Remember When...

When I was twelve years old, as unusual places began to itch and even odder ones sprouted hair, there was nothing I wanted more than to be morbidly depressed. Adolescent angst, suicidal tendencies, a complete disregard for the fashion standards of the day, these were the attributes I admired. After hearing the term on a late night foreign film where the chicks had armpit hair but you got to see their boobs, I proudly labeled myself an “existentialist”. Hair creeping down past my eyes, oversized black Doc Martins, and a middle school social career teetering on the margins, I had the groundwork laid. If only my damn sense of general contentment and overall fulfillment hadn’t kept getting in the way.

While other kids my age played sports, rode bikes, and exaggerated each other’s homosexual tendencies to compensate for their own confusing feelings about Zack Morris, I promenaded around my neighborhood wearing a scarf and pretending that bright light hurt my eyes. You see, I was an artist, and though I had no talent or original thoughts, I was convinced that the key to my success was in suffering. Moping through the hallways of my upper middle class suburban existence, I was determined to my mock my fortune and disdain my privilege. Pottery Barn accent pillows? Uh, they were off the man! Holiday scented bowls of potpourri? Please, I preferred patchouli.

But then just as I had myself convinced that life had no meaning, my mom would call from the kitchen. “Love muffin, do you want to lick the brownie bowl?”

Do I want to lick the brownie bowl? You bitch!

I mean, who doesn’t want to lick the bowl? Damn it! Once again my efforts were thwarted! How could I be a frustrated, disenchanted artist when there were chocolate covered beaters to enjoy?
Realizing that eternal joy would haunt me for the rest of my life, I decided I needed to move on and find a new artificial, protective identity. I spent a few days as a liberal activist until realizing I enjoyed eating meat and didn’t care for people who were different. Then I thought I could be one of those super hip Christians who refer to Jesus as their best friend and use too much gel in their hair, but the whole believing in Jesus thing kept getting in the way. Outdoors man one day, eccentric recluse the next, I exhausted myself searching for something I couldn’t identify or really even understand. In the throes of adolescence, I felt compelled to shift and search for my identify. Well, shift, search, and masturbate. I wanted to masturbate too.

Now, 27 years old and a bit more content, I revisit these embarrassing trails as a reminder; a therapeutic refresher on why I am thankful to now discuss co-pays and credit rating over drinks with friends. Yes, now I have to make a car payment, but I also do not have to worry about my mom finding my “special” sock hidden under my bed.

You see, as I get closer and closer to my wedding date, I can’t help but wonder, when in the hell did I grow up?

Working with 12 year olds on a daily basis, I understand more than anyone how much their lives suck. So don’t get me wrong, I have no desire to return to those “carefree” days. Nor am I trying to skirt responsibility or bitch about the realities of grown-up life.

I am more just in awe of me as an adult.

Wasn’t it just last week I was wearing brown loafers with white socks up to my knees wondering when I would finally get my man smell? I mean, I just recently realized I had completed puberty.

While I am happy to have left black fingernail polish and my DC Talk cassette tapes behind, I am a little concerned I have lost more than that.

Recently, I have been working with my students on Red Ribbon Week, a celebration of a drug-free lifestyle and the promotion of smart choices. Me. The guy who once got so high I announced to all my friends that “I was erosion” and then ate 9 pudding Snack Packs. And now here I am wearing a red shirt, pink tie, and a “Reach for the Stars Not Drugs” sticker because that’s just how drug free I really am! Next, I’ll be handing out True Love Waits buttons because premarital sex makes the baby Jesus cry.

How did I become an adult? What marked the occasion? Was it financial independence? Job security? That Friday night I opted to stay in and watch Flip that House over going to the bar with friends? How did carefree experimentation and an expression of youthful liberty suddenly translate into a pathetic waste and grounds for a restraining order?

I am not trying to complain. I am perfectly content with going to bed at 9:00 on Fridays and getting overly excited about the 2 for 1 Chardonnay special at my local Chili’s. I have just been taken off guard.

I wonder if other people face this conundrum or if it’s just me? Do any of us really ever grow up or do we just get taller and open more lines of credit? Are Playstation 3’s and iPods just more expensive and sophisticated G.I. Joes?

I don’t know. But I will tell you one thing, I do not care how many pairs of white pants I own or how much I bitch about modern music, I will always lick the bowl.

Silence = Death

The other day I was in church, a divine miracle unto itself, when the minister stepped up to begin his sermon. On this particularly Sunday, the topic was “Approaches to Bible Interpretations”, and as I was attending a Unitarian service, I was all ready for some gay sex and marijuana, when a fat, blonde, miniature, blob cankeled onto the stage. With his stretched stained t-shirt working overtime to cover his pinched skin, the little fat bastard tried to impress the crowd by performing a hand stand, except his bursting stomach got in the way. Bent forward with this short little arms grasping for purchase, I imagined this is what it must look like if a dwarfed Tyrannosaurus Rex with Down Syndrome attempted the same feat.

Well, I let out an over-exaggerated sigh and knowingly looked around, silently saying to the other members of the congregation, “Can you believe this kid. Boy, is he about to get it.” And by “get it”, I meant his father was going to charge the stage with a fury, rip him up by his flabby little arm, and then beat his ass. I know that’s what would have happened to me, and I thought it only fair that this child suffer the same inappropriate, mentally scarring punishment. Apparently, however, I was wrong. Instead, Mom and Dad Freaknick just watched with pride as “Moonbeam” or little “We love black people” waddled across stage. The poor minister charged on, trying desperately to speak over the squeals and clapping, as I looked around dumbfounded.

When did kids come back in vogue?

Why can’t we return to the wholesome 1950’s mindset where children were seen and not heard? When kids were expected to be silent and numb while mom and dad threw back martinis, puffed packs of menthols, and had affairs with their neighbors and secretaries. What has happened to our sense of family values?

The worst thing about the whole situation is your expected silence. Mommy’s little “10 beers and the Cubs won so daddy’s in the mood” surprise is allowed to wail his guts out, but if I dare offer up some Nyquil or big sip of whiskey, I am the insensitive asshole.

Why are we all so afraid to say what needs to be said?

