Monday, June 25, 2012

Arabian Nights, in a nutshell

I just read the last page of "Arabian Nights." I mean to say I read all of the preceding pages, too- not just the last page. But, hear me now: that story is crazy-town. I mean totally nuts. I'll try to summarize it for you now, because I'm that kind of stand-up gal.

There are two brothers, both kings, who live in different kingdoms. The older one sends word to the younger one that he'd like to see him. "Bring all your stuff and travel on over this way, bro'!" he says. Essentially. Delighted, the younger brother packs his stuff and heads out with a group of people, leaving his wife at home.

Oops! He forgets something at home, so he turns around and goes back in his castle to get it. I can't remember what it was, but he felt he needed it. Lo! (The word "lo!" appears a lot and I like that.) Lo! The king finds his wife in bed with a man. A black man! Lo! Lo! And it wasn't really a bed. It was like a carpet on the floor or something. Seems like a king could have a real bed, but okay.

So the king is all super-pissed and super-shocked seeing his wife and what I imagine to be some kind of chiseled LeVar Burton- not because I'm really wanting to see LeVar Burton gettin' it on with some white lady, but because I could picture him in that role. Maybe it's growing up with Roots and much later Reading Rainbow. And Star Trek Next Generation. So, it is possible. Anyway, the king sees LeVar and his pasty lady going to town and with one swoop of his sword, he cuts them in four pieces. FOUR PIECES! That was some swishy-swirly swift cutting, there, king. Lo!

So, the king goes back outside and says nothing of what he saw or did. He just hops back on the horse, or whatever, and takes off for his brother's house. They get there in three days, because everything happens in threes. Brothers hug. Things seem cool. But the older brother notices his younger brother is all sickly like. Probably because he just sliced some people in fours, but he keeps that to himself. Younger brother just wants to kind of chill out in his room and that's what he does, declining an opportunity to go hunting with his older brother.

While the older king-brother is out hunting, the younger brother looks out his bedroom window and sees the older king-brother's wife walking outside with 20 of her attendant ladies. They go to a fountain and all start taking their clothes of and the younger king is like, Lo! But then he notices ten of them are actually dudes disguised as lady-attendants. Lo! Lo! The ten real ladies and the ten dudes disguised as ladies get it on. Lest you worry about the wife of the king, she also gets it on by yelling some kind of whooping call into the air and Lo! Another chiseled black man come scampering down from a tree and hops right on her. Everybody goes to town for a bit and then the process reverses itself. Chiseled black man runs up the tree, ten dudes re-disguise themselves as ladies, ten ladies get their clothes back on, and the queen does the same. All go back inside.

Well. You can imagine that the younger king was at a loss for words, having just witnessed this. It did put things into perspective, though. He suddenly didn't feel so badly about his own situation and decided to keep what he saw to himself.

Older king-brother returned from hunting and found his younger brother suddenly in good spirits. The color was returned to his face and at dinner, he ate a shit-ton of food. The older king was all, "What's up with you? How'd you get better all of a sudden?" And the younger one was all, "Oh, man...don't ask me that. Ask me anything but that." So the king asks again and they go back and forth in this way for awhile. It's crazy talk.

Finally the younger king says what he saw, and let me tell you, the older king goes nuts. He kills them all. Lo!

The two kings, deciding that all women are sneaky whores, take off for the forest with the plan of never returning. "We don't need no sneaky whores!" And certainly there aren't any in the forest. Or are there?...

They get to the forest and find there some big ol' monster thing that's like as big as the sky. It's huge. And ugly. And mean. It's called an "Ifrit" and it's supernatural and could kick your ass, big-time. So, this Ifrit has a coffin with it and the coffin's all nailed shut. When it opens it up, a beautiful lady comes out of it. Man, oh, man is she a knock-out. Turns out this Ifrit stole her on her wedding night before her husband could do his thing with her. The Ifrit wanted to be the only man to make the sweet, sweet love to the lady. Ever. Ever, ever, ever.

So the Ifrit takes the lady out, but he gets really sleepy and falls asleep on her lap. Not sure how, what with his giant sky-sized head and all, but okay.

The lady catches sight of the two kings and is all, "HEY! HEY YOU TWO! Come down here and have some fast-sex with me while this Ifrit is sleeping, or I'll wake him up and make him kill you!"

Say what? Do what? You want us to....what?

They weren't so into the idea. In fact, they were terrified, but she persisted. So, they scampered down the hill where they were perched and proceeded to argue about who was going to go first. "I'll only do it if you do it first!" one king says to the other. "No way, man. I'm not going first. You do it." This goes on for some time and the lady gets really pissy-like.

"Look! Commence with the love-making now or I'm waking him up! I swear to Allah!" So one king, I can't remember which one, quickly goes to town. Then the other one does. This all happens in like a sentence or two, so don't go looking for anything spicy.

The lady's all "Yeah, so he thinks I'm all pure and only do it with him. Lo! This is how I get back at him. Secretly!" Daaaang. 

Well, this pretty much sealed the belief that all ladies are sneaky whores, and they can't get away from them no matter how hard they try. So, back to their castles they go! And, they have a pretty smart plan: One king will take a virgin bride, do his business that night, and then kill her the next morning, only to get a new virgin bride that day. See? No more lady-trouble!

But, lo! In due time all the virgins have been done-it to and killed, except two sisters. And their dad was all, "Oh, no! Uh-uh. No way. You girls are NOT going to go get made love to and killed the next morning. No you are not!" And he tells them some story about a dude who understands what animals say and it's a long story and it ends up with the husband beating the tar out of his lady in a closet. "See? That's what I'll do to you if you go to the king! Ah-hah!"

But, lo! These ladies were defiant and a little on the awesome side, if you ask me. And they had a plan. One would marry the king, and the other would show up at bed-time all like, "Hey, if you're going to kill my sister tomorrow morning, could I visit?" And the king would be all like, "Sure." And the sister would go, "So, my sister [her name's Sheherezade, by the way, which is one sweet name, if you ask me] is so good at telling stories. Could she tell one, please?" And the king would be all like, "Okay." And the sister started telling some crazy-ass story that went on and on but it was fun to listen to. But, lo! She didn't finish it by morning, so the king had no choice but to say, "Damn it. Okay. Here's what we'll do. I'll keep you alive until tomorrow so I can hear the rest of the story." The story-telling sister was like the pretty lady Paul Harvey of the Arab world.

This went on for 1,001 nights. Lo! I'm only on night three, but let me tell you, this is some good and crazy story-telling. One dude married his cousin and she couldn't have his baby, so he got some concubine lady to do it. The cousin-wife was all "Bitch!" and she turned the lady and the son into a cow and a calf. Then she sold them to the husband and had him butcher the cow. His own wife! Stone-cold crazy!

There are more Ifrits and deals being made and sneaky whore-ladies galore. I couldn't make this stuff up.

Okay, I could. But I didn't.

If you are looking for a 500+ page summer read 1) you have too much time on your hands, 2) you've come to the wrong place, because this is a blog and there are not 500 pages here, and 3) I'd recommend reading The Thousand and One Nights. I'm reading the 1850 translation by Sir Richard Burton. But not this one:

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Singing The Headlines

Ohhhhhh, I don't wanna cook no meth in my purse.
I don't wanna cook no meth.
But if I did, using a soda caaaaaaaaaan,
I wouldn't do it at Wal-Mart.

