marked “sexual orientation.” But those of us who are gay, and I think a hell of a lot of enlightened heteros out there, recognize that sexuality (a) is inborn, genetic, either repressed or enhanced by environment; and (b) is often, because of where and how we are raised, not black and white but myriad shades of gray.

I once had a boss who hired me, a gal, and another guy, all of us gay. He was supposedly, as they stay, straight as an arrow, with the stereotypical suburban life, kids, grandkids. Sometimes the three of us would get together to try to figure Eric out. Did he rightly reckon that gay professionals are more reliable and tend to work harder because we have less personal commitments to deal with (like mothers-in-laws and taking kids to soccer practice)? Or was he attracted to us because he had a splash of gay blood in him? Who knows?

The point I’m trying to make here is that sexuality, including homosexuality, is as open to interpretation as color swatches at Home Depot. You’ve got guys, regular guys, beefy guys, who rap one another on the ass after a sweaty football game, homoerotic as hell, then go home and fuck their wives or girl friends silly, maybe because they got turned on on the field? Then there’s the same guy type, maybe he’s a coach or a truck driver, with a male life partner or some fuck buddy who mirrors his under-spoken masculinity, and they very discreetly, or maybe not so discreetly, fuck the shit out of one another every chance they get. You’ve got openly effeminate men, many in the professions, who are as straight as a flagpole with seven kids to prove it and not a homo urge in their loins, and cross-dressers who have ten inch dongs and fuck bi-married men.

Tomorrow: Shades of Gay – Why I don’t believe the “Community” BS

Panoramic Views of My Neighborhood

[image error]in NE Pennsylvania during today’s snowstorm. Beautiful when you don’t have to drive in it.

 

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Lake near my home…

Tap on pics to enlarge and scan.

It’s 2047…

It’s 2047…

I’ve just turned one hundred, live in the same house in Fort Lauderdale l have for the last forty three years, thanks to Terry, my handsome, hairy twenty year old attendant who takes care of me, including telling me at least half a dozen times a day how great l still look.

I’ve just been awarded, via Skype, the Oldest Promiscuous Homosexual Award by our second transgender (this time man-to-woman) President before an inter-galactic audience of billions. I had Terry touch up my hair, that is what’s left of it, and shot some fillers in my face so I’m not too saggy looking. After all, I  have all my fans to keep happy.

It’s the proudest moment of my life next to snarling Hank, the handsomest guy l ever had in my life, over thirty years ago when l was a spry 65. Sadly he and everybody else l know including my long time ex, G, my sister, and an endless string of fuck buddies and romantic encounters are all gone. But l have Terry to bring a smile to my face – at least as long as my lifetime annuity lasts and he hangs around to inherit my rather modest house l’ve willed to him, now worth around five million bucks. That’s enough, given inflation over the years, to buy a used 2034 Cooper, a year’s worth of groceries and a weekend trip to NYC which includes a tour of the Seedy Gay West Village of Old Museum.

In gratitude to my handsome attendant being with me as l achieve this milestone in my life, l present him with a framed picture of my proud erect cock, circa 2012, to hang in his bedroom.

He gives me a befuddled look.

“What’s that, Daddy Ray?” he asks trying not to sound stupid.

“My dick when l was still in demand and Viagra wasn’t so expensive.”

“Your dick?? But it looks so – so BIG!”

“You’re a sweet boy, but l was only considered slightly above average for my time.” (You don’t have to patronize me, kid. You know you’re getting my house, provided of course, I die a natural death.)

Terry looks down at the pouch of his jockstrap, the only piece of clothing l allow him to wear while he’s in the house, pulls out the sock l demand he stuff it with, and drops his jock to the floor.

“You mean this?” he asks holding up a limp piece of skin the size of a single strand of cooked spaghetti that hangs between his humpy, hairy legs.

“Well, those were the days guys actually used their pensises to have sex with.”

“You mean Zing!, that app on my super phone? You know the one that releases wicked thoughts in my brain followed by a burst of endorphins?”

“Kinda,” l respond, “though we used THAT,” pointing to my picture, “for real.”

“Whatya mean for real?”

“We stuck THAT in our mouths and up our asses to give one another pleasure ten times better than Zing.”