A few years back a good friend of mine’s brother and his wife had a baby. Sadly, a week before the due date, their father unexpectedly past away. Arriving at the funeral, I walked in as soft somber music poured over the sea of mourners, flowers completely surrounded the coffin, and everyone wore faces of concern and discontent, a sad yet typical setting.

I stood in the back, trying to allow the family time to visit and mourn, when I noticed a dark suit hopping among the collections of the bereaved. Stepping forward to get a better look, I suddenly found myself literally colliding with the expecting father, the mysterious pouncing phantom. After a brief hug and my condolences, I asked John about his wife and their future baby. Clearly waiting for the opportunity, he busted open with excitement: “She’s dilated 7 centimeters, 7 centimeters!” Before I could even respond, he hugged me again and then leaped to the next group to share his happy news.

Now don’t get me wrong, here. I think it’s great he was so excited; hell, it was even a little cute. But is your father’s funeral the time or the place to run around telling everyone that your wife’s vagina is spreading? I mean, even if it wasn’t a funeral, is it ever necessary for me to know that someone else’s labia is parting? Would a simple “She’s close” not do?

Again, though, God forbid I bring this to someone’s attention and ruin their fun. No, I should sit in silence why they provide me with a detailed anatomy lesson. Hell, why don’t we just start taking pictures of the placenta and carry it around in our wallets? “Here’s Susie’s first day of school, and her 3rd birthday, and here look, this is the afterbirth.”

Well, I think things have finally gone too far, and I am not going to sit silent anymore. This is America, the land of expression, the land of free press, the land of bitching and hating other people for superficial reasons.

So here goes, the start of a revolution. These are My Top Three Unspoken Things Spoken.

Tye Pennington – I hate that mother fucker. I apologize for being crass, but give me a break. If I have to spend one more Sunday evening watching him gallop through Sears and hold back tears as he builds a new home for some retarded, poor, armless minority family, I am going to lose it. Yes, I’ll admit back in 2001 he was a The Learning Channel star; we could all only be that lucky. However, close to ten years later, the flannel shirt is still untucked, the hair remains spiked and shiny, and no one gives a shit. Fuck you Tye Pennington, fuck you!

Hurricane “Victims” – “Certain Death.” “Grave Danger.” “Massive Flooding & Apocalyptic Damage.” Now I did not major in meteorology, but when terms like these are thrown around by weathermen and reporters, I am usually pretty confident that whoever is living in the area is fucked. I mean, in Memphis, when there is even the slightest threat of a tornado or severe storm, I spend the evening in my bathtub with a giant bottle of wine and my hand crank radio, the mattress from the guest bed spread over top me. And yet, after every major hurricane, the headlines always lament about the hundreds of people stranded in their homes with pictures of them of their roofs as helicopters swoop down to save them. What in the hell is wrong with these people? And when questioned about why they chose to stay, the always respond the same “I wanted to wait it out.” What were you waiting for? God? The four horsemen? Why doesn’t Jesus just swoop down and pick them up then? I say next time people ignore a mandatory evacuation we let them stay huddled in their attics eating canned peaches, drinking contaminated water, and reflecting on their super decision. Let them keep “waiting it out…”

People who are Different – I don’t mean to be ugly, but as much as I love diversity and being part of God’s rainbow, and whatever, I am really fed up with all the weird ass people in this world. And I am probably not talking about the one’s you think I am either. If you want to be half black and half Icelandic and have sex with turtles as your transgendered boyfriend / masochistic slave watches and weeps while taking Polaroid shots, hey, I’m cool; rock it out my friend.

No, that doesn’t bother me. I can see your pierced lips and Hot Topic apparel coming from a mile away and know to begin judging you in silence. It’s the ones who catch you off guard, the ones that you don’t expect, that sliver under my skin. Take, for instance, the “mildly retarded.” There I am at Kroger, waiting to be checked out by your average specimen of white trash, when suddenly the cashier opens his mouth and begins mumbling about how he is having a “happy” day. I am completely thrown out of orbit. My defenses down, I am not ready for this kind of attack. With lightning speed I have to retrieve my fake smile and uncomfortable nod, as my brain races to figure out what in the hell is wrong with this person. Why can’t these people just go for the gold and be all and out retarded, slapping their face and uncontrollably flatulenting? At least then we’d know.

The Things We Carry

I was sitting on the toilet the other day when it struck me.
Like a deer darting in front of a Sunday driver, both trotting along innocently, oblivious to the other until the fatal moment of impact, it crammed its horns into my cranium, and now I cannot escape it. Every time I close my eyes it is there, waiting to confront me:

What if I was mysteriously murdered and the only clues available to investigators regarding a possible motive and my very existence were the contents of my wallet?

I know….

What artifacts am I leaving behind for others to piece together in order to recreate the complex mosaic that is my life? Do I even like or recognize the message I am leaving?

This scenario ever crossed your mind? As I believe the vast majority of people to live unexamined lives, I am guessing not. You probably go throughout your day unmindful of the unexpected, the anonymous sink hole waiting to suck you in or the madman in the bushes, silently stalking before he leaps into the night, restrains you with his rope, and then uses his team of horses to draw and quarter you as your hollow screams escape into the musty air.

Never thought about it, huh?

Well, it could happen. And when it does, what emblem will you be remembered by? An expired condom buried deep in the pockets of your billfold, ribbed for her pleasure? A crusty McDonald’s napkin you licked three weeks ago and then rubbed on your son’s dirty cheek, now cemented to the lining of your purse? Are these the things you want marking your legacy?

As I sat there on the toilet, dumbfounded by my revelation, my hamstrings began to cramp and my feet went numb, but I knew it was no time to flush and flee. Instead, I bent down and reached in my back pocket, pulling out the encyclopedia of my life.

I began with the obvious, my driver’s license. Slipping the card out of its protective sleeve, my hand muscles suddenly revolted, the license crashing onto the tile floor.

We’re all fucked!