Ohhhhhh, I don't wanna get busted for cookin meth twice.
I don't wanna get busted twice.
If I can't cook at Wal-Mart, maybe I can try this gas staaaaaaaation!
Oh, well. That didn't work out so well.

Ohhhhh, I don't wanna get stuck to a toilet seat.
I don't wanna get glued to a seat.
But if I sat down on a super-glued seeeeeeat,
I'd make sure it wasn't at Wal-Mart. (in Kentucky!)

Ohhhhh, I don't wanna harass my neighbors all day.
I don't wanna make them cry.
But if I put nails in the street, came at them with a crowbar, called their autistic son a retard, gave them the finger, and dump bleach on their caaaaaaaars,
Well, just let me do my thing.

Ohhhhh, I don't wanna leave my hand-made business cards for prostitution on some windshields,
I don't wanna prostitute myself at all.
But if I did, and I worked for foxy lady's private escooooooorts,
I wouldn't want to get busted at Home Depot.

Ohhhh, I don't wanna invent shoes that look like slave shackles.      
I don't wanna sell shackle-shooooooes.
But if I did-
that's just stupid. Wtf?

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Out for Revenge...Any Suggestions?

A friend of mine recently posted the following on facebook:

So, my staff TPed my office and I am out for revenge...any suggestions? 

As it turns out, I do have suggestions. I like to think of myself as a general problem-solver, for what it's worth, and I'm freely giving of my ideas. Some may call it a gift. Below I offer my friend five ways to let her toilet paper-wielding office mates know she'll have the last laugh around these parts.

1. Show up drunk. Covered in blood. And smelling of garlic.

This was my first suggestion, and as I already posted it on facebook as a response to your plea, you could very well be tossing back lunchtime martinis while rubbing a garlic clove on your face with one hand and the blood of neighborhood rabbits and squirrels on your shirt with the other hand. If that's the case, the rest of my suggestions will have to be stored away for another time, which is just fine. There is no expiration date on revenge. 

With this plan, your office buddies will take notice immediately, of not for the way you stagger to your desk than for the potent smell of garlic. And maybe the sight of questionable blood. "Is that Mary? What's wrong with- what in God's name? What's on her- Oh, sweet Jesus!" Someone will reach across and grip the arm of someone else. A third party will slowly, without taking their eyes off you, call for security. A fourth worker, that one guy, there's always that one guy in the office, will vomit into his trash receptacle. 

Who's got the upper hand now, huh? Ha! TPers=0. Drunk, garlicky, bloodstained you=WIN!

2. Put their hands in a bowl of warm water and wait for them to pee. If they don't, do it yourself.

I remember this prank as a pre-teen. Sarah Klasskin's house, I think. It was a classic girls' sleepover, with everyone afraid of being the last to go to sleep, lest their hand be placed in a bowl of warm water, causing them to relax their little bladder into a state of pee-on-the-couch-ness. I don't think it ever really worked, but that's not to deter you from trying it at work. 

Perhaps look in the office fridge for some tupperware. Remove the sandwich or deviled eggs or whatnot and fill the container with warm water. Walk it over to your office mate's desk.
"Here," you can say, "I got you a little something to relax your hands, what with you typing on the computer all day and all that talk about carpal tunnel." Gently lift up their hand and place it the container of warm water. Stifle your giggles.

"Wait for it......" you can say. "Wait for it....." Your office mate may sit there, hand it water, with a confused look on his or her face. Don't panic. If they don't pee right then and there on their office chair, go to plan B. Let go of your own bladder. Yes, it will feel funny at first, but this is what pranks are all about, right? The funny-factor? Here you can let your morning latte run down your legs to the office carpet with the unmistakable pitter-patter not heard since maybe kindergarten. "Ha!" you can yell. "Look what you made me do!" 

Office laughs will be all around. Again, you'll be on top. WIN!

3.  Quit. And then show up like a month or two later and say "JUST KIDDING!" to your boss and the person they hired to replace you.

This will be hilarious. Oh, how they'll admire you for your timing. Put your things on the desk that was once (and still is) yours and sit right back down to do your job. Perhaps they will have deleted your work email account. Don't worry. That's just them trying to one-up your prank. Just start typing away as if you were on email. They won't know. Don't flinch.

"Could someone go fetch me a cup of coffee? I sure have a lot of catching up to do!" This is what you can say to anyone listening. Which will be everyone. Because they'll be standing there in awe of your ability to pull a good prank. 


4. Go to your bosses house and hide in various places, yelling "SURPRISE!" when he or his wife finds you

Tuck yourself in their bed at night and when they wake up..."SURPRISE!" Duck down in the shower under a towel or two and in the morning when they pull the shower curtain back..."SURPRISE!" Squeeze yourself into the back seat of their car and when they get in with the morning paper and their briefcases..."SURPRISE!" Hide the baby somewhere safe, like a closet, and get into the baby's crib. Make cry noises over the monitor and when one of them comes in, sleepy-eyed, in the middle of the night and looks over at your full-grown face..."SURPRISE!"

Now, this one's a little trickier, because in an attempt to match your skills at pranking, they may prank you back by calling the police on you. Don't be thrown off. Those probably aren't even real police officers. They're just friends in uniforms to try to out-prank you. Here's what you do: After the "SURPRISE!" you'll just need to beat a quick retreat and then make yourself scarce until the next day's surprise. You may want to consider calling in sick this particular week.

Man, oh man, will everyone end up getting a big laugh out of this one. WIN!

5. Take your boss's computer and throw it out the window. 

That's not even the prank part. Yes, that will get you the initial gasp and "WHAT DID YOU DO?" part that's all part of pranking. But what you want to do next is say, "Just kidding! I'd never do that. I put your real computer in this box." And then hand him a computer box...wait for it...full of his family photo albums which you swiped while playing "SURPRISE" only you drew little mustaches on every single face in the albums! If you've ever seen anything about pranking, you'll know that drawing a mustache on a picture of someone really gets everyone roaring with laughter. 

That, my friend, is how you prank someone! YOU WIN AGAIN!

Saturday, June 2, 2012

How I Made an Ass of Myself, Part II

About a year ago, I wrote about how I made an ass of myself while buying a new cell phone. Perhaps that's what happens when I'm out of my technology comfort zone. I don't know. Put me in the middle of an Apple store or a Sprint store with the intent to purchase and I get kind of nervous and a little amped up. Before I know it, I'm making an ass of myself.

Click here to see how I did this a year ago.

Yesterday I turned in my work computer to the administration building. Actually, it was a loaner, since (as I put it) my laptop "got thirsty and decided to have a little drink of coffee." Turns out coffee speeds people up but slows computers down. To a stop, actually.

So this loaner had my everything on it. Files, pictures, music, and access to the outside world- beyond actually going outside and greeting people face-to-face like they did in olden-timey days. My laptop was my lifeline to all things human. From its glowy screen I learned about people ingesting "bath salts" and chewing other people's faces off. I learned that Justin Bieber went off stage and ran into a big piece of glass, only to go back on stage again to perform more musical Bieberisms and suffer a concussion after the concert. I learned that a Star Trek dude's ashes went up in space and that one of my friends likes Ikea. Seven like Spotify. Three like Moby. I feel so learned with my laptop connecting me to the world. Learn-ed.

And here I found myself being let into a dark room full of computer carcasses and placing my laptop on top of a pile of others. It was after-hours and I was told to "just put it over here- someone will get to it on Monday." Get to it? Some of the laptops' slow-blinking hearts were still beating. Run away, little ones! I wanted to yell. They're coming for you on Monday! Wiping you clean! You'll have no idea who you even were. It occurred to my that I may be over-dramatizing this handing in of my laptop a bit. But it was my laptop. Wasn't it?