“Sorry, Daddy Ray, sounds kinda gross to me.”

“Different strokes for different folks,” l reply.

Poor befuddled Terry gives me a vacant stare.

“You’ve heard about the theory of evolution, haven’t you?” I ask.

Terry, who with an IQ of 120 is no dummy thanks to four smartchips embedded in his brain, nods.

“After the internet and phones started to be used to get off with without having actual physical contact with another man, the penis began to atrophy, you know, waste away from disuse, to a point men now sit on a toilet to take a piss just like women.”

You mean it wasn’t always that way?” asks Terry, really confused by this point.

It’s time for show and tell I think.

“Well, if you go to the bottom drawer of that old bureau in the spare room and pull out that jar marked “Elbow Grease” and a handful of those little blue pills, l’ll show you. Or at least I’ll try.”

“Wow, “says Terry, “can l cam my buddies while you – you do it? There’s one guy stationed on Mars who keeps telling me he’d love to meet you.”

“Sure,” says the old exhibitionist in me.

As he almost runs to the spare room, l stare fondly at his furry, bare ass.

That’s my boy.

It’s true. Money will buy you almost anything.

Even enthusiasm from a twenty year hunk, old enough to be my great great grandson.

A happy and healthy 2017 – talk to you Monday…

Mission of Mercy?

Mission of Mercy?

Those of you who follow my blog know me and George, my partner who were together for a zillion years living a 24/7 reality show that was a cross between gay versions of “The Odd Couple” and “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf?” (G  played the Liz Taylor role) finally called it quits this past spring. (So why did you stay together so long you ask? You get lazy when moving is a bitch and you’re splitting the bills.)

After flying up each November to our PA home (where l would spend summers) and driving my other half and his dog of the moment down in his car to absolutely wreck my winters in MY home in Fort Lauderdale as the endless kvetcher (New Yorkezee for complainer) – “You left the sponge in the sink again” – this April as I was ready to take him back, G accused me of “dragging him down” to South Florida for the winter.

That was the deal breaker! I know, I know, like I’ve said before in previous blogs, if someone irks you it’s because you let them. You have no body to blame but yourself. But, I don’t care if l tied him to the bed and dripped hot wax on his hairy balls, anybody else would have sucked my cock for four hours straight every day for being able to spend the winter in warm beachy Lauderdale free!

Okay, but when you’ve spent two thirds of your life with someone, someone with whom you’ve gone through health crises and financial ups and downs and buried family

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You know I can’t keep my clothes on for long – even in 20 degree weather!

and pets, it’s hard not to feel something. I was alone for perhaps the most vulnerable moment in my life – my back surgery this past spring –   but l was always there for G’s cardiac setbacks and macular degeneration, an eye disorder which, if not periodically treated with a shot literally in the eye like a 1930’s black and white Universal horror movie, can lead to irreversible blindness.

But G is the typical American male when it comes to tending to his health care needs, stoic or more likely just scared, so when he hadn’t gotten his eye shots since l had left him in PA in April, l felt had no choice but to drive up last week to take my 79 year old boy to the retinal specialist 60 miles away across the border in Jersey.  ( l couldn’t go up earlier, first because of my back surgery, and secondly because of our potentially active hurricane season in Florida where leaving my house, even shuttered, would be crazy. )

The drive up through Georgia, the Carolinas, the Virginias and Maryland was uneventful. Then l hit the Arctic, known as Pennsylvania where the temp was 17 and felt sub-zero with the hurricane force winds.

About an hour after me and my doggies arrived at OUR home in Hemlock Farms, one of the most prestigious gated communities in PA where l still pay half the mortgage, taxes, Insurance and association fees, l realized why l fucken LOVE living alone.  (When of course one of my fuck buddies isn’t around for an all-nighter.)  It was deja vu all over again. And walking my three doggies, my two mini-dachshund southern belles and my Chihuahua/terrier rebel boy who hadn’t even

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Now you know why my southern rebel doggies are in winter sweaters.

seen snow let alone piss on it was, shall we say, a challenge.