In a situation where your face is horribly disfigured by a bursting pipe of boiling water or the crazed attack of a rabid clawing kitten, the mortician would have no choice but to start with your driver’s license. After spending hours in line with the very scrotum of society as some – fill in your favorite ethnic, racial, or all around Republican mindset slur here – tells you to “looks here”, no one can be cute. Now I ask you: who in the hell wants to spend eternity looking like a late night Waffle House employee?

Discouraged by determined, I continued my excavation.

Receipts scrambled for freedom as I thumbed through the section where most would keep cash; I instead prefer to store a variety of worthless shit. Old hotel room card keys, an expired free smoothie coupon, and a promotional flyer for some strip clubbed shoved in my hand by a street urchin on my last trip to New Orleans. Judging from these relics, I look like some type of sexual deviant obsessed with the "Very Berry-Kiwi Quencher."

Digging deeper I find stained business cards of people I don’t even know, offering services that I don’t understand. Buried behind my maxed out credit card and my proof of insurance is the contact info for a psychologist I met at a teaching conference. Fabulous, between my driver’s license picture, the porn advertisement, and the therapist, I will be remembered as a freakish-looking sex crazed lunatic.

Now you might excuse yourself from these worries by labeling my concerns as paranoia, but the threats are very real. Remember back to 5th grade Social Studies and the island of Pompeii? Those poor people were devoured by an erupting volcano with their final actions perfectly preserved by the cooling lava. In middle school they only show you the pictures of the mother serving dinner and the children lying asleep in bed, but you can’t tell me there wasn’t somebody in that city taking a shit or pleasuring themselves in the bathroom. Where are those photos?What if your final contribution to the world was the odd contorted shape your face takes during orgasm? How awkward…

Now that I have opened this intellectual door, I have become obsessed with it. How will future societies judge and understand us? I was pondering this one recent afternoon while waiting to checkout at Walgreens, when I noticed the contents of the basket in front of me. As Lionel Riche’s Dancing on the Ceiling seeped through the poorly wired speakers, I shook my head and sighed: Kotex maxi pads, a Snickers bar, People magazine, and a liter of Mountain Dew. What if in that moment there was a freak volcano eruption or nuclear attack, and Walgreens was petrified in time, only to be awoken thousands of years from now by a group of future archeologists? What would they conclude?

I’ll tell you what they would think: that we were some sick mother fuckers performing strange menstruation rituals! I can see future scholars agonizing over how the People magazine came into play. “Clearly the bottled ‘mountain dew’ represents some kind of connection to the mother earth, and the nugget bar is clearly a phallic symbol, but I do not understand how all of this connects with the sad collapse of this Brittney Spears person or the man with no arms who swam the English Channel? Fascinating savages!”

With this new perspective, I can’t help but rethink my whole understanding of history and past civilizations. Maybe we were wrong about the extravagance of the Egyptians or the barbarity of the Aztecs. Maybe what we thought were mummification rites and human sacrifices were just their Walgreen’s lines.

Think about it…

Regardless, you can never be too careful, so I am going to clean out my wallet. Screw insurance cards and driver’s licenses. I am filling it to the brim with opera tickets and advertisements for charities serving people who cause me to lock my door when they stumble by my car. I am going to be immortalized properly damn it!

Donnie Darko & Sweater Vests

I love judging other people. Do you?

I know it probably sounds a bit shallow, but we all do it. Even as I sit here writing, sipping over-priced free trade coffee at a tragically eclectic hipster hangout, I am evaluating all my fellow patrons in my head. He’s trying too hard; they’re ugly; he hasn’t had sex in three years; she needs to realize she’s 35 and that skirt is 22.

If you have never done this you really should try. It’s quite fun! Whenever I feel self-conscious or existentially unsatisfied, I just go into public and put down other people. It almost always makes me feel better, even if the sensation of superiority is only ephemeral.

I would like to believe I love this hobby so much because I am just a bad person, but unfortunately, that’s not true. Contrastingly, I am afraid I’m just horribly self-conscious and feel compelled to mentally assault other people to make up for that fact that they would never have sex with me or because I am so jealous of their obvious contentment.

Screw happy, balanced people! Why can’t they be more like me?

Crippled by a sense of inferiority, I find myself constantly going out of my way to seem intellectually chic, purposely pretentious. This need manifests itself in all areas of my life, from my carefully orchestrated wardrobe to my special request at Chili’s to add water chestnuts to my side salad.

A great example is my recent subscription to the New York Times. On weekend mornings there is nothing I love more than pouring a roasting hot cup of coffee, slipping on my leather-soled slippers, and nonchalantly strutting down my drive way to pick-up the paper. (I have learned that if you really want to sell this image you have to refer to it as just “the paper”; a newspaper is for whores and gypsies.) Stretching before I reach down, I take a moment to appreciate the contrast between my blue bag and my neighbor’s orange ones; they only read the local paper, plebeians.

Slipping the Sunday edition out of its case, I flip open the front page as I was wander back to the door, hoeing and humming over the news from the world of the liberal, rich, and mostly Jewish. Don’t let the fact that its 1:30 in the afternoon and my hung over ass just now crawled out of bed smelling of urine and tasting like a Denny’s ashtray fool you. I have a blue bag; I am a somebody.
This need for self-importance has also led to a number of interesting purchases on my part. For instance, I own a $100 pair of hiking sandals known as Chaco’s. Do I hike? No. Do I enjoy the outdoors? Not really. Does it bother me that when I wear them my feet get dirty and the strap cuts off circulation to my big toe? A little. But all the indulgence and discomfort is worth it when I wear them to my favorite coffee house and fantasize about what other people must be thinking. “Hey, look at that guy. He is wearing those expensive trendy sandals; I bet he shops at Whole Foods.”

You see, I really can’t help myself. Just the other night, for instance, I found myself accompanying my fiancé to a cocktail party populated by her “old friends.” Intimidated by the inside jokes and story punch lines recited in unison, I knew I needed to bring my “A” game. Walking around sipping the ostentatious Eastern European beer I had brought, I floated from group to group commenting on everything from Barack Obama’s “Neo-Liberal Politics” – I find that if you insert “neo” in front of any subject you seem much more versed in the topic – to the best golf courses in Memphis. My old standby, however, has always been the film Donnie Darko.