No. Actually it belongs to the district and isn't even meant for my personal use. Lesson planning and emailing parents is one thing. Staying up till the wee hours of the morning refreshing my Facebook page in the hopes that someone, anyone, would post something as my eyes glaze over and my head keeps trying to nod itself to sleep is another.

So, there it went. On the pile.

Like someone who puts a dog down and rushes straight for the Humane Society for another, I made impressive time driving from the administrative building to a nearby Apple store.


I don't know if you've ever been in an Apple store, but it's a little creepy. Everything seems to glow from underneath and it feels a little like everything and everyone in there could be controlled by HAL. If nerds mated with Starbucks Baristas, you'd get Apple store employees. A little hip. A little nerdy. Pudgy bearded W.O.W. guy, sassy pretty-faced gay guy, and multi-colored dreadlocks girl all mingle here as employees of the big Apple. Their casual blue polos say "Hey, I'm approachable. I could sell you a Mac or retrieve your golf balls for you." I'm kind of down with that.

When I walk in I see about 25 employees in there. No shit. Some are with customers, hovering over glowing tables and tapping away at keyboards. Others are stationed at an area to help set up new purchases. Then there are those standing in twos and threes, looking like awkward teens at a school dance waiting for someone to ask them to the floor. I feel an overwhelming sense of "Who do I choose?"

I don't have to think for long, as bearded W.O.W. guy chooses me.

"Can I help you?" His eyes look reddish and glassy. I wonder what Apple's drug testing policy is. As long as the guy can sell me a laptop, I really don't care.

"Uhhhhh," I say, with shifty eyes and a nervous disposition for no reason at all. "I need a laptop. I don't have one right now. I mean, I had to give mine back to my school. Not that I was doing anything bad with it or anything. I mean, I know some people look at nasty stuff on their computers and then their company finds out and then they have to give it back. Yeah, that's not why I had to. I'm leaving. To teach. In Korea. I'm laptopless." It's a little strange that with everything that flew out of my mouth just then I'm most concerned that he'll think I said the word "topless" and picture me as such.

"Oooookay." That's what the cell phone guy said a year ago. "Ooookay." Like, handle this customer with care. She's liable to go cuckoo right here in the store. "Did you know what you want?"

I bring my hands up and start typing away. Like air drumming or air guitar. Only this was air typing. "Like this. Something I can go like this with."

"You want a laptop?"


"Well...let's start over here."


"The MacBook Pro is our most popular. It can do everything that...Are you okay?"

Until he said something, I didn't realize I had brought my fingers up to my mouth and was making a little motion almost like my lips were itchy and each finger was independently and quickly scratching them. It could also look like I'm trying to tame a very unruly harmonica. I do this when I'm nervous or stressed.

"Oh. Me? Yeah. I'm just...did I tell you I'm without a laptop right now?"

"Yes." He looks at me with a little bit of pity. I think it's pity. It could be fear. "We'll get you one here in a bit. You'll have one again real soon."

"It's just...I haven't been without one for 8 years."

"I know. We'll get one for you here in a bit. It's okay."

"It's okay," I try to soothe myself. More lip scratching.

"It's okay," he says. "Why don't you come over here and look at this one. It's super-light."

Off we go to the MacBook Air table. Now I switch from anxiety to excitement.

"Yes! I will take one of these!"

" you want to know more about-"

"This one!" I've positioned myself above one of them and am mock-typing away. Clickity-clickity-clickity. "I'm sending email!" (I'm not really.) Clickity-clickity. "Now I'm on Facebook!" (I'm not really.) Clickity-clickity. "Look! I'm checking the weather!" (Not really.)

"Okay, there. Looks like you like the MacBook Air."

"Yep. I'll take it."

"Now, do you want an 11 inch or 13 inch screen?"

Here you can insert the sound of a needle being dragged across a record, and the music suddenly stops playing.

"Wait...what? Which one? Oh, there's two. I don't know. Which one do I want?"

He shrugs his shoulders.

"Does it really matter? This one's bigger, but...wait. Will I be bummed out if I get the smaller one? I mean, will I wish later that I got the bigger one? AH! This one has a tiny google bar! It's tiny! Oh, no! Will the tiny google bar bother me? It might. Wait...maybe it doesn't matter. Will it matter? Will it bum me out? Wait..." I go on like this for a bit, not really pausing enough for W.O.W. to say anything. He continues to shrug his shoulders with each question I ask.  I settle on the larger screen.


"How much is this going to be. WAIT! Don't tell me! WAIT! I guess I have to know. Okay. Okay." I take a few deep breaths. "Tell me." I scrunch my face up like I'm about to get punched. I writhe around a bit. People are looking. I am clasping at my gut. I am sure, looking back on it, that it may have appeared I was going into labor or about to have a horrible accident right there in the middle of the store.

He tells me the price.

"Oh, sweet Jesus! Oh, fuck! REALLY? That's a lot! Oh, shit! Okay. Okay. It's okay. I just have to sell my car. Like THIS WEEKEND! Want to buy my car? For real. I'm selling my car."

He does not want to buy my car. Nor do the people in the store within earshot. I know. I asked them. "Okay. Fine. Here. Take this." I hand over my credit card and then emit a series of hurt-animal whimpers. "Oh, man......ohhhhh, man......ohhhhhh, man...." I mumble as he swipes the card. Then I start hop-dancing. This, too, I do when a little nervous. It looks a little like a cheerleader trying to psyche herself into a cheer, but I never actually get to the cheering part.

"There we go," W.O.W. says. "Now let me just go in the back and then take you over to [I was really hoping to get the hot technician guy, but I was led to a guy who was the human equivalent of Teddy Ruxpin] so he can get you all set up.


W.O.W. brings out a thin, sleek box wrapped in clear plastic and sets it on the table in front of Teddy Ruxpin. Teddy rips a tiny bit of the plastic and asks me to remove the rest. "Are you okay?" he asks. I realize that I'm still whimpering.

"Me? Oh. Yes. It's just that...I'm trying to pretend I didn't just spend a lot of money that I don't have. Let's pretend that's a loaf of bread."

"But it's not a loaf of bread. It's a laptop."

"Yeah. But let's just pretend it's a loaf of bread and that you're just going to slice it up for me."

"You can't slice up a laptop."

"Well, that's good. Because that's not a laptop. That's a loaf of bread."


I remove the plastic. "Open the box by lifting the top," he says. This is weird. Is he not allowed to touch it, or is this supposed to be some magical moment created by Apple? I open the box. Inside is my silver laptop, also covered in plastic, snuggled into some black foam. "Now remove the plastic by-"

I am pawing at the plastic in a frantic way because I like the sound it makes and I can't quite seem how to get it out of there.

"-No. Just lift this tab he-"

Still frantically pawing. Squeeking sounds are being made. People look from several directions.

"Right here! The tab right here! Pull this tab!" Ruxpin shout-whispers.

"Oh. Okay. I got it." I remove the plastic.

"Now, lift up the lid."

"It's like we're doing a little surgery. If you ask me for a scalpel, I'm going to freak out a bit. Doctor."

He might of smiled. I can't tell. I was pawing at the plastic that I took off of the laptop. Plastic that smelled like....

