Kids Just Aren’t Noticing Penis Like They Used To

The Sun Also Rises

By Ernest Hemingway

—————————-

Man, lemme tell you.

When I first read Sun Also Rises in college, I felt like I was playing some bizarro game of Penis Bingo.  ”Page 18!  Line 12!  PENIS!”  I would mutter with crazy eyes.

I had just learned about phallic symbols and I have a copy of the book that I lovingly refer to as my Cock Copy since it’s full to the brim of underlined penis/sex references.  It looks like a total perv was jerking off to Hemingway in the most literary and freakish way possible.  If red ink was jizz, my copy would have been soaked.  And possibly impregnated.

Not kids today, though!  I was tutoring Hemingway’s tome, gleefully pointing out choice moments and suddenly noticed that the room was still, eyes on me warily, like I was asking them to please picture their parents naked, covered in Thousand Island Dressing and doing the nasty on their heads.

“Wait.  Your professor hasn’t been talking about all the sex stuff?”  I asked, cautious and worried, dry-erase marker hovering like an anxious insect in my hand at the board, in the middle of writing, “Baton @ end = SWELLING PE–”.

“Well, there’s that whore in the beginning.”  One kid offered, nervously eyeing his fellow students.

“Er, sure, but Jake can’t do anything with her.  Because he’s ‘sick,’” I unwisely winked broadly with the word “sick” making me look like a carnival barker hawking illicit Modernist porn from the nudie tent.  They blinked back at me.

“Yeah, what does he mean by that?  He ain’t sick.  He’s drunk, but not sick.”  Another kid said, scornful and irate.

“He had his dick blown off in the war.”  I clarified, sad dry-erase marker finally collapsing in defeat by my side.

Complete.  Fucking.  Silence.

“WHAT DID YOU THINK WAS WRONG WITH HIM?!”  I finally shrieked.  Blank zombie faces.

“Well, I thought he was gay.”  The first moron contributed succinctly.  ”That’s why he can’t get with Brett.”

“But,” I sputtered, “there’s that whole section where he’s angry at the homosexuals with Brett.  They annoy him.  And he’s in love with her!  He is SO NOT GAY.”  The kid shrugged.

“I thought he had, like, crabs, or the clap or something.”  The single girl in the group offered.

“Wait a tic — you kids still use the phrase ‘the clap’?”  I said, mystified.  ”Jesus.  Where am I, 19-dickity-2?”

“How do you know he got his dick blown off?”  The second kid was flipping wildly through his book, clearly thinking there would be a nice graphic novel version in the middle that he’d carelessly overlooked.

I showed them the passage.  They, correctly, pointed out that it’s not very specific.  I begged them to work on reading subtext and consider other clues.  They continued to look at me like a creepster at the arcade offering tokens in exchange for dirty hand-jobs out back.

“They all drink a lot.”  Second kid mentions, suspiciously.  I looked at him.

“Yesss…”  I said, encouragingly.

“So, he probably didn’t even know about having no blown-off dick.”  He finished, horrifyingly.

I looked at him for a minute.

“How drunk would you have to be, son, to not notice that your man-bits were missing?”  I asked, almost kindly.

Point taken.  But JESUS.  It was like pulling some motherfucking teeth.  What kind of awful world are we living in when kids are more interested in illegal absinthe than a veritable literary wonderland of cock?!

"Not Suitable for Children"! It's right on there.

America and Soccer

If I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again:  I do not get sports.  I’m not good at them, don’t understand them, and the single time I caught a football, I ran it into the wrong end-zone.  Fail.  Hell, I don’t even know if you hyphenate “end-zone,” kids. 

That being said, my semester abroad in England, during the last World Cup, made me seriously enjoy watching other people watch soccer.  Still don’t understand what’s going on, BUT there has to be something redeeming about a sport that makes an entire pub, teary-eyed with copious amounts of cider, ale and beer, clutch shoulders and sing warbly cockney songs while occasionally cheering or flinging crisp packets at the community television set. 

Holy shit, he's a fucking starfish!

 

Which is why it’s sad to be on this side of the pond during the current World Cup.  America, if you cannot embrace a sport beloved the world over (fucking literally, for once) that is like the Olympics but with more drinking and singing and vuvuzelas, then I do not know what to tell you except:  America, you used to be cool, man. 

