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Wednesday, September 28, 2011

A Truly Shameless Blog

  Before the vulgarity and body humor commence, I feel the need to announce that my mother claims to have purchased an android. If my mother has truly purchased an android, then I expect to have an artificial manservant at my disposal ready to perform my calculations and do my bidding. One that performs like Mr Data from Star Trek will do just fine, but I digress.

My great American forebears did not have bodily functions. The virtuous lady Puritans did not menstruate or go 'on the rag, ' but rather they had a "period." Similarly, their wholesome male descendants (it goes without saying not the women) did not have use for toilets, but instead bathed constantly by going "to the bathroom." Cleanliness in next to Godliness. To this day, our grandparent's dogs merely water the bushes or "make dirt." Americans don't have intestines or orifices, and neither does our culture have a tradition of bodily decay or mortality. Our European heritage at first led us to refer to the largest of rooms in good sized houses as the "funeral parlor," but soon we learned that dealing with our loved ones in their final respite is a task best left to strangers, so we converted our more spacious rooms into "living" rooms. In summary, we live forever now, and American women do not have bowel movements or flatulence. If they do, it is, thankfully, a well kept secret.

Since were on this most mundane and earthy of tangents, I need to relate some confusion I experienced lately. Recently, someone told me she had to go to the gynecologist, so that the gynecologist could perform a rectal examination. Vagina is a nice place that I have visited many times, but as it is shrouded in  feminine mystery, I still opt not to live there. This latest of revelations that the v-j doctor is probing other ports of exit in the nether regions is only further confusing my mental map of that neighborhood. What is the vagina doctor doing with your butt?

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Steal This Blog (copyright rules apply)

Hunter S. Thompson said "When going gets weird, the weird turn pro" or something to that effect and working on 3 hours or so of sleep with a healthy dose of neuroticism, I think I can fit the bill. So far now, we'll put aside crazy family members, insolent students, and neighborhood association plots, and commence to blog.
 Dear readers, inspiration has not poured out in abundance these last few days, but I  think I can still share some amusing word observations with you in the next few sentences. So stop looking for mirages, wring your hands no longer, I am back. For you.

1Dates without Stones: My bitter rival and sometimes battlefied opponent, Les Floyd, took a break from weightier matters to note that a package of fruit he was about to get into read "dates without stones." Does this mean unarmed suitors, a period in the earth's history before solidification, gelding half-men? Only you, the reader, know for sure.

2 Robotic Fish: I glanced through a local university's student newspaper only to see that the local whiz-kids and mad scientists had been engineering "robotic fish." I've warned repeatedly that  nothing good would come out of allowing children to watch the The Transformers and this only bears out my observation. Soon, those robotic fish will evolve into robo-amphibious ground dwelling creatures and in a matter of centuries into artificial simians. You will wake up one day and speak robot.

3 Spontaneously Combusting Pensioners: Harry Brown really would have chased the thugs out of Lodon like the pied piper drove the rats out of Ireland if he could "human torch" himself at will. Apparently, retired pub-dwelling Englishmen have been quietly sitting around with other old men, nursing their beers, and then "Whooosh," bursting into flames. I haven't heard or read about this personally, but some guy on Twitter said it was happening and that's good enough for me.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Rolling with the Apostles.

In what will go down as one of the most obvious statements in history, I hereby declare that the words we choose reflect our opinions and values. The unique acquaintance of mine who I've referenced before on here has his own individual names for just about everyone he regularly interacts with. He refers to me as "Carnophage" which is ironic since I don't eat the flesh. He calls my mother "Dr Martinez," his lover (who is female) Emmet and another mutual acquaintance "The DARPA Chief." On my cellphone, I have him listed as "Troutface." I feel like I've said enough on this matter, and I will only add that there is some kind of a rationale behind all these appellations( a rationale as unique as he is), and that's all ye know and all ye need to know.
The pastor of  a church I go to and appreciate uses his words in attempt to reach younger generations and remain "culturally fluid." I enjoy his sermons immensely, but there have truly been some verbal atrocities that have found their way into his message. A few week ago when discussing Paul's conflict with some other early church leaders he used the phrase "all up in his grill" as if to suggest Paul was all up in "Jesepheus" grill. Discussing Paul's friendship with some traveling missionary or servant he said they were "BFFs." It culminated in what I thought was the final mistake when said God's attitude to those demanding miracles as a condition of belief  was "Homey don't play that." We, the children of the nineties, are getting old. I seem to remember in his latest sermon about emphasizing the centrality of Jesus and the Resurrection that he used the words "rad" and "neato," but as a traumatized English major I blocked it out.
   Sadly, I have no great word combinations discoveries to offer this entry, save one: "Italian Bookhunter." Please note that the Italian Bookhunter is not to be confused with his close relative the "Portugeese Libros Aficianado."