And here I began to sniff everything in the box. The keyboard. The screen. The foam. The computer cord. "And this one smells like a new Barbie! And this one smells a little like some crayons. And this one smells like..." Maybe it was at this time that the other blue-shirted Apple hipster-nerds began to feel a bit of pity and/or concern for Teddy Ruxpin. Maybe it was before.

Either way, we went on in this way transferring files and setting things up for about an hour. I might have danced a bit to some Ace of Base. I might have smelled some of the items on the accessory wall. I might have asked a few more people if they were interested in buying my car. 

I don't know. I was excited! A new laptop! And my connection to the world was not severed! And I was nervous. I just dropped a butt-load of money that I'm not too entirely sure I have for something that ten years ago I was perfectly fine without.

I mean, I don't need a laptop. I don't need it like I need food, air, or water. But here I am, on a Friday night, with the option of connecting with real live people for, say, a movie or dinner. And I prefer to be in my house, with my dog curled up next to me on the couch, and my fingers clicking away on the keyboard of my new MacBook Air, so I can communicate with you. The collective you. The "out there somewhere" you. And when I've had enough, instead of waiting for the evening to be over and to putting my key in the ignition and make the drive home, I will type the last word of the last sentence, followed by a period more than likely, and turn off my connection to the world.



Sunday, May 27, 2012

A Little Conversation with The Vapors

I've got your picture
Oddly enough, someone did steal my middle school picture from a little collage of photos in my classroom. Is that the one you're talking about? Or, wait...if it's that really embarrassing one that somehow makes me look super-busty and was taken by a family that I nannied for, I'm going to be really mad. And embarrassed all over again.
Of me and you
Oh, whew. Wait a second...when did we meet?
You wrote "I love you"
Now you're just making stuff up.
I love you too
Aw...that's swee- wait! You don't even know me!
I sit there staring and there's nothing else to do 
I never have nothing to do. Even in a room alone, I like to inspect my freckles. Perhaps give that a try?

Oh it's in color
Yeah, we've got color photography now, buddy. *gives look like "You're a dummy.*
Your hair is brown
Thanks. Thanks a lot. Now what secret of yours would you like me to expose?
Your eyes are hazel
I'd complain to your photo people about the developing job. My eyes are actually bluish-green.
And soft as clouds
Eyes aren't soft. They're actually like a water balloon SUPER full of water. Not like a grape, as I had originally thought. I learned that when Uncle Jimmy punctured his eye with a drill bit and water went all over his face.
I often kiss you when there's no one else around 
Like, when I'm sleeping, you mean? Or like you kiss my picture? I get if it's the busty one, but if you're kissing my middle school picture, we have a couple of problems here. As a tween, I kissed my poster of Adam Ant with my lips coated in my roll-on "kissing stick" and it made the poster get all color-bleedy and wrinkled. So, perhaps if this photo of me means anything to you, you'll want to steer clear of that kind of making out.

I've got your picture, Yeah, I heard you the first time. 
I've got your picture What, are you playing "keep away"?
I'd like a million of you over myself
Really think about what you're saying here.
I asked the doctor to take your picture
I'm sure that went over well.
So I can look at you from inside as well
Have you ever *seen* the inside of a lady? Don't get your hopes up.
You've got me turning up and turning down and turning in and turning 'round
I'm not doing jack, buddy. You're the one getting all revved up about my insides.

I'm turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
How do you figure?
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
I mean to say, what gives you that impression?
I'm turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
You know- any bit of evidence would be helpful here.
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
Yeah, and Matthew McConaughey thinks he's god's shirtless gift to the ladies, but thinking it doesn't necessarily make it so.

I've got your picture
Okay, so which picture is it that you've got again?
I've got your picture
You're a man of few details, I see.
I'd like a million of them over myself
If it's a million pictures of my inside lady parts that you're wanting all over yourself, I'd like to pronounce this conversation over.
I want the doctor to take your picture
I'm going eye doctor, here. Just so that I can keep the little bit of vomit that's trying to make its way up my throat down.
So I can look at you from inside as well
I wouldn't mind seeing a picture of the inside of my eye. Get doubles, please.
You've got me turning up and turning down and turning in and turning 'round
Here you go again. Taking no responsibility for yourself. Haven't you heard that a person can't *make* you do something you don't want to do. Unless they have a gun. Which I don't. I mean, I did. The last guy I dated gave me one as a Christmas gift, which was kind of odd. But I gave it back when we called it quits.

I'm turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
If you can watch this video with pure glee and delight, I might give you about 10% Japanese-turning points:

Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
If you actually order that kit and make the meal, I'll bump you up to 50% Japanese.
I'm turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
If you actually prepare AND eat the meal, you're on your way. I'm going to say 75% Japanese.
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
You didn't. I knew it. You're David Fenton. From England. Get over it.

No sex, no drugs, no wine, no women
No fun, no sin, no you, no wonder it's dark
I'd like to suggest a little thing called a "gratitude list." It goes a long way to get rid of this little victimy thing you've got going on here.
Everyone around me is a total stranger
I'm guessing if you're wearing a suit made of photos of lady inside parts, people aren't too keen on getting to know you. Just a thought.
Everyone avoids me like a cyclone ranger
See my previous comment.

That's why I'm turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
Because Japanese people will be less creeped out by this sort of thing? I'm a little offended.
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
Oh, I see. Well, you might have a point.
I'm turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so to think they might not mind the lady pics so much.
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so

Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
Okay. I'm really starting to get it now.
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
Yeah, um, I'm just going to grab this picture of myself right off your desk...
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
(Think so think so think so)
And kind of head out the door here. Good luck with your Japanese-turning, or whatever.
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so
Good luck with that.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

The Backstreet Boys and I Have a Conversation

Oh, I guess that includes me.
Rock your body!
Not sure what you mean exactly, but I'm gonna guess dancing. Which I enjoy. So, okay, I'm in.
Got my attention the first time, silly.
Rock your body right!
Quit being so critical. Everybody's got their own dance moves.
Backstreet's back, alright!  
Yeah. Alright. Jesus. Did you need to scream at me? And where'd you go in the first place?

Oh my God, we're back again  
From....? The Piggly Wiggly?
Brothers, sisters, everybody sing
I like the family feel you got going on here.
Gonna bring the flavor, show you how  
Just don't make it olive-flavored or anything with blue cheese, please.
Gotta question for you better answer now
Ooh! I'm good at this! Ready!

Am I original?
Um. No. Not really. There were a lot of boy bands before you.
Am I the only one?
Kind of just said that. Weren't you listening?
Am I sexual?
Definitely not.
Am I everything you need? Not at all.
You better rock your body now Oh, good. Back to dancing. I'm in.

Here I am!
Rock your body!
Still hope you mean dancing, because I'm bustin' out my best moves.
Still here...
Rock your body right!
There you go with the criticism again.
Backstreet's back, alright!
Man, you come and go a lot for a group that announces you're back again. You're like the cuckoo clocks of boy bands. Here! Gone! Here! Gone!

Now throw your hands up in the air
 Okay, fine. Like a line-dancing move or something?
Wave them around like you just don't care  
Feeling a little silly, but okay.
If you wanna party let me hear you yell
No, I'm totally fine on my couch right now, but thanks.
Cuz we got it goin' on again  
Um, I missed the part when you had it goin' on the first time.

Am I original?
This again? You are really insecure.
Am I the only one?
You're not even one of the ones.
Am I sexual?
No. No means no.
Am I everything you need? Nope.
You better rock your body now Or what? Are you threatening me, Backstreet?