But I’ve figured it out.  I know why American is so snotty about the whole thing.  It’s not that America just arbitrarily hates soccer… 

Is there this much rape in football?

It’s that we’re not good at it.  And sweet Jiminy Cricket with Rickets, does America like to be good at shit.   

Hear me out — I don’t mean we’re incapable of putting together maybe a decent national team (eventually), and I’m not saying there are not good American soccer players.  I’m saying that overall, we’ve sunk all of our energy into football.  This has not encouraged, either socially or financially, kids to be interested and engaged in soccer like they are in every other fucking place across the globe.  As a result, we are not that good at soccer.  It’s kind of like Math and Science in our schools — everyone is now handing us our ass.  The problem is, the longer we suck at it, the longer we’re going to act like dicks about it.  And the longer we act like dicks, the worse our soccer skills are going to get.  It’s a vicious cycle, loyal readers. 

Soccer looks fucking complicated.  I mean, to me, ALL sports look complicated.  But!  You can’t tell me that it’s more complicated to run into someone headlong in huge padding and helmets (REPEATEDLY) than it is to develop the fancy footwork I’ve seen as pretty necessary for controlling a soccer ball.  That shit takes finesse.  Football?  Not so much finesse as brute strength, head injuries and protective gear worthy of a bubble boy. 

Pictured: Finesse!

So instead of moping around, pissed that 1st-world countries devoid of basic bathroom facilities are kicking our asses, acting like our national past-time is as awesome (if football were that awesome, would we #1 have to have named it ‘football’ in a shady effort to borrow the glory of soccer’s original name? and #2 wouldn’t it have caught on in at least one other country by now?), let’s buck up and play nice with the rest of the globe, like forever.  I don’t want to be stuck in the country that gets invited, every 4 years, to the most awesome goddamn block party on the planet and yet keeps forgetting to RSVP. 

I want my beer.  I want my singing.  I want my fellow Americans to band together, learn something new, put the Revolutionary War behind us, and try being engaged for a change.  Isolation sucks, guys.  That’s why we’re told never to drink alone. 

We want to be the ones derping others, America

*  Pictures all courtesy of the hilarious “Up Next in Sports” site.

Aaaaand, we’re back.

Things I’ve been busy doing:

Driving to and from Florida, with my dog and Christmas presents in my teeny Toyota Celica. 

Working on The Neverending Story that is our new house.  UPDATE:  We have heat, running water, lights, and some paint!  Unfortunately we still have 217 other things to do before moving in.  Futility, thy name is RENOVATION.

Contracting virulent food poisoning from an ancient pack of ramen noodles.  On the plus side, I think my colon has been effectively flushed, thanks to parasitical vehemence.  Note to self:  Parasitical Vehemence would be a great name for a band!

Playing the New Super Mario Bros. game for Wii like it’s my JOB.

Fixing my asshole computer after getting a goddamn Malware virus.  Thanks, Interwebs.  We’re not friends. 

But I’ve returned, and will be posting soon with some new tales of woe and drudgery from my inexplicable life.  Thanks for staying tuned in, folks.  We’ll be back after these brief commercial messages.

Glenn Beck Makes Me Want to Drink

My poor mother was dragged, by my father, to a Republican enclave in The Villages (picture Village of the Damned, but with the cast from Cocoon).  It’s a community where everyone drives  golf cart and no one under 18 is allowed to stay longer than 48 hours (or else they harvest your youthful, supple skin to wear as a suit).  My father, the last lone Republitard in the family, is a member of the Mayflower Society, where people research their connection to the original goddamn pilgrims and then feel good about it, for reasons that escape all common decency and moral sense.  They have meetings, consisting of old white guys sitting around and re-imagining the 17th century, when you could fuck your wife like you paid for it and brown people were still firmly in their place (read: in chains). 

It’s like living in your third grade Thanksgiving play.  It goes without saying the 99% of these whimsical old bastards are indoctrinated with the special loathing that only Right Wing Nut-face radio talk show hosts can provide.  So not only have they claimed a village all their own (though I feel it should be specially marked, warning lonely travellers in the same way we warn tourists about the radiation levels in certain parts of the desert), but they invited every seething bitch-pants of a Republican loser from the last election to come hang out.  It must have been like tailgating with Satan, considering that Palin, Huckabee AND MacBeck were all coming (I call Glenn Beck “MacBeck” for two reasons: 1) he looks like he ate a MacDonald’s and 2) he reminds me of another sociopath, the one from a certain Scottish play). 