If you have never seen the movie, I could not even begin to tell you what it’s about, despite having watched it many times. My own confusion is a mute point, however. I don’t know why, but this film is a rallying cry for 20-something, liberal, white, want-to-be intellectuals. If you are ever searching for your own kind, just bring up “Granny Death” or “the film’s portrayal of the complexity of time” and watch the pale, skinny, sexually frustrated come bulldozing over to you. I have spent countless nights explicating the film’s subtle suggestions with strangers as we sip micro-brewery beer and puff on our clove cigarettes.

Shit, I don’t even know what the damn move is about! I don’t think anyone actually does, but its New Wave soundtrack, explicit dialogue, and Gram Greene references make it the perfect cloak for us, the pseudo cool.

My obsession with social over-compensation dates back to as long as I can remember. I still clearly recall that very special day in the 2nd grade, as I sat uprightly in my navy blue plastic chair, scoffing at the poor posture of my counterparts, when Mrs. Perkins announced the destination of our holiday field trip: the Nutcracker Ballet. Well, as the miscreants surrounding me groaned and moaned about tights and tutus, I saw opportunity. Now was my chance to make up for that glue eating incident back in October; I was going to be a theatre patron.

Leaping off the school bus at the end of the day, I burst through the kitchen doors, insisting my mother immediately drop whatever she is doing and take me to JC Penny’s, the mall anchor store of the sophisticate. If I was going to appreciate the dance and impress the knuckle draggers who made up my class, I had to do it with style.

After many weeks of whining, begging, and negotiating, my mother finally caved and took me along on her annual shopping spree for panty hose and shoulder pads. The torture of the ladies intimate apparel department was worth it once I saw my prize. A black cable-knit sweater vest, complete with over-sized buttons and fashion pockets. This was the statement I had been waiting to make.

Apparently, my idea of unexpected cool, of casual elegance, was just seen as “faggy” to everyone else. My emblem of distinction was shoved far up my ass long before the show ever started, and I realized my plan to impress was ruined when my shiny black loafers were ripped from my feet and used to pummel my head as soon as the house lights went down.

Bleeding but not broken, I knew my day would come. Somehow, someway I would be appreciated and understood for the person I was not but wanted people to think I was.

Making a Difference...

Recently, I found myself reading an article about the “Harlem Renaissance”, and its importance in the larger cannon of American Literature. (See how much smarter I sound just by having written that sentence. That is why I “find myself” reading shit like that.)

The individual accomplishments of people like Langston Hughes, Zora Neal Hurston, Gwendolyn Brooks are interesting in their own right, but what really struck my intellectual fancy was that these people were all friends, neighbors. It is like if the stars of Sesame Street were all black and not puppets. Instead of Grover singing about “Near and Far”, W. E. B. Dubois is explaining how “Honkey is a Big Dick Donkey”, while Oscar the Grouch and Elmo slip into verse, praying to break free from the big white hand shoved up their asses.

I am kidding, obviously, but the idea of a cultural revolution, one fed by the ideas and interests of those surrounding you really got me thinking. Based on my own life and experiences, what kind of change am I putting in place? Will my friends and I be the next great political minds and /or agents of social reform?

No. Not unless that change concerns watching a monkey eat its on feces on YouTube or measuring just how much a person can drink before having to “break the seal.”

F! My life is pointless! Langston Hughes spent his mid – 20’s rubbing shoulders with Duke Ellington and influential leaders, while my best friend Nick can sustain a single fart for over a minute and my friend Greg considers his days successful if he can go the whole time without calling someone “the c word.”

It’s not that I don’t love my friends; I think they’re great. It just when I compare my group of contemporaries with others throughout history – the Harlem Renaissance, the Romantics, the American Expatriates, that very special season of the Mickey Mouse Club from the early 1990’s - I feel a little inferior.

Don’t get me wrong, the “We Love Barrack” buttons pinned to our hipster satchels and our never-ending mindless facts about bands no one’s ever heard of is pretty damn important, but I am afraid it is not enough. I mean, I buy organic vegetables and have gay friends. What more can I possibly do? And it’s not like we can excuse ourselves because we are attractive or bubbly like those people on the TV show Friends; we’re ugly and our apartments suck.

It has not always been this way, however. I remember in high school being convinced that my group of friends and me were all a Barbara Walters’ Special in the making. 20 years from now sociologists would be dumfounded by the success and contributions that came from this tight-knit group of friends. Gwen was going to be a famous writer, Teresa the first female president. Matt was going to be a brain surgeon, Eric would be David Letterman, and Nick was just going to be rich and do it with a bunch of hot girls.

As for me, I was going to be a famous actor, but not of the blockbuster film variety. I didn’t want to sell – out, so I was just going to stick with Edward Norton or Phillip Seymour Hoffman fame. A popular movie or two interspersed between my serious “indie projects.” I learned from People Magazine that real actors do not work on films, they work on “projects.” You know the ones with lots of dialogue about sex and being unsatisfied with the “monotony of the modern condition.”

Her hair golden and inflated, sitting back in her chair, hand delicately supporting her chin, Barbara Walters, Babs really, leans forward in her pale pink pant suit, and says, “Well, I have to ask the question everyone has been wondering: How did this ever happen? How did such a close group of friends find this much success?” Seated together on an beige, overstuffed couch, we all laugh humbly, excited to be recognized for our accomplishments and to reunite with one another after all of these years.

Cut to a montage of old yearbook photos, certificates and awards. Barbara’s voice looms over the sentimental music as she introduces each of us and explains our story. The next day we are all over the papers, featured in magazines and editorials. O Magazine runs a feature story about me that begins with “Sitting down with Josh Clark over sparkling water and a lemon salad, I get right to the tough question: What’s next for this boy wonder?”

What the hell happened? Where is my 20/20 interview??

It’s not that my friends aren’t successful; everyone is doing great, but we’re sure as hell not taking calls from Oprah’s people.

In the end, though, I guess this is how it happens. The demands of the real world can deflate even the most certain of dreams. I know in my case what amounted to “groundbreaking talent” in Collierville, Tennessee translated into a loud voice and flamboyant undertones on the college stage.