Saturday, September 17, 2011


     Welcome back to the meatpacking corner of the blog. Last time, my shameless free association for a blog was likened to making sausage- a lot of unwholesome ideas being wrapped into an unhealthy meat. I don't want be repetitive, so we'll say that this is the written equivalent of making hot dogs.
     Teaching the Parts of Speech to older students is not its own reward, but it occurred to me that it would present an opportunity to wreak intellectual havoc. If I were to ask beginning or ESL students what part of speech the word "God" falls under, they would probably agree that it is a noun.
 I would respond,"A noun is a person, place, or thing though." They would get demoralized quickly.
     "In western culture, we really don't believe that the God of Abraham is a man-Mormons excepted- and obviously we don't believe God is a place." A lone student may argue that God is a spirit, and a spirit is a thing, but if questioned he may not feel comfortable describing God as a "thing." By most accounts, God has a character or personality, but He is more than that too. As spirit-which is a thing- and more, God would qualify as a noun, but if we have to invent a new part of speech for Him, I'd like credit.
   Now, I'd like to address something far less interesting and relevant: interesting word combinations I heard this week.
1 Meccan Idolators: These Meccans were the Arabs in the city of Mecca before Mohamed and Islam had completely dominated the Arab world and Middle East. I don't care about that-I like the metallic, vibratory sound of the words "Meccan Idolators."
                              2 Tackle Box: I guess the idea of a box holding a "tackle" is an amusing concept. The verb/noun tackle is a violent one. I'd heard of tackle boxes for fishermen, but I hadn't heard it used to refer to an area on the American football field until just today-I guess its something to do with a quarterback's danger zone?

Lastly, one more thought on the binding power of names: In the English language, it is wildly inappropriate to name your son "Jesus." Similarly, speakers of German, English, or other European languages should not name their offspring "Adolph."

Friday, September 16, 2011

The Name Theory and Other Brilliance (If you take this seriously, then consider donating to my charity)

  I had, perhaps have, a friend with several unorthodox, or maybe just irrational, ideas about the laws of the universe. One such law was that the women of Ohio were more likely to share their favors with male suitors than the women of Indiana or Michigan. Yes, the women of Ohio realized that their state was pretty similar in many respects to their other Midwestern neighbors, so in an effort to show them up, they put more out. Some good thinking going on out there.

  There were other theories, but the best the best gift the world of arts&letters was the notion that the names of people were somehow their titles or personality descriptions. I remember he had a particular hang up about women named "Alice" and was convinced that they were prickteases meant to sow chaos among the males of the species. "Pauls" tended to be intellectual and paternal in demeanor. "Cathies,"  we agreed, were " a little slutty, a little nutty."  "Steves" could be hyper, nervous and sometimes treacherous. "Jasons" were often overstated and beligerent, but not without principal and conscience.

   As mentioned, under this theoretical conceit, names could also be functional or descriptive. Carnival barkers and scam artists refer to their dupes as "marcs" ; consequently, suckers or people who look like idiots are "Marks." Honest people are frank-just follow the JustCallMeFrank blog if you need proof(  Trust me, our idea only gets more illuminating. What do you think now of women who are named "Candy"? Names like "Hattie," "Mildred," and "Bubbles" tell you that you're interacting with a geriatric female. Osama Bin Laden, John Wayne Gacy, Lee Harvey Oswald, John Norman Collins, they all tell me that the great writer of the universe intended to give us some prior warning when we're dealing with psychos-watch out for those known by three names. An extra name is to titles what an extra chromosome is to genetics-often a sign of extreme aggression. My father married two women with the same first name, and my Uncle went out with several women with that name as well. Clearly in their primitive limbic minds "Jane"=woman. Aurora, of course, means you're as radiant as a star, celestial yourself perhaps.