You do realize I'm the only one here, don't you?
Rock your body
Fine. But only because I can't resist dancing.
Wow. You have thick skulls.
Rock your body right
I'm doing the running man! How much more could you want from me?!
Backstreet's back, alright!
So everybody, everywhere
That's a shit-load of people. You know that, don't you?
Don't be afraid, don't have no fear
Wait. I'm confused. Do you want me to "don't be afraid?" or to "don't have no fear?" 
Because the second one's a double-negative, which means you want me to have some fear.
I'm gonna tell the world, make you understand
Wait! Fine! Okay! I did it! I stole a bra from Famous Barr in Clayton in the 80s, but it was only because I wanted to appear cool to my older sister's friends!
As long as there'll be music, we'll be comin' back again
Oh, weren't about to share that? *gulp* Oops.

Oh. my. God. This again?
Rock your body!
I'm totally out of breath.
Everybody! What?
Rock your body right!
Nothing's ever good enough for you, backstreet.
Backstreet's back!
You didn't even go anywhere this time, numbnuts.
Rock your body!
I quit. You're pissing me off.
You're talking to yourself now, I'll have you know.
Rock your body right!
You'd make a horrible teacher. Or parent. Never have kids. 
Backstreet's back, alright!
Go away. 

Friday, May 25, 2012

I'm Not Gonna Lick On Your Contact Lens

I'm not gonna lick on your contact lens, your contact lens, your contact lens.
I'm not gonna lick on your contact lens, no matter how dusty it gets.

It's not my fault you don't have a tongue, have a tongue, have a tongue.
It's not my fault you don't have a tongue, how 'bout you take that up with your dog.

And who feeds a dog bacon from their mouth, from their mouth, from their mouth?
And who feeds a dog bacon from their mouth, while expecting to keep their tongue?

I guess you've never heard of a doggy dish, a doggy dish, a doggy dish.
I guess you've never heard of a doggy dish, or else you're some kind of creep.

Now gettin back to your contact lens, your contact lens, your contact lens-
Now gettin back to your contact lens, why don't you rinse it in the sink?

Oh. That's kind of hard to do without any hands, any hands, any hands.
That's kind of hard to do without any hands. I'm sorry I didn't see before.

But that's what you get for reachin' down the drain, down the drain, down the drain.
That's what you get for reachin' down the drain, when you've got the disposal on.

And by the way, and I hate to bring it up, bring it up, bring it up
I really, really hate to just bring it up, but take a look at your crotch.

Perhaps you need to buy some velcro pants, velcro pants, velcro pants.
Perhaps you need to invest in some velcro pants, cause your barn door's lettin' in some air.

You're acting like you can't hear me none, hear me none, hear me none.
You're ignoring me like you can't hear me none. DOES IT HELP YOU IF I SHOUT?!!!

Oh. I didn't notice you don't have ears, don't have ears, don't have ears.
I see now you've got two little nubbin'-like things, where your ears once were.

Well, it's not my fault that you took the dare, took the dare, took the dare.
I'm not the kind of person who makes a dare for someone to melt their ears.

Anyone knows ears aren't made of wax, made of wax, made of wax.
Just cause there's wax in 'em doesn't mean they'll melt. Man, you're some kind of dummy.

I'd love to stay here and chat all day, chat all day, chat all day.
I'd love to chat it up with you all of the day, but look, here comes my bus.

Good luck with your lens and your hands and ears, hands and ears, hands and ears.
I really hope your lens gets clean and you get some ears. Some ears that really work.

But here's a little hint for you free of charge, free of charge, free of charge.
Take this hint for free, I swear, you don't owe jack: Think before you act.   

Monday, April 16, 2012

(Half)Marathon Musings

I'm not really a runner like you think of when you think of real runners. I'm an accidental runner. I picked it up in my late 20s when I thought I wanted to be a cop. Cops run. I ran. I ran for about a mile and thought I would die. 10+ years later I'm no cop, but I do like to run. 

I'm not sure if all runners have neurotic pre-race thinking, or if it's just me. Either way, here's a bit of what went on in my head the night before and day of my most recent race. It starts with "the shirt"- the sporty shirt given to runners when we pick up our race materials. 


I should wash the shirt. I'll wear the shirt. And it should be clean. It should smell like Tide, not new shirt. Are other people going to be wearing the shirt? Maybe I shouldn't wear the shirt. What if a whole bunch of us are wearing the shirt and then someone shows up to cheer for me but can't tell me apart from the other thousands of people wearing the shirt? (Will thousands be wearing the shirt?) Maybe it's not cool to wear the shirt. Yeah. Last race I saw other people not wearing the shirt. They looked like better runners. Faster. They had cooler shirts. Like I-Don't-Care-About-The-Free-Shirt lookin' tanks and stuff. Their own shirt. I should wear my own shirt. A tank top, I guess. What if it's too cold for a tank top? A pull-over? I can tie it around my waist if I get hot. I won't want to run with a big ol' pullover around my waist. What am I thinking? The shirt seems warmer than a tank top. What if the shirt's too hot? Shit. I need to wash the shirt. I wonder if other people are washing their shirts. I can't wear the shirt. Should I wear the shirt?

Ok. No shirt. I'll wear this tank top. Now, what about shorts? Too cold for shorts? Maybe I'll wear these. They come down to my knees. I'll be too hot, won't I? Probably. Ok. Shorts. Shit. What if I have an accident? Shorts will hide nothing. Nothing. What about these shorts with a skirt thing over it? I saw some nuns wearing something like this in the ocean once. Will I look like a running nun? Do nuns run? Do they have accidents while running? I don't want to be a running, pooping nun. How is it that I'm too old to wear a mini-skirt, but I'll run in this? Which is essentially like a mini-skirt with shorts under it. Screw it. I'll wear them.

Did I eat enough carbs? I had a shitload of pasta yesterday. Did I poop? I didn't poop. Oh no. What if I poop on the run? People do that, don't they? They go, like, right there? While running? Oh please, God. Don't let me be one of those people. Should I take an immodium before I leave? I'll get all bloated. Are other people thinking about this right now? No. Probably not. They're probably pooping. Why aren't I pooping? I'm never going to poop. Except while I'm running. I really, really don't want to do that. Maybe I need to eat more.

I should make a playlist on my i-Pod. Yes. A playlist just for this run. Eh....I listen to that song too much. Eh....I don't really like that band anymore. Eh.....this one's too slow. That's a good one. Should it be later in the playlist? Or first? Later? First? Maybe I don't even want to listen to it. Delete it. it back on. How many songs do I have now? Two. Shit. I need almost 2-hours worth. Okay. Haunted When the Minutes Drag. Good first song. Then, right into some Radiohead. Yes. No. Slower. Andrew Bird into Radiohead. Wait. Maybe some old-school rap. No. Al Green? Shit. Wait. Hanson. Fuck. Why do I always sneak MmmBop into every playlist? It's just going to make me mad when I hear it. Okay. Just put some songs on there. Go. Do it. Hurry. You need to get up in like 6 hours. 


What the hell time is it? 4:30? This is stupid! Getting up early is stupid. Running is stupid. Getting picked up at 5:30 is stupid. Wait...maybe I have time to poop. I don't need to poop. Sweet Lord! Please make the poop happen before getting picked up! Wait! Oh no. What if I have to go on the way down there? Do I ask my ride to pull over? Has anyone ever asked him to pull over so they could go poop before? Probably not. How embarrassing. Oh, man. This is going to suck. Wait. Maybe I won't have to go! But if I don't, I'll probably have to go while I'm running. Do people wear diapers while running? Probably. I don't have any diapers. I'm not going to wear diapers. I'm loosing it. Get up. Take a shower. Now. Eat a banana. Eat some cereal.