It’s not too late, however. We should make a change, take a stand! Maybe we can save some gay baby seals from dying in Iraq or write important poetry about what it’s like to be white males.

We can do this, we can make a difference!

Oh, what you’d just say? You Netflixed The Big Lebowski and bought a six pack of some pretentious Czechoslovakian beer that tastes like cat urine? Well fuck, we can get started on the rest of this shit tomorrow. Pop that bitch in the DVD player my friend.

Masculinity & Me

The other day a friend and I ventured out to see the new Batman movie. After negotiating through long ticket lines and promising the soul of my first born child for over-salted popcorn and a giant cup of ice colored with a splash of Coke, we found our way to the back of a very crowded theatre. Being opening weekend, even our Sunday matinee was jammed, leaving very few available seats. Finally, we secured two spaces in the very last row of theatre, and as I began to make myself comfortable, I noticed the two guys in front of us were sitting with a seat in-between them.

By the way they were talking and joking with one another, it was obvious they were at the movie together. Cloaked in camouflage shorts and “The South’s Gonna do it Again” t-shirts, they were dressed as if they had confused this mega-plex movie theatre with a gun show or some type of convention where one buys fishing tackle while hating black people.

Watching as families and couples searched desperately from the front of the theatre for adjoining seats, I leaned over to my friend Jason and asked, “Why won’t these guys just sit together?” Without a moment’s hesitation he looked at me and sagely explained “Because that would be gay.”

Ah, yes, of course, the old “that would be gay” stream of logic.

If you are unfamiliar with this train of thought, just ask your closest straight, guy friend. For many of them, much of their lives are dictated by avoiding that which would be gay. Now while this might sound homophobic and asinine, I assure you it is. But it is also more complicated than it seems. You see, straight men’s avoidance of that which would be gay has little to do with sexuality and is more a question of masculinity. In the world of the hip, where men can carry satchels, gel their hair, and appreciate Tori Amos and yet still dig chicks, men must adopt new mediums to express their manliness.

A great example of this phenomenon is the politics and negotiations of the men’s room. While women travel to the bathroom in clans and have no problem painting each other’s nails as they pee, it is a solitary experience for a man. Small cramped bathrooms are the worst. If there is a line, where do you stand? Where do you look? What kind of small talk is appropriate when other men are holding their penises? Do real men wash their hands? And if so do they use soap? The questions abound!

Now, I will admit I may be a little more paranoid about this issue than most. You see, I often find myself insufficiently masculine. When surrounded by a group of “guy’s guys” I never know what to do. I feel as if there is a secret language or understood behavior that I somehow missed learning during adolescence. I think it might have been covered during 7th grade gym when I sat out because I had a note from my mom explaining my skin’s sensitivity to sweat. Or maybe it was during recess when the other boys played “run around and beat the shit out of each other”, while I was sitting under a tree reading Are You there God? It’s Me, Margaret.

Regardless of when it happened, I am clearly missing something.

For instance, I went out the other day for some drinks with my boss and an enclave of all male co-workers. The conversation snaked through topics such as Bret Favre’s still undecided fate with the Green Bay Packers, the recent NBA draft, and everyone’s speculations about the upcoming college football season. I of course sat silent. Downing my Chardonnay and thinking I needed to start recording Sports Center, the conversation suddenly took a turn for the better. My boss asked if anyone watched Big Brother and how they felt about the dramatic events of the past few weeks. Yes, finally something I could talk about: reality TV! Waiting patiently for an appropriate pause in the conversation, I pounced on my opportunity. With my best attempt at a deep voice, I added, “Oh yeah. And did y’all catch this week’s Project Runway? Can you believe Wesley tried to make that dress with that tacky brown Satin?”

Silence.

Ok, so I admit, a show about fashion designers might not be the archetype of masculinity. But who knew it was acceptable to discuss a show were a bunch of shirtless pretty boys sit around and gossip all day and then sleep in the same room, but Heidi Klum and a bunch of half naked female models, that’s gay! You see what I mean? There is no way this is a instinctive understanding that all men share; there must have been a class!

I like to think I am getting better though. Just the other day I spent all day swishing my toes within my shoes because they would not stop itching. When I got home and took off my socks, I discovered some type of bubbly fungus in the crevices of my feet. My mind immediately leaping to rare foot cancers or bird flu, I insisted my fiancé come into the bathroom and examine my feet. After only a passing glance, she began to giggle and told me to relax. “It’s only Athlete’s Foot” she said.

That’s right ladies and gentleman, Athlete’s Foot…..You can’t get any more masculine than that!

If A is equal to B and B is equal to C, that meant I could only contract Athlete’s Foot if I am…..that’s right, a mother fucking athlete! Who’s afraid to climb the rope in gym class because it gives him a funny feeling in his stomach now?

I am finally a man.

People are strange....

I am obsessed with CNN.com. I love it and am compelled by a force greater than myself to monitor it constantly. I have wasted months of my existence combing through breaking news stories and superfluous articles. What is truly saddening, though, is my particular brand of media fetish. Relevant, important news such as presidential elections or devastating natural disasters, blah! That rubbish is for people with too much time on their hands. Articles about “Toilet Paper Wedding Gowns Honored” or “8 Limbed ‘Goddess’ Baby Becomes Normal Girl”, shit, I stop teaching and pull out the worksheets when news like that breaks. It’s despicable, but my life revolves around meaningless crap.

I like to believe these exotic tidbits give me a certain edge at parties, or when I was still single, in helping to meet prospective sex partners. While other losers break the ice with anecdotes about the weather or the horrors of the genocide in Rwanda, bitches are literally throwing themselves at me to learn more about “Busy Moms: How do they Stay Afloat?” or how “Hats and Heels Reign Supreme on Ladies Day.”

Alright, so if I was not engaged I would probably never have sex again, but I know there have to be people out there who share my proclivity for useless, mundane news.

Right?