 This friend read things into labels and names of businesses as well. Only a woman woman of questionable virtue could own "Kim's Party Store" and taverns known as the Wooden Nickle or Back Door would not escape his notice.  A bar named "Buddy's" seemed  rather pathetic to him-as if asking for friends. We both agreed that bottled water called "DNA" was highly suspect-neither of us wanted to drink water that contained DNA samples. I do miss the conversations with my co-author of these pithy observations, but brilliance only begets brilliance, and by now I'm sure there are new batshit crazy chapters waiting to be written.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Matrimonial Ineloquence

 This summer I attended 2 times as many weddings than I had ever attended before. Yes, I attended 3 weddings this summer as the office arm candy of the Bible Thumper. Weddings are meant to remind other families of their relative paucity in both family and monetary resources. On of these weddings was held in some idyllic church retreat's cathedral. Another was held at a prestigious conference center on the University of Michigan's Ann Arbor campus. The last wedding was held at country-club in one of Detroit's mega-rich suburbs. No, the world of large families of tall, strapping Aryan men or healthy young women, open bars, outdoors weddings, 10 layered wedding cakes, gourmet dinners, champagne, post 4-course meal pizza is not mine. I appreciate the generosity of my lady's kin and comrades. Hell, I didn't even know them from Adam and Eve, but they still picked up the tab for my vegetarian fettuccine and Cuba libre (s). I'm not here to whine about my small and impoverished tribe, critique the white people dancing at the reception or badmouth the brides.
  No, the usual fascination with words carries over to the toasts of the maid of honor and best man at one of these weddings. It seems to me that one would not necessarily choose a close personal friend, but rather an eloquent and diplomatic spokesperson when it comes to significant toasts. Wedding roles have to be chosen carefully. For instance, your ex has no place at your wedding, lest they joke with your new spouse, "If memory serves, you're going to have quite a night tonight, but don't forget, I hit that first! Hahaha." Neither should your pearls be tossed before bride swine.   An excerpt:
  "Ironically enough, we're both women (off to a great start)" The maid of honor then relates that both she and the bride disliked each other upon first meeting-mainly because they both misinterpreted each other's disdain for a mutual acquaintance. Once they decide it was someone else they didn't like, the maid of honor discovered that "we both love Red Bull and Vodka, Jagerbombs." Later, she related the absolutely heartwarming story of how one morning the bride brought her a Burger King Whopper. She knew "it was love."  In sum, they both love drinking, Burger King, music and God. Unique as snowflakes. By this point in the rant, the rest of the table assented to my earlier assertion that the made of honor was blitzed, bombed,buzzed, crunk, crushed, destroyed, En ditzed, hammered, inebriated, sauced, soaked, tanked, tipsy, toasted. The last thing I remember tuning into hear was that she hadn't always liked the groom, but that she wished them well. The man of honor was equally poetic. "I would say she doesn't deserve to have you, but anyone who would have you deserves you." Careful readers will note that the subtle wordplay changes the toast from praise to an "aw shux" insult.
   Later on, the first words the bride comes over to tell me she had secured a vegetarian meal for me. "Oh by the way, we made sure they made a vegatarian meal for you. You're welcome." I didn't know how to respond. "I don't know what to say. I mean I didn't event to come, but my girlfirend insisted."

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Sausage and Schite

   I am not all that familiar with how sausage gets made, and it's certainly not a regular part of my diet, but I'm lead to believe that the sausage making proccess is a particularly grotesque one. Using the elasctic skin of intestines or other similarly textured meat, the butchers then use the stretched out rinds as casing for other meats-lips, headcheese, ligament flesh, and all sorts of other savory delights stripped away from the cows, pigs, chickens, ostriches, gorillas, stray dogs and other victims that make up America's disgusting meat industry. For good measure, rat feces and sawdust probably gets included into the stuffing.