Because he not only lived alone but was surrounded by a block of empty houses, l had gotten G, a potential victim of sudden cardiac death, a GPS driven medical alert system for which l was willing to pay the monthly fee and all he had to do was wear an unobtrusive wristband.

His typically grateful response:

“I told you l didn’t want that. I’m not going to use it.”

“Yea, but if you drop dead and lay here smelling up the house, how the hell am l goin’ sell it?” I replied only half joking.

Finally he blurted out the ugly truth: “It only reminds me I’m old.” I know the feeling, believe me I do especially after my back surgery. And his seventy-nine ain’t the new 40.

Only a week of badgering him and a call from his adult nephew 45 minutes away across the border in upstate New York who was grateful I had gotten the system finally convinced him to keep the damn thing. (Frankly regardless of age, anybody living alone should have one.)

Second obstacle: his visit to the retinal specialist for his shot in the eye. “Last time l’m gonna. These shots are doin’ shit.” Maybe, but would you take the chance when it came

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Lake a half a block from our house now …

to your vision? Now there is a community van service that will take him back and forth to the specialist even though he’s in PA and the doc is in Jersey, but without Daddy Ray to push him, l question whether he would go on his own.

“Mind your own business! They’re my eyes,” G insisted. Not if you go blind and we have to sell the house.

Hell, I’m no bowl of cherries to live with, but can you understand why I go crazy after listening to this shit day after day after year after decade? The only thing

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… and in the summer.

that stopped

me from killing him was the vision of me ending up in prison and getting fucked ten times a day for the next twenty years not necessarily by my type of guys.

So what do you do with an obstinate ex-partner?

Thank the God I no longer believe in that I’m only playing tourist, and that in a few weeks I will be back home in sunny, balmy Lauderdale, naked in my heated pool with one of my “loves” of the moment, “painfully suffering my lonely life” (George’s exact words) without him.

[image error]This appeared recently in the Hemlock Farms newsletter, our gated community in NE Pennsylvania. Not the kind of “bears” I first think of …

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa

Or Ageist or Agnostic Day if there is such a thing.

So what am I doing up in the Tundra, better known as North East Pennsylvania, for the [image error]holidays when my adopted hometown, Fort Lauderdale, is the warmest place in the continental U.S. right now?

Check my blog on Monday, “Mission of Mercy?”

Was Jesus Bi?

Was Jesus Bi?

Here I go again, taking the Express Train to Hell. Having read up on the historical Christ, I know that chances are a Palestine Jew of the first century would not have been homosexual nor openly exhibit homosexual tendencies. (They probably got their rocks off just kissing and hugging one another anyway.) But let’s fantasize a moment, shall we? (Don’t worry, I’ll get the Pope to give you dispensation for reading this, I promise. And you won’t go blind.)

If He were bi, Jesus, would He have been a lucky motherfucker! Twelve hairy, beary fisherman (look at all these hunky Palestinian men on the news), including His Boy, Johnny, plus Mary Magdalene ( who was marginalized as a possible thirteenth apostle by Church fathers because she was a woman)  as an occasion break from the men. I mean next to stroking a furry bear’s chest, how erotic is getting your feet washed with a woman’s waist length hair, huh? Christ, it would have been like having your own roving sex club! And that’s not counting the groupies that were sure to follow Him and his “men.”

Sacrilegious aspersions aside, according to scripture, Jesus was Man and God. If so, wouldn’t he have, or shouldn’t he have experienced as human an activity as sex? Biblical historians point to the possible exile of a living Jesus and Mary Magdalene, eventually his bride, to modern day France where they are said to have actually raised a family that became the bloodline for royals.

If there were any meager vestiges of the real life Jesus left in the Gospels, collectively the world’s greatest fairy tale with all its copycat parallels to pagan religions so the masses would buy in, those vestiges were sanitized and myth-ified.

Just like Jesus’ depiction as a tall, lean Scandinavian type by Renaissance painters when, in reality, he was probably 5 foot, five, dark and swarthy.

Or Christ’s birth in the winter. Archeological meteorologists indicate Jesus was actually born in the summer, but again Church fathers established Christmas to coincide with a pagan winter festival to make it easier to embrace.

Or even the resurrection – paralleled time and time again in ancient religions.