Apparently, this population is larger than I thought. Surfing through the latest updates, I recently noticed a new icon positioned next to CNN’s “Top Stories” that resembles a t – shit. Clicking on it, I learned that if one was so inclined, a person can now order a t –shirt with their favorite CNN.com headline printed on it. Yes, now you too can have a plain white t-shirt with “Autistic Man Found after Week in the Woods” or my personal favorite, “Condo Pool Nudity Rankles Residents” pasted across it. First of all, what in the hell does “rankles” mean, and secondly, who is buying this shit? Is there no God? I acknowledge that I am a sick freak, but I am not about to print it on a t-shirt for the entire world to see. If you wear one of these shirt s in public you might as well be saying, “Hey, be sure not to park next to my van in the mall parking lot because otherwise I’ll cut you up and eat your toes.”

Why do people have to be so damn odd?

I do not know about you, but I feel like the warped and socially incompetent of the world all flock to me. It is as if I send out some kind of signal that attracts their adult braces or oversized hearing aids. What makes it worse is once they have established contact, I am unable to push them away. I smile and nod and act as if I am fascinated by their grandmother’s discolored mole, and no, I did not know it was a bad sign if it started to itch.

My tolerance has nothing to do with kindness either. Fuck, I hate these people. It is my own sick self-conscious need to have everyone like me. No, not just like, I need them to revel in my presence. I need anyone near me to think “Wow, what a fun, down to earth guy. Clearly he is content.”

Meanwhile I am feeding my emaciated ego with their every smile and chuckle. Pathetic I know, but I must concede that weird people are the best. Finding most others intolerant of their lazy eye or lisp, my forged interest makes me a God to them. Finally, someone sitting at the cool lunch table cares. (Not that I actually sit at the cool lunch table, but when spend your life eating with the cafeteria staff and special ed. students, it does not take much.)

The problem of course is when these people continue to swarm around me well after my self-image has been fulfilled. Can’t they see I am done pretending to care? The worst is when a onetime conversation is misinterpreted as a friendship, and they follow me everywhere I go. For instance, there was a girl I attended graduate school with whose presence was about as pleasurable as an infected ingrown toenail, but who somehow adopted me as her new BFF. Though seemingly normal in appearances, after thirty seconds of conversation, I began wondering if she was raised in one of those polygamist cults that did not allow TV or peanut butter. Or maybe she was just retarded. Fuck, I don’t know. I just know she was weird and somehow thought I cared.

I recall one night sitting on the front porch of our dormitory with a friend and his wife, and while the rest of our group had gone to bed, Little Miss Weird – Ass Sunshine remained. While talking about teaching and retelling humorous little anecdotes about students and parents, girl wonder abruptly interrupts with, “Do y’all eat chalk?”

Do ya’ll eat chalk…?

What in the hell is a person suppose to say to that? And of course, as I am the one responsible for her presence, the obligation to respond falls upon me. Not knowing what to say or where she is going with this inquiry, I try the stoner approach and say, “Yeah, um, I hear that shit will fuck you up.” What? Fuck you up? I know, I know, but what other options did I have.

“I use to eat chalk”, she explains, and then suddenly gets up, gathers her things, and goes to bed. No explanation to her question. No justification for why one might eat chalk. At least she was gone, however. A few days later I was rushing to catch the elevator, and after throwing myself between the closing doors, I found it was just her, me, and 5 floors of forced conversation. Looking at her face it was obvious she had been crying, and needing to be needed, I asked what was wrong. Apparently her grandfather had just passed away unexpectedly, and she was making arrangements to leave for the funeral. While that was sad or whatever, what was really shocking was the lucidity this travesty had granted her. No awkward questions or uncomfortable non – sequiturs. It seems the shock of her grandfather’s death had somehow sent her into normal discourse. Well, thank God that woman died when she did. Otherwise, can you imagine how unpleasant that elevator ride might have been?

Just the other day I had another run in with the socially useless. While using the computer at the library, a man walked in and sat across from me. Though he seemed fairly normal at first, something about him caught my eye and compelled me to take a closer look. The man’s trimmed gray hair and clean shaven – chin were complimented by the orange foundation and deep crimson rouge caked to his face. This lovely aesthetic gesture was accented by the ruby stud costume earrings resting daintily under his forest of ear hair. Lovely. Now, I am no expert in this field, but I feel like if I were going to dress like a woman, I would at least want to look pretty.

Regardless, as I moved in for a closer look, we made eye contact, and then I knew I was screwed. I smiled and returned to my Facebook profile, but for the next thirty minutes, I found myself constantly peering across the table and smiling. I felt I had to make grand gestures of civility to this science experiment gone wrong so he would know I did not think him to be a freak of fucking nature that probably grew up masturbating with his mother’s panties over his head. No, I celebrated his diversity.

Not being able to leave till he did, lest he think I was afraid of him, I found myself back on CNN.com. Maybe more people should buy these t-shirts. That way, I could see “Kids Fed ‘Silly Pills’, made to do Sex Shows” from afar and just stay away.

Poop

Can you poop in public?

I can’t.

There is something about the whole process that just doesn’t seem very communal to me. The sounds, the concentration, the occasional grunt. It is simply something I don’t care to share with other people, let alone in the close proximity of complete strangers. Washing their hands while out to dinner celebrating great accomplishments, reuniting with old friends, or even beginning a new relationship, I feel like if I were to let it all go, I would literally be shittting on their experience, and who wants that?

I applaud those of you who can pull it off, though. Pants down, legs spread out as if reclining on a porcelain Lazy-Z-Boy, you exude a self-confidence I wish I could posses. I must admit, though, I am always shocked to learn of women who can poop in public. I know it’s horribly sexist and only confirms my status as a chauvinistic ass, but I feel like woman should never poop, let alone at Applebee’s Neighborhood Bar & Grill.

In our society, we are insistent on separating people into dichotomies: white or black, male or female, straight or gay, beer or wine. Not only are these labels inappropriate for our P.C. society, but they are also rather pointless. Just the other day I met a mixed race bisexual who although biologically male identifies as female and who suffers from such severe alcoholism – wonder where that need comes from– that she’ll drink anything. So you see, our ways of understanding and defining each other are quite antiquated.

Now before you pour yourself another big helping of granola and raise the freak flag, understand that I am not implying we should not label one another. How else could I understand my inherent superiority to others? No, we must brand each other with arbitrary markers, but I am merely suggesting we create new, more judicious ones.