Water bottle.
Money for parking.
Safety pins.

Okay. Let's go.


I need some of those compression socks. What are they for, anyway? That dude is wearing some. He looks fast. That chick has some on her arms. What the hell? Do I need those? Maybe I need those. My arms are going to rot off without those. Dang it. Poor arms.

Oh. Okay. We're kind of squishing in here. I see how it is. No problem. So sorry. That was your butt. Totally an accident. Believe me. Don't flatter yourself. How many people are wearing the shirt? I just made eyes with that dude. We both nodded. I think we were complimenting each other for not wearing the shirt.

My nose is nearly touching the neck hair sticking out of the back of the shirt in front of me. That's nasty. Where are the bathrooms? Do I have time to go? Do I have to go? I don't. Okay. I? I might. No....wait. Dang it. I don't have time. Everybody's bouncing around like they're on speed. Or is it cocaine? I can't remember. But this isn't right. It's like we're all barefoot on hot coals. Bouncy-bouncy-bouncy-arm-shaky. What's that arm shaky thing about, anyway? Should I shake my arms? I need some of those compression things. What the hell are they for? I need some.

Oh...More squished. Here we go. The announcer is getting all psyched up and there's a lot of cheering going on. Okay. I get it. Let's get going here.



Oh, for chrissake. We're like old people shuffling onto an elevator, here.

Bigger step.
Bigger step.

Here we go!


and....we're jogging.

This feels good.

Oh yeah. Here we go. Nice beat.
Dart around this guy. And this guy. And this lady.  (Holy shit. Is she really wearing a tutu?) And this lady. And this guy. Oh. Gum. I need gum.


Mile 1:
This is totally awesome. I forgot how great it is to run with a big crowd. Magical. We're alive. Like a big moving being.
Mile 3:
If this were a 5K, I'd be done about now. Keep going! Feels great. Follow that lady. She seems to have a good pace.
Mile 5:
Um. Wait a second. These hills are stupid steep. Okay. No problem. I can do it. Wait! I haven't even thought about pooping! I think this might be a poop free run! Thank you, Lord. Did someone just scream my name? Multiple someones? Wait. Is that? Sheri? And Erin? Holy shit. That's Stacee! Louise? Wave at them! Do it! Lift your arms, woman!
Mile 7:
It's been over an hour. I can do a lot in an hour. Really. Watch most of a movie. Take a nap. Drive to Illinois and back. And what have I been doing? Running. Just running. This is ridiculous.
Mile 9:
Oh, for crying out loud! We're all still running. What in God's name? We're idiots, that's what. "Run like a Kenyan!" that sign just said. You run like a Kenyan. You. And tie a rope to my waist and pull my butt to the finish line, will you? Who just yelled my name? Hey! It's Linda! That's awesome. Whoa. That just put some major pep in my step. Leap, lady. Big strides. You're gazellin' now.
Mile 11:
Okay. I'm ready for this to be over. I ate that nasty-ass Gu awhile back, shorted out my i-Pod when I dumped water all over it at the last water station, lost my pacer, and I'm pretty sure my sports bra is working like a nail file across my underboobs right now.
Mile 12:
Just....keep...going. Really. Don't be a sissy. The whole-marathoners aren't even 1/2 done yet. What do you have to complain about? Is that lady really passing out little Dixie cups of beer? I just licked my face. It's salty. Like a salt lick. A yummy salt lick. It's totally okay for me to lick my face for the last mile, isn't it? I'm going to.
Mile 13: line....
Seriously......does someone.....keep moving.....the finish line....back?......100 more

and across the finish line....I.....go.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Letters to My First Students

A charter school in North St. Louis City- since closed.
2001-2001 school year.

Dear Tremon,
Remember when you crawled under my desk and began eating crayons at a furious pace and then bit and scratched me while yelling "F***ing faggot!" over and over again? That was silly. I still have a crescent moon-shaped scar on my left hand from your fingernails or teeth.

Dear Tre'Sean,
You taught me that "pink is for pimps." I'm not sure what that really means, exactly, but you made it pretty clear during a lesson on about colors. You also accidentally spilled the beans about your daddy being a drug dealer. No wonder you were so angry all of the time.

Dear Sheron,
Remember when I got a police officer to come talk to the class, and upon his removal of his hat and jacket you yelled, "TAKE OF YOUR PANTS!" Yeah. Please don't ask police officers to take of their pants, honey.

Dear Nelson,
I hope you're still dropping to the ground in the middle of class, kicking your legs up in the air, and making dinosaur noises. I'm not sure what that was all about, but I kind of enjoyed it.

Dear twins Raymoni and Jaymoni-
I hope you now know what the word "irony" means, and I also hope that you finally learned how to rhyme.

Dear Latray,
One time I drove you home and you found my wedding album in the back seat of my car. I had been divorced for about a year. Looking through it, you paused and said, "I know what it feels like to be unsure." When I asked what you meant you said, "Well, you look unsure in this picture. And I know what that feels like. To be unsure." I was unsure in that picture. It struck me as the most profound thing I'd ever heard a kid say. Are you still that intuitive?

Dear Shawn,
I like how you used to get really mad at me and suddenly, almost uncontrollably and against your will, give me the finger. I hope you're not doing that in high school, though. It probably wouldn't be as cute.

Dear Labrianna,
First of all, you had the voice of an 80-year-old smoker, and this was a little alarming. That and the fact that you cussed like a sailor. What 5 year-old says, "PUT ME THE F*** DOWN, YOU MOTHER F***ER!" when someone tries to hoist them up to reach the drinking fountain? You. That's who. I hope you have that temper under control, sweetie.

Dear Steven,
You said to me "I know what that says "No ad..mi..ttance. Staff o...nly." And you were right. And being the only kid I had who could read at all, it nearly made me tear up right there in the lunch room. Please tell me you're class president somewhere.

Dear Asia,
I tried to get you help. Someone knew. I did.

Dear Corey,
It was me who was responsible for you getting hotlined. Mothers aren't supposed to leave bruises and pinch marks all over their child's body. I hope my classroom felt like a safe place for you.

Dear Jade,
You were really upset that people were talking about me. You ran to tell me during recess with big, fat tears in your eyes. It turns out that "people" were calling me white, and this devastated you. Guess what...

Dear MiQueal Pillow-Smiley,
You have the most fantastic name of any student I have ever taught or will ever teach in the future.

Dear Keith,
You showed up in my classroom with no adult or older sibling to introduce you. We could hardly understand the mumbles that came from your mouth, and for the first few months, I called you "Nyah-Nyah," because that's what I heard you saying. Turns out your name was Keith, but your family called you "Man-Man." You were saying "Man-Man." I wonder if you go by Keith now.

Dear Everyone Listed Above and All Other Students Not Listed,
I took your dirty clothes home and washed them. I purchased tiny little blue pants and skirts and tiny little white shirts. Tiny belts. Tiny socks. Tiny shoes. Tiny underwear. Snacks for snack time. Pillows for nap time. I hit the "play" button on the cd player and let Norah Jones sing you to sleep while I went around and tucked each one of you in. "Have a good sleep. Have a good sleep." I repeated this over and over and touched each of your heads. I wanted you to know that peaceful sleep was possible and that you were loved. Some of you would continue to stare at me until your lids got too heavy to remain open. Each slow blink= yes, I'm still here. Yes, I'm still here. Yes, I'm still here.

