Underpants On The Outside

You know, I’m twenty seven years old, and while I haven’t been humping women for the majority of it, (or long enough to be any good at it), I thought I had reached a point where I was confident in my sexuality.  After all, I’m on the verge of moving in with my girlfriend (as I call it, “the last gasp”), and while stranger things have happened, it’s usually a good indicator that your hump-o-meter is set to “hetero”.

Yet something happened today.  Something… unnerving.  Now, it wasn’t the first time I’ve ever seen an androgynous person, but for all the times I’ve asked myself “Is that a boy or a girl?” I’ve never before had to add, “because if it’s a girl, she’s totally hot.”  That should never happen.  Like parallel lines, there should be no point where “dude” and “hot chick” meet.  I’m fairly sure there are mathematical proofs on this; some corrollary of Maxwell’s equations or something.  It’s an abomination against God and man…or woman…whatever. 

The whole experience left me baffled.  Perhaps I’ve been wrong all this time?  But for the past two hours I’ve done nothing but watch Will and Grace with a hairbrush handle where the sun don’t shine, and I have yet to feel anything remotely close to what I’d call “pleasure”.  All I know is that I owe my roommate a new hairbrush.

Ever since I moved to New York I haven’t been able to be with my family on Thanksgiving, which means I usually end up tagging along to a friend’s house.  Well last year was a culinary disaster involving a vegetarian, a vegan and a lactose intolerant, which sounds like the setup of a fat camp joke.  The meal was nothing more than a turkey and a bunch of sides made of one part raisins, ten parts awful.  Me and Wonder Woman ended up leaving hungry, and the next morning, in a fit of rage and with an alarming usage of the word ‘cocksucker’, I decided to make my own belated Thanksgiving.  It was quite a success, so much so that I decided to try and make it an annual tradition - Thanksgiving Two: Electric Boogaloo.

This year I was reminded of the way my mom used to always stand up at some point during the meal and say a little speech of all the things she was thankful for.  Now, this is just the rough draft, but here’s a list of things I’m thinking of mentioning:

My great job – gin doesn’t buy itself.

What’s-her-face

My enormous penis – no explanation necessary, though I doubt I’m the only one person who’s happy about it. (see above)

The healthy knees of [name removed for anti-jinx purposes], who has carried my fantasy football team all year long.

Tato Skins, Sour Cream and Onion Flavor

Grilled Cheese Sandwiches and Blowjobs (not necessarily in that order)

Batman

Jack Bauer – who has saved my life six times…that I know about.

My Family and Friends

I’m pretty sure that’s everything.

This week, Wonder Woman found out that she successfully passed the New York Bar, so everybody raise a glass and say it with me now: Congratulations, WW.

In the spirit of her achievement I’ve been trying to think of some legal-themed double entendres, but I haven’t had much luck.  I know there’s a couple lawyers on here; you guys got any ideas?  (I will not accept any entries using the word ‘brief’ or involving a gavel being banged.  Too obvious.)  Winner gets an egg sandwich they will have to claim by mail.

A couple weeks ago I asked for ideas for a cubicle decorating competition my office was throwing. As you might recall, the budget was fifty dollars, though I was loathe to spend that, seeing as how I was up fifty bucks to begin with and the prize was a forty dollar fleece.

The suggestions were terrific. Eventually, Pimp My Desk barely lost out to Lucy’s Psychiatry Booth, due to the fact that, when I finally got started on this project at 8:30 PM the night before judging, Target was shamefully understocked on spinning rims.

But at the last minute I was struck by inspiration: why couldn’t my design emphasize function over form? Steak, over sizzle? So on, over so forth? So while the other contestants were decorating their cubicles with tissue paper and streamers, I turned mine into a MOTHERFUCKING GRILL.

See that? That’s me, making EGG SANDWICHES for about a dozen people on my floor. People were coming by telling me the whole floor smelled delicious. I probably heard the words, “No way!” forty different times. I even had room in the budget for a little bell; every time the sandwiches were ready I’d shout, “Order up!” punctuated with a little ding.

It was a classic.

It was unprecedented.

It was not good enough to win.