My alternative theory is that Jesus was an alien. Look at the immaculate conception, the miracles, the resurrection, the ascension into heaven. Read space ship.

One thing the Gospels didn’t gloss over or sugar coat was His passion for S and M and bondage. You have to admit Jesus must have been the ultimate masochist.

Yikes! Please, no marks!

But on a more somber note, there are two things I find ironic when it comes to these holier-than-thou Christians, many soon to be in positions of power,  who if they had their way would put us all in conversion camps in North Dakota:

Jesus said, “I am the New Testament,” but whenever folks want to blackball us, they quote that passage in the Old Testament’s Leviticus, “Man shall not lay with man…” If Christ clearly emphasized the Old Testament was dead, why do they keep rehashing old shit?

BTW, discouraging men to cohabitate with men in the days of Moses was a practical issue because the Jewish tribes needed their members to keep having kids for child labor. Any persons who didn’t procreate weren’t contributing to the survival of the tribe.

If you boil Christianity down to its essence, it was Christ’s ultimate commandment, “Love one anther.” Boy, would he rolling around in his grave (had he not risen from the dead) if He saw where that went.

Have a good holiday weekend – chat with you on Monday…

Get Over It!

Get Over It!

Today’s the day the members of the Electoral College each vote in their respective states to officially certify the Presidential election and crown Sir Donald  – or not…

You’ve got Hollywood celebs trying to convince Electors to “vote their conscience…”

You’ve got the looking for a cause junkies protesting in the streets with their “Not My President” placards…

You’ve got Pelosi and her daughter and other mainline Democrats demanding a full investigation into accusations by our intelligence agencies that the Russians hacked our election, though they admit no actual votes were altered, only some people’s minds when they were bombarded with the Wikileaks about the Clinton Foundation, etc…

You’ve got reporters asking Obama at his last press conference if he thought Putin himself was behind the election hacking, the reason being Putin would rather have a political novice than a seasoned politico in the White House…

You’ve got others rightly questioning the motives of the FBI chief pulling out that eleventh hour bullshit about additional potentially damaging e-mails on Clinton’s close aid’s lap, the one with the philandering pedophile-wannabe husband, Anthony Weiner, who should have thrown her hubby under the bus years ago…

You’ve got people including those who supported Trump questioning some of his proposed Cabinet choices  like the EPA designate who thinks global warming is bullshit, or his proposed secretary of state appointee who’s “in like Flynn*” with Putin because of his business dealings with the Russians as head of Exxon…

You’ve got “fair and balanced” Ultra Right Fox News who more than any other media outlet kept the Clinton e-mailing scandal alive a lot longer than it should have been, and super liberal CNN and dying print media like the New York Times and Washington Post questioning Trump’s every fart as Sir Donald wisely circumvents all of them by going straight to his public via his Twitter tweets which are now the core of Big Media’s news reports, ’cause that’s all they got to work with …

You’ve got the constitutional lawyers questioning ethically how Sir Don plans to divest himself of his billion dollar empire without it possibly coloring his decisions as President, or involving his suave kids in White House affairs…

To all of them, I’ve got only one thing to say:

Get over it.

Yea, l voted for Hil but Trump’s got the power now, baby, and frankly he doesn’t give a shit what anybody thinks.

Because he doesn’t have to.

Unless he podcasts himself fucking some broad, he’s our President for the next four years.

So deal with it.

A president in order to be impeached which means he’s only accused and then stands trial before Congress must commit “high crimes and misdemeanors.” You mind telling me what that’s supposed to mean?

Trump is either going down as our worst President or a trailblazer who changed the office forever.

Or maybe, just maybe, he’s gonna kick some ass.

It’s about fucken time.

 

*Errol Flynn was a super handsome movie actor of the thirties and forties who was a prolific womanizer and once was even on trial for raping a minor, a charge for which he was acquitted. Now get the picture  what “in like Flynn” means?

 

“I hate being gay. It’s a lonely, miserable life.”

“I hate being gay. It’s a lonely, miserable life.”

This is a comment I once received on my blog and even my jaded heart went out to its sender. So for him and others like him who read my shit, here’s my view of the world. I don’t profess to be a philosopher or psychologist or sociologist. Just an observer of Life.

