Underpants On The Outside

Yesterday, the beautiful people at Crave put up the latest of my Superhero Diaries.  Before you click through, though, be aware that when it comes to comic book references, this one has a high degree of difficulty. Essentially it’s about a character who is waging this secret war against aliens, pretty much by himself, from his small one-bedroom apartment. When I was reading the books, I couldn’t help but think that in real life, everyone would just assume this guy was bat-shit insane, which is the premise of the piece.   But when I was writing it, it occurred to me that while I’m proficient (like a motherfucker) at Half-witted and Obnoxious, Crazy isn’t really in my repertoire. Luckily I know a guy who doesn’t use toothpaste. 

Some of you may be familiar with friend, commenter, and extremely-large aquatic mammal OG, a.k.a. Occupational Government.  Others of you may meet him at the Wedding of Doom. (If you’re asking yourself, “who is this guy and why is he yelling at me?  More importantly, why is he yelling at me about pancakes?” you’re probably talking to OG, and he can smell your fear.)  And if there are one or two of you left, you probably don’t know me, and your lives are richer for it. (But please keep coming back to the Underpants.)

I could give no description of him that would do him justice, but here’s my favorite story about him: Among our friends, OG is notorious for his unwillingness to touch doorknobs with his hands.  He’ll hit them with his elbows, if need be.  Nor will he touch bathroom sink handles, or the levers on paper towel dispensers.  He is terrified of diseases, and because of it, watching him in a public men’s room is pretty damn funny.*  I asked him about it once, and in the process of explaining, he said, “Just wait.  We’ll see what happens when you go to take a piss right after John Q. Genital Wart got through in there.”  I almost fell out of my chair laughing.  But since that day I have not been able to use a public restroom without thinking of the name John Q. Genital Wart, and I have never again touched any surface in there with my hands (other than my junk.)

The reason I mention all this is because every time I got stuck writing this Superhero Diary, I asked myself, “What would OG say?”  Yet I would bet I didn’t come even close.  So I hereby invite anyone who knows him, as well as the phenomenon himself, to offer their opinions.

*And not gay. 

Hi readers.  Sorry for the long delay between posts - wedding planning has come to the point where the official slogan is “Y’know what?  I don’t fucking care anymore; I just want to go to sleep.”  (I actually brought up the idea that we could pretend to break up for a couple months as sort of a matrimonial “Undo.”  Wonder Woman was not into it, but let’s see how she feels by July.)

Amazingly, something happened to me this weekend that had nothing to do with a wedding: I nearly got into a fight.  And what’s really weird is that I hadn’t done anything.  No, really. (The story that is about to follow is long and not guaranteed to be interesting.  It is, however, the most exciting thing to have happened to me in some time.)

See, it’s not that unusual for people to get pissed off by the things I say.  Here’s what happens: I’m at a party and I manage to say two or three funny things in a row, then I become convinced that I’m the funniest person ever. Once I’m on a roll, I lose any self-awareness that might alert me when I no longer have something funny to say, and like Wile E. Coyote, I’m thirty feet past the cliff edge before I realize I’m in trouble.  Except with me the danger isn’t a cliff; it’s dick jokes.  (Or ethnic humor.  I’m multi-faceted.) But I always know when I’ve pissed in the punch bowl, and this time I know I didn’t say anything too bad. 

Here’s what happened.  I was at a graduation party for a friend of mine, and a woman a few seats away from me asked me about the wedding.  I start talking, and somehow get to my bit about how my vows are going to follow the theme of “Why not.”  I thought she received it well, because she offered an alternate suggestion of “I don’t have anything better to do,” which then gave me the idea of “Any other takers?”  I thought we were brainstorming, but apparently she really meant that in her opinion I was an idiot who really didn’t have anything better to do, because when I wasn’t looking she traded seats with her husband to get away with me.  For the record, I would swear on a stack of Torahs that I had not yet referred to my genetalia.

A little while later I start talking with Fran, a woman next to WW, who was probably in her fifties or sixties and had just become a grandmother a few days previous.  Naturally, I start flirting with her, because this is always a hit with the older ladies, and sure enough Fran loved it.  So I asked her if she was single, because I wanted to know what all of my options were. That’s when the first chick’s husband (to be known henceforth as “The Aggressor”, or “The Douchebag”) leans over and says, “she’s not one of your options.”   My retort: “Huh?”  I had no idea who this guy was, yet he looked very intense, and was obviously making an effort to flex his biceps under his t-shirt.   He repeated, “She’s not one of your options.  Just enjoy your meal,” so I fired back with, “Yeah, okay. Whatever.” (Since then I’ve thought of much cleverer things I could have said, like, “Why don’t you enjoy YOUR meal?”)