I think the obvious place to start here is with pooping. When you consider it, where a person defecates says a lot about them. The municipal pooper knows no boundaries, lacks a certain refinement, either literally thinking their shit doesn’t stink or just simply not caring. Regardless, they display a sense of abandonment that might seem appealing on some hedonistic level, but cannot be tolerated in a civilized world.

By contrast, the private pooper is civic minded, recognizing that inconveniences must be embraced for the good of the community at large. Yes, we all do poop, but you don’t see me shaving my pubic hairs or fondling myself in public restrooms now do you?
The trivial divisions of a new millennium don’t stop here: those who find Sarah Jessica Parker attractive versus those who don’t; beauty icon or horse face? Your answer to that question reveals a lot.

One split that has been on my mind a lot recently is that of those who like talking on the phone versus those who don’t. The simple-minded and bigoted might think this is an obvious question of gender, but they lack true understanding of the 21st century mind frame. Representatives of women and men alike enjoy conversing on the phone. (Granted, these same men also enjoy pedicures and having things up their butt, but I celebrate that.)

I for one hate the phone. I despise it in fact. It is not that I do not love my friends and family; it’s just that I really don’t care. Understand, I am not an asshole. If you die or win a Nobel Peace Prize, please, by all means call and tell me. But when you phone to see “what’s up”, the answer is simple: nothing “is up” because I am on the fucking phone wasting time talking with you. I do not mean to sound heartless, but unless something monumental happened in your life, what’s the point of “catching up?”

“Yeah, nothing new here. Cancer has not spread past my lymph nodes, and they have still have not had to put me on a feeding tube..”

Yeah, super for you, but couldn’t all of that been said in a text message or holiday card? I mean, really.

Again, I am not trying to be callous, but if I have to go all day without shitting, the last thing I want to do when I come home is delay the process even more by discussing how grandma is still alive.

Just something to think about…..

Everybody must get Stoned...

Teaching middle school, I find that in order to stay relevant in the minds of my students, I must stay afloat with the latest trends and popularities. Because my own self – worth is dependent upon the approval of people who have yet to discover deodorant and admire individuals who can drink the most spoonfuls of hot sauce, I have to work hard. Hannah Montana, The Jonas Brothers, Coldplay, some asshole named Soulja Boy, I have to endure some pretty horrible shit to stay “cool”. Sadly, thirty years from now when my students reflect on their experiences in my classroom, what they once saw as my “quirky personality” will take on a new label, “substance abuse.”

For now, though, in an attempt to remain hip to the hop, I created a Facebook account. If you are unfamiliar, Facebook is an online social networking system where young people post information and pictures that will prevent them from ever securing gainful employment and secure early on their role as a dirty, dirty whore.

Perusing my students’ pages, I was shocked by what I found. Thirteen year olds bragging about sexual escapades, fifteen year olds soliciting drugs, and every male college student in America shirtless and evoking the “We’re Number 1” sign. What exactly they are number 1 at I am not sure, but from the comments written on their profile, I assume it is somehow related to “doing all the bitches.”

What is happening to our society?

I couldn’t get laid until I was in college, and even then it was only because she was drunk! And when it comes to drugs, these kids are making deals online, while at 26, I have to wait for my finance to fall asleep, so I can sneak into the basement and smoke out of a Diet Coke can. There is something horribly wrong here!

As I thought more about this injustice, though, I realized something important. They might be living the life now, but it will all come back to haunt them. While using technology to solicit sex and illegal drugs at an alarmingly young age has its blessings, can you imagine if the exploits and decisions from your adolescence were posted for all the world to see? Imagine the CBS National News leading its broadcast with, “In Tennessee today, young John Smith wore white sox with his flip – flops and then masturbated thirteen times. More from our local correspondent on the scene.”

How embarrassing. …

At twelve years old I remembering riding my bike over to my best friend Nick's house for a afternoon of innocent fun. Declaring his vast array of movies and video games unsatisfying, we found ourselves in the default status of all adolescents, “bored.”

“I have an idea”, Nick said to me. “We should get high.”

Now, at this point in our rebellion against our white suburban privilege and parents’ unconditional love, we had only committed minor transgressions. Sharing a cigarette in the woods, taking a sip of our dads' beers when their backs were turned, nothing we really knew to be illegal or wrong. So while I was hesitant at first, Nick finally convinced me to go along when he promised that afterwards we could watch the jumbled images coming through the blocked cable pornography channel, or scrambled titty vision as we liked to call it.

As Nick and I were both retarded and had no clue as to what it meant to get high, we went looking through his kitchen to find something that resembled the drugs we had seen on TV. We consequently learned that cocaine’s street cred as “nose candy” has nothing to do with snorting sugar.

Ready to give up, Nick had a breakthrough: we should smoke something! That’s what homeless people do! Searching through his mother’s spice rack and finding nothing that sounded particularly illicit, we came upon some Lipton tea bags. Suddenly, in the majesty and pure beauty that is the adolescent mind, we had an epiphany.

The next thing I knew, Nick and I were hidden in a shaded corner of his backyard, using paper from my math notebook to wrap –up the contents of half a tea bag. (We decided not to use the whole bag, as we did not want to get too “messed up.”) Moments later we were passing back and forth the world’s longest joint as my notes on long division delved into flames. Besides the massive blaze pouring from the end of the paper, making it impossible to hold it anywhere near our faces, and our inability to actually inhale, Nick and I were fucked – up.

Neither of us were sure how to act in such a situation, so Nick began ranting about seeing a giant purple dinosaur to which I replied with the nodding of my head and repeating “yeah man, yeah man.” Hearing the slamming of the backdoor and his mother’s call for dinner, we were suddenly scared back into sobriety.

The school year ended only a few weeks later, and I went away to my Dad's house in Indiana for the summer. When I returned, there was never again any mention of our little psychedelic tea party and to this day I think both of us would like to forget it ever happened.

But can you imagine if Facebook had been at our disposal? Within minutes we would have changed our usernames to “Cheech and Chong” and transformed into the Timothy Leary of herbal teas. Green is a nice mellow high, but beware the “pure leaf” bags. You might never come back from that…

Oh, technology is grand, but I for one am glad to have grown armpit hair before discovering it.