No, the winner was the girl across from me, who covered every vertical surface of her wall like it was the board game ‘Life’. I guess I was the only one who finds the implied message depressing, particularly when it’s seven o’clock and I still haven’t left the office.

Now, I can admit that she put a hell of a lot more effort into it than I did, and okay, the competition was to decorate the cubicles, so maybe mine didn’t exactly fit the bill. Fine. If I were really jealous, I might say things like, “She only won because she has a big [DELETED].” Good thing I’m not jealous.

But I took third, because second place went to a woman who decorated her cube like a nightclub. She even played music, checked “the list” for the judges’ names, and danced. Later I was told that if I’d “acted mine out” a little more, I might have won.

So I have this to say to the judges, who will never read it: Act it out?? Did you hear the bell? The only way I could have acted mine out more was to hire a crusty waitress named Flo, and she wasn’t in the budget. I wore an apron and a paper hat; that’s as much acting as you’re getting out of me, because you see, it wasn’t an acting competition. If it had been, I’d have given you an empty plate and made you eat an imaginary sandwich in mime. No, you got an actual sandwich, and that sandwich wasn’t a prop – it was delicious. It had cheese on it. And I hope you enjoyed it, because it was the last one I’ll ever make for you.

As an extra punch in the gut, the office suggested that it would be nice if I made breakfast every Friday morning. Sure; right after our weekly game of ‘Life’. Oh wait, no one wants to play a weekly game of ‘Life.’

Oh yeah, and after the competition my boss surprised the winner with a new video Ipod. (Full disclosure: my very-generous boss gave everyone who participated iTunes gift certificates as well, and I feel obligated to say that this was very cool of her to arrange.)

I should also say that I’m (mostly) kidding, and I very much like the women who scored higher than me, and I don’t actually pine for the days when women were nothing more than secretaries and a ‘cubicle decorating competition’ was an abomination of femininity that never would have been tolerated. This was fun. Really.

(One last thing: sorry about the small photos, these had to be taken on a camera phone because the battery monitor in my camera has crapped the bed.)

This is Grand Army Plaza, in Brooklyn:

Apparently what makes it so grand is that from above it looks like a gigantic vagina.  Well, wherever you find vagina, you’re also gonna find me, and if the Plaza is a woman’s hoo-hah, that would put my apartment at her right hip.  Or her left kneecap.  I could say for sure if only I knew where the clitoris was.

Lost has a habit of setting up dozens of mind-boggling mysteries and solving NONE of them. My friend Jordan, whose use of imagery is nothing short of genius, describes the experience of watching the show as frustrating as “Dry Humping a Supermodel”.

Allow me for a moment to go on a tangent about Lost. See, there’s a whole lot of mystery on the island, everybody knows that. But lately there’s been a serious shortage of bad-assary, ever since Locke went from bad-ass-crazy to lame-ass-crazy and someone reminded Sawyer that he’s too pretty for fighting. As for Jack, well…when he’s not sitting around looking like he’s going to cry, he’s either losing an argument, pouting like a child, or getting punched in the face. Sooner or later, that guy is just going to have to learn to keep his mouth shut.

Now, Mr. Eko was bad-ass. He was a second season addition that reinvigorated the show, keeping it afloat while Michelle Rodriguez walked around trying to prove that there’s no nuance of human emotion that can’t be conveyed by making a face like you’re slightly near-sighted.

Eko was played by the same guy who played Adibese on Oz (nothing says bad-ass like prison rape). He spoke little and walked around with a big stick that he had carved scripture into, and while he never hit anyone with it, you definitely got the impression that if provoked there would be some serious smite-downs handed out.

Now why am I referring to Eko in the past tense? Because they killed him, that’s why. He didn’t even get to die a cool death, like dying after he kicked a polar bear in the nards. (That would be sweet. You do that, and I don’t care what kind of afterlife your religion has; you’re gonna spend the first couple millennia of it doing nothing but high-fiving guys.) No, Eko had to be one of maybe ten guys to die on a deserted island from pollution.