In any case, my mother survived, though barely, possibly because she has a sense of humor.  Case in point, she took the following picture. 

Retards AND drinking? Count me in, padre.

I know.  Best. Mom. Ever.

Diet Pill Horror Redux

So, good news: I have a new fan with a hilarious site, making fun of some shit I hate the most — terrible fucking ads.  In honor of his shout-out, I’m reposting this little ditty from my old blog, a tragic little livespace on MSN that just clicking on is like going to visit grandma at the home…  As soon as you’re there, you’re just depressed at all the old things lying around, the slow speed of the place, the overpowering scent of urine. 

Anyway.  This is as true now as it was then:  Diet Pills are bad news, children.  Everyone say it with me. 

“Go take yourself, diet pills!”

I deeply hate the Lipozene commercials.  They make me physically growl at the tv when they come on.  They feature a condescending-as-fuck woman who warmly assures the audience that it’s not their fault if they’re fat — they just need to take a pill which makes you lose pounds and pounds of body fat.  Her hand gestures indicate that she may be related by blood or semen to Sarah Palin. 

 

Nevermind the subtext that this country’s obesity is tied to our bizarre lack of personal accountability for anything we do.  Nevermind that the woman is a complete cunt.  And thin.  Nevermind the obnoxious timer in the corner which gives the audience 20 minutes to call in to take advantage of the $29.95 “special” pricing.  Hell, nevermind, even, the exploitive fact-manipulation, small print and other pre-requisite bullshit one finds on most diet pill commercials.  I mean, that’s all just par for the course in modern American advertising.  Where are you, Don Draper?!  WHERE?!

 

What annoys me the MOST, that makes me just grind my teeth until my husband asks me if I’m gnawing on bamboo shoots, is this:  The fucking animated graphic they show of a pill capsule opening, then spraying it’s dietic goodness onto the obese belly of some animated hog of a human being, then the belly dissappearing as the pill spray hits it, reducing said animated belly into a perfect size six.  It’s not just patronizing, it’s laughably insane.  What horrifies me is that someone in advertising likely got PAID to do the stupid thing on powerpoint.  And it’s just such a perfect little allegory for America’s conception of pill power.  Tired and sad?  Take a pill.  It’s delicious.  Fat and ugly?  Take two!  Impotent?  Hell yes we have a pill for you!  And look — the little capsule just opens and takes all your cares away… WHEEE!!! 

 

Ugh.  As the Husband said last night (while I ground my teeth into powder), “Why don’t they just say, ‘Look!  God gave us Magic! ‘? “ 

 

Which is why I married him. 

 

Magic Pills!*

 

Appendix:

I actually took diet pills once.  I’d just frantically lost my Freshman Fifte…er, THIRTY, with good old diet and exercise, and I was going on a 20-Day road trip with then-fiance, now Husband.  Where we’d have to eat at diners and from our box of food (read:  gallons of peanut butter, cheese doodles and jars of reconstituted butter… greatest. box. ever.).  Where I knew I was gonna put on the poundage again.  So, like a fool, I ordered Phentermine from Canada.  I had to fudge the details on the order form a bit…  To make myself morbidly obese, I put that I was 4″1′ and weighed 345 lbs.  I was actually 5″5′ and weighed 110.  Yeah.  I am just one big ol’ pack of lies.  Sooo, I get the phentermine (which is now illegal, as it causes one’s heart to explode), and I don’t want to tell my man I’m taking the shit, so I tell him that I ordered vitamins, that I’m taking an “Energy Boost 3000″ (because my creativity wanes, clearly, the thinner I get) every 8 hours.  Mind you, the dosage they sent me was calculated for a hefty dwarf.  Think Danny Devito’s prom date.  So I am literally and physically bouncing off the walls.  In a confined space — his truck.  For 20 days.  On the road.  No escape for either of us. 

 

On the plus side, I don’t need much sleep.  Actually I CANNOT sleep, so I do a lot of the night driving.  The culmination of the trip was my 21st birthday in Las Vegas.  We were up for 24 hours.  As I desperately tried to drown the high of the diet pills in alcohol so that I could sleep for the first time in 16 days. 