  This blog is the casing or container of my week's worth of mental shit. I love odd word combinations, and I stumbled into one earlier this week. I went back to school at the age of 25, and I finished grad school at the relatively geriatric age of 30. These damn kids, like me, were required to get a university issued laptop. Unlike me, these kids learned how to deftly exploit the computer; think Napster, Ipods, burning CD's and software, webcams, sending images and info back and forth. I remember hearing the younger, thinner little ones get excited some 6 years or so ago about Facebook and Myspace. My improv troupe participated in an icebreaker that  involved pairing off according to wether or not you had one of those "books" or online "photoalbums"-at least that's what I thought they were until I found out about social networks. Knowing that this is the level I operate on, then you shouldn't be surprised that I was delighted and intrigued to discover the word combination "otterbox." I laughed outloud hearing people casually discussing their "otterboxes." Otters are funny animals, and to the best of my knowledge they don't store possesions in boxes. Box has a few connotations, but I didn't think people were referring to rodent vaginas or especially hairy bushes. Someone had to burst my bubble and tell me just what they are. It wasn't the only amusing word combination I heard.
"Python Tutorials." I still don't know exactly what a "Python Tutorial" is. but I know what I want it to mean. I'd prefer to think it had nothing to do with heavy machinery, but instead was the male equivalent for kagel woman tightening, or something similar to Pilates or "the rack." The poet Sir Mix A Lot said something on his album having "the long black snake; just gotta make it move. Know what I mean?" I think if you have python tutorials, you do.
   Lastly, a term I know and understand, but love to say, "Raw foodist." I love the sounds of the words "Raw Foodist." Try saying it with a growl in your voice or with true invective, almost angrily.  I don't care  much about every new diet and trend that I can't afford to partake in, but I still love reading about raw foodists, because Raw is War, and, for me, saying "raw foodist"  is as satisfying as as growling.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Is Horny, Baby

I wish I had reason to keep a diary; moreover, I wish that every diary entry ended with the words "and then we had sex."  Like you, I lead a life that isn't generally worth writing  ( or blogging ) about. Yes, believe it or not, nobody wants to hear about your yummy vegan brownies, bland as chicken feed polenta patties or your other culinary "innovations."  I don't care about your child's confusion over the reality of Transformers, and your hackneyed politics is boring, provincial, and and pre-packaged. The internet is also saturated, steaped, and dripping with the hot, oily words of erotica writers as well. I'd unfairly malign them as well, but most of the foul-mouther tramp talking cyber harlots I've met have been much more literary, sweet, and interesting than the average Jane. It stands to reason. Humans fixate on sex. Sex is interesting. I've seen all the silver screen celebrities fuck, but what my neighbors are doing is far more interesting-bedroom walls are the last boundaries in some ways.

Certainly, I don't like pornographic material very much, and much of what passes for erotica is low-grade smut-to me, the personal revelation is interesting-the mechanics are sticky and unappetizing. Gentlemen never tell, but their diaries (not mine) do.  A few summers ago, working out east at a resort in the Poconos, my friend young Mr. "Harold" had quite a summer. Harold was thin then, with thick, curly hair, at a time in his life where he didn't say much, and his Uncle lent him a convertible for the summer. He worked as a waiter, and he mostly worked with Eastern Europeans who either waited tables or worked in the kitchen. The convertible hinted at wealth, survival, the dumb corn fed looks hinted at citizenship. He had a good summer. Most of the time, he said nothing, but alcohol soaked Mustang runs down bumpy country roads were an attractive prospect to young women who'd been on their feet all day serving fat, rude New Yorkers Swiss steaks and Budweisers. Oh hell, my point is he fucked a lot that summer. He fucked a lot of women he wouldn't been given the time of day from otherwise, and most of these women had not mastered English idioms, articles, or any other nuances. Mid-coital malaprops, here we come!
    Heard in the throes of passion was, "I'm chickenhead, baby, I'm chickenhead. Wery bad girl!" Equally as tasteful were some play referencing home countries. One woman, while removing her top, one "cup" at a time said "I'm from two countriesCzech (one breast revealed) and Slovokia (another breast revealed).  The other woman guilty of poor world play was from Hungary. I'll let you speculate on her pun.
Another occasion, there was some grumbling between two lovers over the Slavic tempress sharing her milkshake with all the boys at the bar. Exasperated, she exclaimed, "Oh yes, he bought me a drink so I gave him a head."
  This is as graphic as I want to get, but at one point, taking her from behind, she yelled out "Yes, take me like tiger, baby, tiger." Things got a little more bizzare when, for unknown reasons, Ms. Bulgaria yelled out "hit us harder! harder!"
  Finishing up, an appropriate enough transition, things would get even better. "Oh, my cat is happy, sweety." Yet the very last garbled, misapplied idiom is the best in my opinion. With the earth about to move, she yells out "I think you're coming on to me."

                         Good night, Kids.