Allow me to explain: when the castaways first landed on the island, they couldn’t leave the beach. Those who went into the jungle were mauled by something huge, something that made noise like a tyrannosaur and knocked down trees…like a tyrannosaur. Locke came face to face with it once, but we had no idea what it looked like, since they showed his face the whole time. What the fuck was it?

On the dry-hump scale, I’d say this was a really really really hot supermodel, like Zorro-era Catherine Zeta-Jones. But on a satisfaction scale, I’d say it’d be like dry-humping her while she’s wearing Kevlar. Covered in sandpaper. Sixty Grit sandpaper.

For whatever reason, the monster left Locke alone; Locke even claimed that it had shown him something “beautiful”, and I think it was his use of the word “beautiful” that put finally put his bad-assness out of its misery. Of course, he couldn’t explain to anyone just what it was that he saw. That would be too easy. But eventually we’d see it. It was black smoke. Ta-da!!! Whoop-dee-doo, an intelligent fart. In fact, it marked the very first of these Dry-Hump Supermodel posts. So in honor of that post, I call the smoke “Flatulasaurus Rex”.

Back to Eko. After being mauled by the polar bear, Eko was sitting in his tent, when he saw a hallucination of his dead brother, who had been a priest. His brother told him to confess. Next thing you know, his tent had suddenly caught on fire. By the end of the episode, a huge cloud of Flatulasaurus killed him by picking him up and slamming him into the ground, completing the trifecta of “most improbable misfortunes ever.”

I kind of wish he had survived. I mean, I like the character, but I also like imagining him sitting around camp, waiting for someone to complain about being tired or something, so he could go “oh yeah, Charlie? Did all that FISHING tire you out? Yeah, when I was getting mauled by a polar bear, set on fire, and beaten up by a fucking fog, the whole time I just kept saying to myself, ‘well, at least I’m not fishing!’ You say you’re tired one more time and I’m gonna take this stick and smite your colon, so you best put on a smile, pal! I’ve been to prison!”

So what is the black cloud? Well, I have a theory. It’s the same theory anyone who’s read Michael Crichton’s “Prey” should have.

Prey is about a company making state-of-the-art nanotech. Of course, because it’s a Crichton book, money-hungry executives at the company never install proper fail-safes, and then the velociraptors escape and…wait, I got confused somewhere, but you get the idea. Just replace “velociraptors” with “big black cloud o’ nanotechnology”.

Now if you’ve read the book, and you know that there’s all kinds of scientific research taking place on the island, everything seems to fall into place. I’m just perplexed why the writers went in this direction, because Prey was by far the worst book I’ve ever read by Crichton. I like most of his stuff; Andromeda Strain, Terminal Man, and Jurassic Park were all terrific. Prey was crap. A great big black cloud of it.

I keep hoping that nano-cloud-o’-doom is not what’s going on here, but it looks that way. After two and a half seasons, I finally wore out a smooth patch on the sixty-grit, I’m halfway through the Kevlar, and more and more it looks like Catherine’s got a glass eye and an adam’s apple.

Now for this week’s episode. I’m late on last week, so I’m going to tack this week on the end because let’s face it: not a lot happened. When we left off last week, Kevin Spacey’s life was in Jack’s hands because if Jack doesn’t remove a tumor from Spacey’s spine, he’s gonna die. Sawyer and Kate had a whole lot of sexual tension without a whole lot of sex, which I sympathize with every time I watch the show, and Locke was walking around talking crazy.

This week. Locke’s still talking crazy, and Jack still has Kevin Spacey’s life in his hands, though now he tricked Spacey into the operating room (yes, there’s an operating room on the island – at this point someone could pull up in a new Nissan Versa and I wouldn’t bat an eye) and waited until the guy was under anesthesia before pulling the ol’ “psyche!” (Nice, Jack. Way to pick up the bad-ass slack by threatening a guy with a spinal tumor. Who is asleep. It works for those times when tripping a blind girl seems too high-risk. What ever happened to lines like, “My name is Sayid [something I can’t spell], and I am a torturer”?)