 

Then it was time to drive all the way from California to Orlando in 3 days. 

 

He nearly killed me. 

 

Lesson Learned:  Diet pills are bad.  Yes, I gained not one pound of the weight back (I think I actually lost a few more pounds), but I sent my heart rate sky-rocketing and my blood pressure has been sketchy since then.  And to this day, driving at night brings some seriously wacky flashbacks from being high as shit on phentermine and tooling across the country in a stick shift truck that I had just learned how to drive.

*  This site does not endorse magic.  Well.  Not in pill form, anyway.

Biz Markie and Inevitable Drunken Rape

Alright, folks.  Here’s the deal.  I just got back from the Big Apple, and I am going to presage this video by vaunting my newly found expertise:

I drink.  A lot.  And then sing.  And then need a cab.  And then sing some more. 

That being said, let’s look at the uh, more bizarre fucking message of the video:  Let a Stranger Take You Home.  WHATHEFUCK, Heineken?!  Clearly, brewing beer does not put you in the position to know what it’s like to be a young drunken girl, strange and counter-intuitive as that might seem.  I know, I know.  Drunk driving is kinda bad… But so is being tits-down tipsy at a bar and being haunted only by the thought, “Well, the beer men said I can just let a stranger take me home…. Ooh!  There’s one!” 

And no, I don’t believe they’re referring to these Strangers, Perfect though they might be… 

Back to Video #1, Exhibit C (for Clusterfuck).  That cabbie?  He’s about as ethnic as pledge day at Auburn University, kid.  Just sayin’.  Also, I have a hard time finding a cabbie that will let me smoke a cigarette in his precious, shit-reeking auto, much less one who is going to cheefully jam with me to ancient rap stylings.  Finally, who ARE those kids?!  18-year-old hipsters are now big fans of Biz Markie?!  Where the fuck all have I been?  Oh, nevermind.  I’ve been here.   

Anyway.  Trip to NYC was divine.  I made a spectacular fool of myself at Karaoke, but at least I did it with friends.  I also captured pictures of the sites: a naked man in a deli, an accordian player wearing a Boba Fett helmet, the menu from a German place honestly named “Lederhosen” that featured “Delicious German Pickle” as a real item.  And yes, while there was certainly drinking, at least I didn’t lay down in public this time.  I don’t think… 

But then, who knows?!

Cue the Music…

You kick me and I cut you

… and do a little kick line at least in your head, because Sorcia is heading off to New York City.  I am going forthwith to see my brother and two of my very best friends, and I will not be back until Sunday.  At which time, I will likely have more horrifying stories about myself lying down in card shops and slamming innocent girls in the boobage with beach umbrellas. 

So stay strong, loyal readers.  I’ll be back soon, just as soon as the Sass Takes Manhattan!

Baby Makes a Boom Boom

Kimmy: Pregnant AND classy!

I just drove a 9-hour trip home from FL with the following in my truck:  A diaper Genie (no, there is not a magic lamp included — believe me, I asked), half a homemade pound-cake (love/thanks to mom), a wildly pregnant* best friend, Publix chicken drumettes (that poor Lizzy-the-wonder-dog spent some serious time in trying to track down after I buried them under a pile of luggage and a small statue), approximately 10,000 baby outfits**, a Transformers bag that was bafflingly used to present a baby present in, Pee-Pee Teepees, 8 lbs of food forced upon us by my ever-worrying mother, a large knife (in the mommy-to-be’s purse, to fucking cut anyone who messed with us, I assume) and a Colt .45 GUN.  That’s when you know when you’re travelling in the South — when you are carrying equal amounts of Food, Baby Things and WEAPONRY. 

Other ways to tell you’re making a Southern road trip?  The guy who serves you at Taco Bell will freak the fuck out*** when your order comes to $16.66 — loudly proclaiming: “Lordy!  I just rang up the devil’s number!”  And who was still bemoaning his poor luck with the Prince of Darkness when we left, Apocalyptic Food in hand, 15 minutes later.  Because, you know, here, the cash registers will fucking eat your soul.