Yes, I'm still here.

Yes, I'm still here.

Yes, I'm still here.

Monday, April 2, 2012

10 Things Hair Can't Really Do

1) Stir Soup.
If you dipped then end of your ponytail in some soup and tried to give it a stir, I don't think you'd be pleased with the results. I guess if you had a whole lot of hair and some shellac, you could make some kind of stirring device. Unless shellac melts in hot soup. Then you're just back to swirly hair. Which really, no one wants in their soup. So, I'd say no. Hair would not make a good soup-stirrer.

2) Get you out of a traffic ticket.
I've heard it said that busty ladies can arch their backs and get all bustier and perhaps the officer who pulled them over won't write a ticket. I can arch my back all I want. Nothing sexy or busty happens at all. I just look like I'm trying to suppress a belch, which officers don't find sexy. I can imagine shaking my head back and forth to show my shiny hair or even grabbing the officers hand and making him pet the top of my head- neither of which I think will end with him not writing me a ticket. Officer =1. Hair = 0.

3) Stop a train.
If pennies on a track won't stop a train (experiment circa 1987), I'm pretty sure a wad of hair won't. I guess you could take a bunch of hair and try to make some sort of train-stopping net to go across the track, but I'm pretty sure the train would just bust right on through it. Aqua-Net, maybe. That could do it. But that's cheating, I think. You have to just use hair.

4) Provide a good substitute for contact lenses.
Take a piece of hair and swirl it around until you have a nice circular shape. Now, pop that in your eye. Open your eye if you can. Look around. Is your vision clearer? I didn't think so. You can't see very well through hair and it doesn't feel so good under the lids, either. I will not put hair in my eyes when I run out of contacts.

5) Relieve a sore throat.
This would involve gargling. Gargling with hair. I don't have cats, but I'm not unfamiliar with their hair-gargling, and perhaps that is to soothe their little throats. But I'm really thinking it through, and I can't see gargling with hair (1) working and (2) making me feel any better. Even if your hair were minty or echinacea-y or whatnot. It's still hair.

6) Pay your cab fare.
Get in a cab. Give desired location. Watch rain dance down window as you're driven through the streets. Smell stale cigarettes. Arrive at location. Pull out a clump of hair and hand it to the driver. Open the door to exit. Pull a smaller clump out and hand it to the driver and say, "I forgot the tip. Here. Keep it." Run.

7) This one's not appropriate for print.  But, trust me. I just pictured about 5 things hair couldn't do and if I mentioned them, I could never see another one of you in public again. Give it some thought. Picture something. Ew! Right? See? Hair does not work. Repeat thought process 4 more times for 4 different results. Blech. There's another thought. I must move on.

8) Defend you in court.
After the first lawyer gets up and makes you feel like a total ass, the judge is all, "It's your turn, hair." And then the hair just sits there on the table or on the floor or wherever it is. Even if you hold it up so everyone can hear what it has to say, it's just hair and no one will take it seriously. Or be able to hear it. Because hair doesn't talk or defend people in court. So it's about now that you realize all of the money you've shelled out is going to get you nothing but time in jail. Hair would be a useless defender.

9) Grade papers.
I put a piece of hair on a big stack of essays the other day and then left for a long run. I was really clear about what that hair had to do while I was gone and I put a pen within reach. When I came back, the hair was still in the same place and not a single essay had been graded. The pen didn't look like it had moved at all and hair was laughing at me. That last part isn't exactly true, but all the other parts are.

10) Go get help in the case of an emergency.
God forbid I ever fall down and really need some assistance. It's becoming increasingly clear to me that hair is narcissistic and downright rude and has no intention of helping anybody out when they need it. I don't know about your hair, but if it's anything like mine, I'm fairly certain that lying in a pile of my own fluids, hair would relax into itself and be totally content to laze about while I work myself into a panic. Thanks for nothing, hair.

Monday, March 19, 2012

No Reason To Get Upset

Now, there's no reason to get upset.
I only took this razor to your eyebrows while you were sleeping
because I read about it in a magazine.
It's supposed to make you feel smarter
you know, with no eyebrows.
Don't you feel smarter right now?

What magazine? I don't know.
I read so many these days.
But I remember it was on the left side of the page.
Right under an add for some kind of Carnival Cruise
under $500.

I know! I didn't believe it either!
I even thought about booking a trip for us.

Oh, you mean about your eyebrows.
Well, believe it.
What's done is done.
And I think it's a look you can really pull off.

Look, if it makes you feel any better, I saved them.
Your brows, of course!
I mean, they're not intact or anything.
But if you feel that attached to them,
I'm sure I can reattach them somehow.

Oh, I don't know exactly.
But I'll figure out a- stop that. Stop crying.
They're just eyebrows.
Look, I'll shave mine off right now.
I've always wanted to be smarter.

What, those? Those little red dots?
I don't know. I'm not a doctor or dermatologist or anything
but it appears to be a little skin irritation.

Here. Let me get some aloe.
I'll just dab a little bit right here---

Now you're just being uncooperative.
How am I supposed to put the aloe on your skin
if you won't let me touch you?
Has anyone ever told you that you're a bit of an overreactor?
Well, let me be the first.

Now, there's no use in showing off with those big words
just because I removed your eyebrows and now you're all smart.
You think you're smarter than me, don't you?

Oh. "Audacity." I take it back.
I know what that means.
I thought you said something French.

Wait. Why are you packing a suitcase?
Is it because I didn't want to eat out last week?
Really. I just felt like staying home.
That happens to everyone.

What do you mean, I don't get it?
I get it all.
You got your panties all in a bunch
because I wouldn't eat out last week
and now you're packing your bags.

Your eyebrows? Jesus! This again?
I thought we moved past that.
See, this is what I mean about you being a bad cook.
And a sore loser.
And a thief. Those slippers are mine and I'd appreciate
if you put them back.

So what? I buy shoes two-sizes too small all of the time.
Just because they're "technically" your size
doesn't mean you were the one that actually bought them.

Me? Me? Oh, that's great.
I think we know who the crazy one really is here.
Yeah, well, that makes two of us.
I don't believe this either.

You try to do something nice for someone,
try something you saw in a magazine
just because you're adventurous
and nice,
and it just goes all shit-wrong on you.

Oh, I won't.
You don't have to worry about me ever calling you.
Why would I want to talk to someone who
doesn't even appreciate when someone
does something nice for them.

Wait! Come back here!
I missed a spot!

Friday, March 16, 2012

Pull Me Up

take a needle to my belly button
push it all the way through
from my lower back it will appear
pull up!
and out!

If you remembered to tie a knot
a knot a tidy little knot
then you are now ready
with a little coordination
and a bit of strength
to dangle me over just about any surface

start small
over that puddle, perhaps
I will teeter and totter a few inches above the ground
but I will try to help you out
by straightening my legs
and my arms
and holding them solid
so nothing touches the steamy asphalt

above the puddle
I will look down and see
my distorted features
my rippling nose
my wobbling eyes
and I will blow a stream of air
onto the surface
of the reflective me

when you tire of that
try something more challenging
something higher, perhaps
climb with me up the steps
of a playground slide
dangle me here
above the heated metal surface
warn me not to touch it
and I will not touch it

or take me to an overpass
above a busy highway
test the string
give it a tug
I would not want it to break
(nor would you)

when safety is assured
pick me up by my waist
and toss me high in the air
over the protective fencing
grab hold of the string
(both hands are preferred)
and watch me soar
until I jerk to a stop

here again I will make my legs
long and stiff

and my arms I will hold out
far and wide

the engine noises
will rumble in my chest
I will close my eyes
it will sound like the ocean

I will wonder if
you're ever going to pull me up

Monday, March 5, 2012

Creation Story

On the day that God made the heavens and the earth, the land was all jacked up.  The earth was cracked and dry and nothing could grow up in that mug.