The only thing new in tonight’s “season finale” is that Sawyer and Kate managed to have sex, which only would have been exciting if the show was on cable. (Any rumors from my roommate Mary that I was shouting “PAN DOWN, PAN DOWN!!!” at the TV after Kate took off her shirt are complete lies.) But not only was tonight’s episode a bit of a let down, it was also the last one until February, when they’re starting back up with new episodes.

For the record, I’m not sure if I’m going to continue recapping the show, but if I do, I’ll probably put the whole “dry-humped supermodel” joke to bed; lately it’s felt a lot more like “Dry Humping a Dead Horse”.

Now that’s just gross.

I’m still tied up with work these days, so I’m gonna turn the humor over to a buddy of mine. A few days ago, he sent me this IM conversation. It starts with a conversation about earthquake safety, and ends up…well, you just need to read it for yourself.

AR: according to what im reading you’re supposed to have 3 days worth of shit for an earthquake
AR: for example, during the loma prieta quake, 12,000 people were cut off from stuff for a few days
EG: like food and water
AR: yeah
AR: first aid crap
AR: flashlights
AR: batteries
AR: radio
EG: how about for a nuclear explosion
AR: im gonna get some weapons too
EG: how much do you need for that
AR: in case of a nuclear explosion i think you have other things to worry about
EG: or how about for a virus outbreak
EG: maybe a week for that?
AR: hah
EG: all you need is one thing
AR: whast that?
EG: a satellite phone to call in jack bauer
EG: then you are set
AR: yes, they reccomend you keep a list of important phone numbers
AR: #2 will be J. Bauer
AR: 310 555 1205
AR: he says it in season 4
AR: #1 is Jesus, naturally
EG: wow
EG: I can’t believe you put jesus above JB
EG: JC vs. JB
EG: I think JB takes him
AR: how?
EG: but only through deceit
AR: no way man
EG: he pretends to convert
EG: and then betrays him, judas style
EG: BLAM
AR: even if Jesus gets killed, he can come back from the dead and karate chop Jack Bauer
EG: just like he’s gonna do the salazars
AR: plus JC can always call in back up in the form of God
AR: who can JB call?
AR: Almeida?
AR: pshhhhh
AR: weak sauce
EG: JB doesn’t NEED backup
AR: compared to the Lord
EG: that just shows how weak JC is
EG: and where was his fuckin backup when his ass was pinned to a cross
EG: god wasn’t so johnny on the spot for that one, eh?
AR: hahah
AR: well Christ did come back from the dead one time, and so did Jack Bauer, in season 2
AR: but still, you have to admit that Jesus is less of a cream puff than Jack
AR: Bauer cries out in pain, whines about his wife, worried about his kid, etc
AR: a big softie
AR: Jesus only let his guard down one time
AR: and even after that
AR: he went to hell for 3 days
AR: and came back
AR: to TAKE OUT THE TRASH
EG: jesus talks a good game, but revelations hasn’t happened yet
EG: I’ll believe it when I see it
AR: shows how ignant you are
AR: jesus didn’t write those revelations
AR: Jesus doesn’t waste tim writing things down
AR: he says them
AR: and then slabangs some ho’s
EG: except JC doesn’t slabang ANYONE
EG: and JB is slabanging chicks all over the place
EG: he slabanged Claudia right under hector’s nose
EG: that takes balls
EG: and then he was gonna kill his own partner
EG: just to avoid blowing his cover
AR: we both knor that JC was slabanging mary magdelene all the damn time
AR: and i’ve seen nipple slips of her on the internet
AR: and she is hot
EG: pffff
EG: ONE chick
AR: that we KNOW OF
EG: hahaha
AR: there could be all sorts of aramaic trim we don’t know about
AR: it was a long time ago man
AR: and mary magdelene
AR: she was kind of a freak …
AR: probably got some holy trinity action if you know what i mean
AR: Hole-y Trinity action
EG: which means JC probably had the herp
EG: and he would have the hiv if it existed back then
EG: JB plays it safe
AR: if there is one JB does NOT do
AR: it is play anything safe
EG: he always uses protection
EG: in the form of a GUN
AR: hahaha

All in all, I’m going to have to say that my favorite part is the use of the word ‘slabang’, a word I seriously intend to incorporate into my vocabulary. Not to mention my sexual repertoire.