Also, you just might make the poor decision to stop for gas and a restroom.  You are, after all, travelling with a heavily pregnant woman (who, for the record, only WANTED to stop 3 times the whole trip…. wonder why…).  But when you follow the blue, State-placed exit sign that clearly reads, “FOOD GAS AHEAD” you are instead suddenly plummeted into a dark place of banjos, despair and a ramshackle bait shop that sold its last tank of gas in 19-dickity-2.  Mom-to-Be was sure there would be a crusty old hobo just standing in a field, all a’ready for a fresh raping, holding a gas can and a cardboard sign, “Gas!” 

Besides the near-misses with both Lucifer and a good old-fashioned hate fucking, though, the baby shower itself was perfectly nice.  I always enjoy staying at my folks’ house, and there was a really good moment there when it was Friday night, 88 degrees, and all I had to do was sit in the pool, wait for sunset and drink my peach vodka soda.  Whatever else I may loathe about the Sunshine State, there will always be the good points, too, I grudgingly admit. 

 

* The little bastard has already managed to kick me.  While I am rather honored that I’m one of the first people he’s made physical contact with, I still can’t wait to get him back.  Perhaps I will do this by coming up with an effiminate nickname? Or maybe I’ll just let him eat whatever the dogs drop inevitably into his crib… 

** Given to us by family members who informed poor Kimmy that a) her dogs will eat her baby, b) circumsicion is not only mandatory, but will be inflicted per force if she does not give up her hippy-ass ideas of leaving the baby’s innocent wee foreskin the hell alone and c) that she should probably start dressing better if she doesn’t want her husband to leave her.  Yes.  I know — Kimmy SHOULD totally have her own blog. 

***  No, weirdly, he did not freak out that we ordered almost $17 worth of Taco Bell, which was FUCKING DELICIOUS, by the way.

South Carolina on My Camera

Off I went this past weekend to our neighbor to the South, that “other” Carolina, to visit Kimmy.  She’s all pregnant and shit, so instead of spending our time smoking crack and jumping on a trampoline, we opted for a more sedate outing — we went to Gaffney, SC. 

What’s in Gaffney, you ask?  Oh-ho!  There are three things of wild importance in Gaffney: An outlet mall, a Publix (I shit you not, Floridians who know about the awesomeness of Publix) and…

Seriously?

The World’s Largest Ass in the Sky. 

Er, Peach. Largest Peach in the Sky.

The peach is clearly amazing and hilarious on its own.  No additionaly explanation is needed.  But why is Publix the bomb fucking diggity, you ask?  Well, it’s not because there are old men in the beer aisle exploding 6-packs of Miller Light, though that was awesome.  Nor is it even because we got accosted by an over-enthusiastic (read: eating speed) Cuban man who nearly beat us with a Cuban sandwich from his restaurant.  No, Publix’s true glory lives on in their fried chicken drumettes: 

I'll tell you when, BITCH

This is as full as you can get a Publix box of drumettes.  As Kimmy’s husband said pleasantly, when the deli girl asked him “how many” — “I’ll tell you when.”  The box isn’t full until it challenges the laws of physics, kids.

The Outlet mall is fun because of both the people-watching and the cheap, cheap mall-good that can be gotten.  Also, there is an M&M vending machine every 5 paces.  Of course, occasionally you come across the absolutely inexplicable. 

Buffalo Bill's Childhood

Contest, loyal readers!  What the FUCK is it?!  Is it a plaything?  If so, for what kind of demented sociopathic baby?  Were the other kids too cruel on the playground when baby tried making them put the lotion on?  That’s ok, Baby cobbled this out of the rended scraps of the other childrens’ clothing and now finds great satisfaction in listening to its “voices”…

Why is it blue?

Is it a Native American artifact?  Created from plague blankets and marketed to yuppies as the ultimate Indian revenge?  Who knows!  Who cares!  It was on sale!*

Speaking of sale, can’t believe that more mothers don’t want to see their kids in this:

He doesn't look enraged

“Don’t make the baby mad!  You won’t like him mad!!!”

I tried to get Kimmy to buy this as the baby’s homecoming-from-hospital outfit, for she had something else in mind.  You know, something less INSANE. 

The trip started off well, seeing as how I got trapped behind an asshat in a sports car whose plate read, “MR 2 NUTS”:

Trust me

I mean, was the plate a congratulatory gift upon the removal or addition of a nut?  Are we really discussing a different kind of nuts?  Who advertises themselves this way?!  Another mystery.          