Then, some misty business came all up from the ground and God was all, “Whoah, did I do that?” He did. It was cool. It was like the fog machines that God would help people invent years later only it made a lot more fog. Misty fog.  God couldn’t see shit. And He was cool with that for a while.

When the misty-fog cleared, God reached down on the ground and pulled up a dirt clod. With no one to throw it at, He shaped it into a little dude. He used a little stick to form details like rockin’ ab muscles and God was pleased with himself, having never had any formal art training.

God ate a breaf-mint and then blew some breaf into Little Dude, and Little Dude came to life. It was epic.

God needed a place for Little Dude to live, because having lived alone since the beginning of time, God really didn’t want someone all messin’ with his shit at home and leaving the toilet seat up and creating piles of crap around that weren’t His.

So God made a sweet, sweet living place called the Garden of Eden. And He thought that was a pretty good name.  He presented it to Little Dude and Little Dude just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Eh” and this irritated God to no end. Little Dude was already an entitled asshole and God wondered if he had made a mistake by making him.

God said to Little Dude, “Look. I’m giving you all kinds of cool shit. Here’s a Playstation 3.” God pointed to a Playstation 3 under a fruit tree. “And here’s an i-Pod so you can listen to music. I’ve already downloaded some Lynard Skynard on there for you.”

And since Little Dude was born singing “Sweet Home Alabama,” before he even knew what Alabama-pride was, he was excited about God’s gifts.

“But,” God commanded Little Dude, “you are to never, NEVER, listen to track 4. Do you understand me?”

Little Dude did not understand God. And he did not yet know how to form a question, so he sat there slack-jawed, with a little drool coming out the of the corner of his mouth.

“Track 4,” explained God, “is a podcast from Rush Limbaugh. It came with the i-Pod purchase, and despite all my attempts, I cannot erase that track. You’ll just have to skip around it.”

“Ruuuuuuuushhhhhh,” Little Dude mumbled.

“Not to be confused with the entire “Moving Pictures” album, which I downloaded on there for you.” God then did his best air guitar and made some Tom Sawyer guitar solo sounds and Little Dude was impressed.

“There’s Rush,” God clarified, making frantic drumming sounds, “and then there’s Rush.” Now God was pantomiming a jolly, if not completely dumb, Santa type. “Ho! Ho! Ho! Women are whores! Ho! Ho! Ho!”

Little Dude did not quite understand this last part. He did not catch the mystery. Nor catch the drift. But he secretly wanted to listen to track 4 and find out what these “women” and “whores” are that God was speaking about.

“Rush Limbaugh,” God shouted, “is a NO-NO!” And then God proceeded to smack Little Dude on the nose with the i-Pod before handing it over.

God left Little Dude alone to listen to music and play video games in the Garden of Eden.

By nightfall, Little Dude’s eyes were glazed over and he fell into a deep sleep, the sounds of “Call of Duty” still in his little head and the Playstation controller still cradled in his arms.

God looked down upon Little Dude. “The world is….the world is,” God thought. But then that thought was over.  And the next one came: “Love and life are deep,” God decided. But Little Dude only knew of life; not love. And this was sad, thought God.

“Oh, well,” thought God. “I can probably make something out of this.”

God took a flower and put it on top of the rib. He attached some wax lips onto the front of the rib and made a little dress out of leaves. He sat back and look at what He had made.
It was hideous. Little Dude would never want to mate with this rib, no matter what it was wearing. So, God ate another breaf-mint and blew his breaf on it.

The rib transformed into a smokin’ hot lay-day. When Little Dude woke up, he was really happy and they got busy. But not totally busy. Just kind of busy. It was epic.

Smokin’ hot lay-day was very curious. The next night, when Little Dude wanted to get busy (but still not all the way busy), Smokin’ Hot pretended to be asleep. When Little Dude gave up and went to play video games, and then fell asleep in front of “Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2,” Smokin’ Hot got up and reached for Little Dude’s i-Pod.

She had to know what was on track 4.

She listened. And she listened some more.

She tried to listen in silence. She really did. But her blood boiled and her rage became unbearable.

This is when she lost it. She screamed and swore, although her language was not quite developed yet, so it came out more like "Mwaaaahhhhhoooorrrr!" with lots of spitting and hair pulling.

Little Dude awoke and knew not what to make of this. Smokin' Hot seemed to be in touch with some reality beyond the gilded cage.

God heard all of the commotion and came down to the Garden. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!" he yelled. Little Dude immediately pointed at Smokin' Hot, absolving himself of all responsibility.

Smokin' Hot, having no other human to point to, pointed to the first thing she saw moving- a snake. "He made me do it," she said. But, again, it came out more like "Nerrrrwallllluhhhguh."

Snake was all, "Aw, HELL NAW, woman!" and slithered away.

"Didn't I tell you to STAY AWAY from track 4? Didn't I? You listened to Rush, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?!"

Little Dude replied, "I have no heart to lie. I can't pretend a stranger is a long awaited friend."

"That doesn't even make sense," said God.

"And the energy you trade, he gets right on through the friction of the-"

"Knock it off," said God. "And YOU!" He was addressing Smokin' Hot now. "YOU LISTENED TO TRACK 4!"

And this is when Smokin' Hot muttered her first words: "No birth control for me. Birth control is for whores." 

"Oh, no!" God put his head in his hands. "I never thought this could-"

"Whore slut women whores-"

"THAT'S IT! EVERYONE'S IN TROUBLE!" God's voice was booming and made all of the leaves fall from the trees. "Little Dude! You allowed this women to be ruined. You will run around your whole life and play video games and live in your mom's basement where you will return to dust."

Smokin' Hot giggled. "AND YOU!" yelled God. Smokin' Hot jumped and peed herself just a little bit. "YOU will have gnarly-ass menstrual cramps every month." Smokin' Hot grabbed her belly and squinted.

Snake didn't get punished because he didn't really do anything. And he's a snake. Which pretty much already sucks.

But that snake- the one that was hiding under the tree with the unusual zipper running the length of it's body- that one was in for some of God's whoop-ass.  

"YOU!" God yelled, and he picked up the snake and with mighty force, ripped apart the zipper and pulled out the doughy, cowering man hidden inside. "You think I didn't see you in my garden? I'm GOD! You're just a radio talk show host!"

Rush peed himself a lot.

"You," God angry-whispered right into Rush's ear. Close enough that little God-spittle was mixing in with Rush's nervous forehead sweat. "You were cast by the devil in this unlikely role, and even are ill-equipped to act." 

"He's got insufficient tact!" yelled Little Dude. God turned and nodded, but he was not smiling. Not even a bit.

With one mighty swing, God threw Rush into the universe, where he exploded into an impressive display of pyrotechnics. 

"Wheeeeeeee!" shouted Smokin' Hot.
"Fuck yeahhhhh!" yelled Little Dude as he got out his lighter and held it overhead.

"Get out of here, you two," mumbled God.

And they went.