I couldn’t get the exchange out of my head.  It seemed like he and Fran knew each other; perhaps she was his aunt, and maybe he was just really protective of her, but did he really think I was hitting on her? And did he really think she’d take me up on it? If so, why’d he have to cockblock me? Total dick move.

The scientist in me demanded that I push his buttons a bit more, so I started listening to Fran’s conversation with WW for a good opportunity to jump in.  When I heard her telling WW to steal one of the centerpieces, I puffed up my chest, deepened my voice, and with a lot of fake aggression, admonished her to stop encouraging my fiancée to commit thievery.  I was extra careful not to swear or proposition her sexually, but even still the guy leans over and tells me that for “the last time,” I need to tone it down.  I ask him what, exactly, he wants me to tone down.  Everything, he says, because no one appreciates my humor.  I beg to differ, because if that were the case, I doubt my blog would have upwards of 30 readers…

I think my favorite line was when I pointed out that I was talking to Fran, not him, and he informed me, “If you’re talking to her, you’re talking to me.” It’s such a great tough-guy thing to say when you’re talking about someone other than a post-menopausal grandmother who is eighteen sheets to the wind and disagreeing with everything you say.  He really looked like he was going to hit me, except I know that anyone who takes themselves that seriously wouldn’t sucker-punch me.  He’d invite me to fight outside, and I’d RSVP with “Regretfully, I will be unable to attend.” (As you can see, wedding planning now controls every thought in my head.)

Just as soon as it began, the Douchebag grabbed his wife and the two of them stormed out of the party.  Meanwhile, Fran and I drank espresso and Sambuca ‘til the wee hours (but nothing happened, I swear), so it’s safe to say that I won that one. Even better, the confrontation completely elevated my status in the party.  I had started out as a marginal attendee, a friend at a family gathering where I knew almost no one, but by the end of the night I’m trading Goodfellas quotes with Uncle Charlie and everyone’s calling me “Fightstarter.” 

What a great night.  (AND I got some great ideas for my wedding vows!)

In theory, when I refer to the Greatest Wedding of All Time I should be talking about my own.  It’s still possible, I guess, but it’s going to take a lot in order to top the wedding I went to last weekend.  It seems so obvious now, but I never realized before what the two elements of a perfect wedding are: a donkey and a water slide.

The wedding was in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.  It’s a great town, where the only downside is the $70 cab ride to get there, although that also keeps the tourism below the point where they would have to build a Senor Frog’s.  There are enough ex-pats and retirees so that if you get lost you know you’ll run into an English speaker sooner or later, but the town still feels like authentic Mexico. (Except for the Starbucks.  And the Dunkin Donuts.  Okay, maybe it wasn’t really “authentic”, but there were several hot dog carts where you could buy corn slathered in mayonnaise that had been sitting in the sun for days, which one girl in our party referred to as “sex in a cup.”  That’s authentic enough for me.)

The best part of town was a house on the outskirts that some friends of the bride had rented.  For $900 per week, they got a three story house with two sundecks, a pool and a waterslide.  There were four girls staying there (one hot) and whenever we went over there they were in swimsuits and (true story, I swear) the hot one was making bacon.  Plates and plates of bacon. I’ve seen heaven, and no one believes me.

What was interesting about the girls staying at the heaven house was that every night they’d get drunk and invite me and my group of friends over, but they next day it would be painfully obvious that we were not welcome anymore.  (It was similar to the beer goggle phenomenon, except applied to our personalities. I’ve decided that they listened to us through beer headphones.)   One time they even left the house right after we showed up, hoping we’d take the hint.  Their plan might have worked if they hadn’t told us how to turn the water slide on.  Oh yeah, AND LEFT A PLATE OF BACON. Surprise surprise - we were still there when they got back.

And then things got even better. Immediately following the wedding ceremony an eight piece mariachi band showed up, along with a donkey carrying a bottle of tequila.  Again: this really happened. The donkey’s name was Benito. At first I thought the donkey was total bullshit - everyone called him “Benito the Tequila Donkey” as if he had some sort of tequila-based talent.  A more appropriate title would have been “Benito the donkey with baskets on his back which could fit a variety of things such as a bottle of tequila.”

The band, the donkey and all of the wedding guests then paraded around the streets of San Miguel in our suits and tuxedos drinking tequila from small clay cups on strings that had been hung around our necks. And while Benito exhibited no additional talents other than the ability to be walked on a leash, he gave the procession an air of spectacle.  We were celebrities; there were parents with kids by the side of the road taking photos.  We weren’t just a bunch of drunken white people who hired a mariachi band and decided to go for a stroll - we were people with a donkey. Make room. 

I figure Wonder Woman and I can top it if I can somehow arrange an appearance by Roy the Beer Gorilla.  The only tricky part will be convincing WW to make room in the budget, but the way I see it, it’s not like anyone is going to be looking at the flowers when there’s a gorilla walking around with a keg strapped to his back.