As always, an adventure in Southern Living.  At least this time we weren’t accosted by the plastic remains of the unborn.  That’s something.   

 

*  Yes, that’s Kimmy’s hand curled into an impotent fist, ready to sucker punch the Blue Nightmare back into our darkest dreams if it lunges at us suddenly.

Flying By the Seat of My Pants

My pal Kimmy (of fetus fame) is knocked up — as I keep telling people, she’s she first one of my close friends to get pregnant on purpose.  Cause, you know, there is a difference.  We’re super excited: Kimmy because she gets to be a mother and Me because I get to watch her be a mother and live vicariously while actually avoiding any changing of diapers.  On the downside, Kimmy’s knocked-uppedness has induced many of our family and friends to start asking Steve and myself if we’re “trying” — a euphemism for non-stop Breed Fucking, I guess.  I sweetly tell these people that we’re “practicing” instead of “trying”.  Hey, practice makes perfect.  We’re the Michael Phelps of this kind of practice, let me tell you.  Anyway, because I love to party at the expense of the unborn, me and my mother are hosting Kimmy’s birthing shower in the Spring, in Orlando. 

And because I have nothing better to do until school starts than get worked up about a party that’s 3 months away, just typing away at my computer in Tiny Tim gloves (because my office is the coldest room in the house, either because of all the communing with the devil that I do or because my husband is an evil genius and assigned me this frozen hell knowing about the poor insulation):

Please Sir, Can I Have Some More?

Because of this aforementioned lack of life, I have been planning travel arrangement to Orlando.  At first I thought about flying, figuring that the shortest trip is the best when you’re tooling around with a pregnant person.  But then I recalled that I have appalling luck when it comes to flying. 

There was a trip to NY where I was generously given a hefty dose of Soma (isn’t that the drug from Brave New World, btw?!) by some twitchy frat guys who seriously underestimated my capacity for handling drugs and alcohol since I landed, albeit a bit elated, without getting my mouth anywhere near their junk, much to their chagrin and “wasted” Soma. 

Then I tried to fly with my mother up to Rhode Island.  She’s claustrophobic, so while she likes the flying part of air travel, the part where they close the doors and don’t let you out?  You know, to keep you from plummeting to your own fool death?  Yeah, that grinds her gears.  She was sketchy about getting prescription drugs, instead opting for about 12 margaritas as the way to go towards coping with this disorder (yes, she swapped claustrophobia for alcoholism, for those of you keeping track).  Now, the flight left at 9 AM, so that means Mom was TANKED at 7 AM, terrifying everyone from the ticket agent to the security staff (this was pre-9/11; now I imagine she’d be arrested and anally probed) to the waitress at the airport’s TGIF who was insane enough to bring my mother yet ANOTHER cocktail, one she promptly spilled all over us in an attempt to drunkenly pour it into her travel thermos.  As if it weren’t enough to have her raving about the pleasant smell in the ladies’ room and informing strangers that she could not feel her fingertips, she then decided that it was a good time to begin a boisterous sing-a-long post-take-off with a rousing version of Margaritaville. 

She was the only one singing. 

She did not know the words. 

My father and I, mom’s designated “handlers,” spent the flight enduring hate-looks, knife threats and listening to my mother loudly warble morosely for her ”lost jigger saw” — which was how she translated the line, “lost shaker of salt.” 

There have been the many trips to Vegas, enduring all kinds of insanity, from the kid who got airsick next to us, and who had to have Steve hold a KFC bucket outwards in disgust that he then filled to the brim with vomit (we couldn’t find a single goddamn airsickness bag); the perv-breathing social retard who methodically popped his zits and then licked his fucking fingers; the lady in line who held up a flight because she claimed she was on oxygen and demanded a tank of it.  It turned out that she’d just thought the oxygen was a) a fun way to fly and b) a shortcut in line.  It proved to be neither.  There was also a lady I sat next to who allowed me to feed her dog french fries and who then had the most debilitating gas that we both nearly died of asphyxiation (the dog, not the lady… I think). 

Perhaps for Kimmy’s sake, and the sake of her floating fetus, we might should just drive. 

But then, maybe it’s just me.  Perhaps I am a magnet for poor air travel experiences.  What about ya’ll?  Any horror stories?