You are what you are. Gay is in the genes, so self-hatred is bullshit. If you don’t want to act on your impulses, that’s fine. But there’s a hell of a lot worst stuff that could happen to your DNA, so get over it and move on.  Consider yourself a member of some secret society even if at times you feel it’s a society of one.

Don’t live your life through other people like celebs who so many airheads in America put on this lofty pedestal. (Who really gives a fuck if so and so is getting laid?) Live your life for you and appreciate whatever you’ve got.

Don’t fall for the gay pop propaganda machine. By that I mean, don’t have lofty expectations of what you should get. Come on, now, is the cover guy from GQ the only thing that will turn you on? His chiseled body is probably because he has a meth habit, not a gym one. There are so many other guys out there for real if you just let it happen.

By the same token, don’t measure or compare yourself against these shallow stereotypes of this overblown sub-culture of ours. If greater society glorifies physical perfection, hell, we gays have made it a god. Many of these so-called beauties are shitheads when it comes to interacting with people or being successful at anything more than loving themselves.

Instead, search in yourself what you find good and appealing – to you, not HIM. Is it your intelligence, your wit, your crystal clear blue eyes, your talent at making good burgers?  Because unless you’re happy with yourself you’ll never be happy, and by happy I mean confident and comfortable, with anyone else even if you have the best looking guy in town in your bed 24/7.

And while I over-preach about getting in shape, it’s a fact exercise – even if means walking around the mall – makes you feel better. And if you start looking better too, the self confidence – “I feel good about me and if the rest of the world doesn’t it, fuck ‘em” – will kick in.

Don’t follow the herd. I think a lot of guys – young and old – think they have to adopt the stereotypical look and mannerisms and lifestyle of what society equates as being gay (including the super butch, buzzed look) to be accepted or popular or sexy if, by this sub-culture’s standards, they have nothing else to offer. Again be yourself – whatever the fuck that is for you.

Don’t fall for the fantasy notion that everybody meets their soul mate and walks the sands of time together into oblivion. Frankly, I think most guys – most people – never meet anyone truly on their wavelength. Many of us – straight and gay – pair off for social comfort or financial reasons, not because we’re “in love.” Many of us I even think don’t give a shit. After all, if we wanted lifelong commitment we’d marry a woman.

I’m not knocking those who find HIM, but O.K., so what? Remember, every time we invite another person into our life, we need to be ready to compromise. I don’t know about you – I hate compromising.

Aloneness and loneliness are two very different animals. I’ve never been a very gregarious person; maybe it stems from my childhood when my mother held me back from playing with other kids for fear I’d get hurt. Now, as I grow older, I relish my reclusiveness. Sure I can socialize with a few close friends who I realize still worry more about their own shitty little lives than mine, hit the bars and take in the people parade, have my occasional sex or Kodak moment with a guy, but in the end I’d rather be with my dogs. Alone? Yes. Lonely? Honestly, not very often.

And don’t envy all those coteries of knock-out guys you see in the bars or in the beach with so-called dozens of friends. Most are surface, fly-by relationships, acquaintances, or fleeting fuck buddies, if that. Stats prove most of us have, maybe, two or three people we can rely on.  And if there’s no one, so be it. My greatest personal comfort is self-reliance.

Some guys, particularly those in out-of the way places where the closest gay man is 75 miles away, use the web for social networking and buddying up with other guys, something impossible just 15 years ago. So God bless the web for that. But don’t think us gay boys in the urban areas have all the fun. Sometimes because there’s so much to choose from, people get picky and end up waiting for the guy that doesn’t exist. Coming from a small town where you got 10.5 gay men may actually be an advantage.

In the end, what is to be gay any way? We’re men who are attracted to men, whatever the type: young, old, butch, fem, bald, hippy, tall, short, hairy, smooth, chubby, jocky, geeky, slow, smart.  Enjoy whatever it is in a man – your type of man – that turns you on and gets you off.  But you can do that with web porn or the largest erotic organ in our body – our brains – as much as you can do it in the flesh.

The sexologists say most sexual encounters only last 17 minutes anyway. What about the other 42,031,000  minutes of your life?

Ain’t you got better things to do?