I "Heart" Black People

I don’t hate black people. I actually quite enjoy them. I am down, in fact. The guy that did the thing with the peanuts and Bill Cosby with the Pudding Pops and his fun sweaters. Yeah black people! You see before you continue reading, you must understand that I am not a racist. Oh sure all of us can’t help but prescribe to some form of “prejudice”, but I plan to vote for Barak Obama.

When it comes to questions of race, ethnicity, sexuality, etc, I do not care what you look like or who you fuck as long as you are attractive and don’t wear parkas. I am just that kind of open minded guy.

I feel it necessary to make this clarification early on, so when I explain my predicament, you will not jump to some ridiculous, liberal conclusion. You see, because of black people, I can no longer eat Mexican food. It is a sad state of affairs I know. No more enchiladas. No more delicious bean burritos. And why? Because of black people.

I am sure by this point some of my more sensitive readers – How’s that Starbucks latte, by the way? – would like to start a protest on recycled paper but hear me out. When I enjoy Mexican fare, I like to have an authentic experience, and that’s why after a long day of landscaping in the yard or completing a construction project, I pull right up into my local El Chico, El Chaco, El Coochie O, or whatever the hell it’s called, ready for a good time. As a reward for all of my hard work and as a way to really taste the native flavor of my local strip shopping center, I like to compliment my meal with a cool adult beverage. This use to mean a little chat with my old friend Jose Cuervo, but we had to move on from on another after finding myself naked and sticky outside the post office.

Nonetheless, I have switched to beer, and refusing to be a white suburban cliché drinking Corona, there is nothing I love more – except for black people – than a tall glass of Negra Modelo. With a salted rim and a wedge of lime, it is third world perfection in a bottle. The problem, however, is when I go to order it. Our waiter approaches the table, and I insist that he comes to me last, as I am “still deciding.” Sweat builds in all of the awkward crevices of my body as I silently mouth to myself the order: Negra, Negra! Finally it is my turn, and in an uncontrollable fit of panic, I blurt out “I’ll take a Negro Modelo.”

Negro, I know….

I might as well have said I would enjoy a big glass of white supremacy or a bowl of apartheid to dip our chips in. God forbid I have a black waiter, and as this poor soul serves whitey once again, my guilt and fear boil up, as I politely ask for a “Nigger Model on draft, please.”
Do you now understand? Black people, and the years of enslavement and disgrace forced upon them by my ancestors, have destroyed my chances of ever eating a decent tamale again. Despite my love of the Fresh Prince of Bel- Air, when it comes to black people and my words, I can get very nervous.

When you think about it, the power and force a single word can convey is amazing, and often times, we are not even aware of it. Growing up in the South, I can remember at seven years old frolicking home for dinner, slurping down a tall glass of milk, and relaying to my mother the crazy antics of the new neighborhood game, Nigger Knocking. “It’s great”, I said. “Andrew and I sneak up to people’s front doors, ring their door bell, and then run across the street and hide in the bushes and laugh when those niggers come looking out the door.” A charming game really.

After sharing that little gem, my mother about beat my ass until it was black, but at seven, I had no idea what I had said that was so wrong. The fact that the victims of our follies, these supposed silly “niggers”, were an elderly white Jewish couple who loved Laurence Welch and wintered in Baco Raton, just illuminates my ignorance. I had no idea what I was saying.

After cracking her favorite wooden spoon and losing all feeling in her right arm, my mom finally relented on my beating and explained to me the meaning behind my word choice. I felt horrible. I had heard of “racists” before, but I always thought I had too many teeth to be one. God got me back, however, when a little over a month later, while staying at a friend’s house, his mother promised if we were good that night she would make us some delicious “nigger toes” to eat before I went home.

Holy fucking shit. These people are so racist they actually eat black people.

It turns out that “nigger toes” were a kind of homemade candy, a perfect combination of delight and degradation. I did not know this at the time, though, and spent a sleepless night in pure terror, imagining waking to the smell of pancakes, coffee, and simmering human flesh, my friend’s mother garbed in a pink apron, high heels, and a necklace of tiny little black fingers.

Nigger toes, nigger knocking, nigger model! I am a horrible person! Right? Is my verbal vomiting a result of a charred soul, or I am simply using a language more powerful and loaded than I can fully understand?

Take my students for example. After spending only a small amount of time with modern day adolescents, it’s easy to conclude that all of life is divided into two categories: that which is gay and that which is not. Cheating on a test, not doing your homework, eating seasoned French fries, not gay. A boring assignment, a jammed locker, being polite and appreciative, cock sucking homo.

If an anthropologist ever observed a typical American middle school, he or she could not help but deduce that as a society, we are absolutely obsessed with gay sex. After working with 6th graders for only a few short years, because of their language I can now not help but imagine all kinds of inanimate objects doing it doggy style. Broken pencils fucking other broken pencils, rained out recesses going down on other rained out recesses. What kind of world do we live in?

For now, though, I am just going to play it safe. No more “Negro” beer over here. I am going to stick with something safe, like a “leg spreader” or “muff dive” shooter. Something that won’t cause such the controversy.

Vaginitas...

If I had a vagina, I would never leave my room.

I meant it. The possibilities of pleasure and discoveries seem endless. In fact, I now think I understand why women take so long to get ready for even the simplest of occasions. They are in their rooms with their vaginas!

Judging by the reaction I have received from other people when sharing this thought – which by the way, if you do not like my form of small talk, just cut my fucking hair and don’t ask me what’s on my mind– I feel like now might be a good time to distinguish between a desire and a theory.

I love my penis. I use it every day in fact. Think it’s fabulous. It’s been there with me through good times and through bad. Anything that can survive the combination of my adolescence and the onset of the Internet deserves a medal of valor. So please, understand, I am not suggesting I would actually like a vagina. That would be weird. I do not stand in front of my bedroom mirror at night, the general tucked between its sergeants, hot pink lipstick smeared all over my face, moaning to myself Bonnie Tyler’s ”Total Eclipse of the Heart”. Gross. Instead, after pleasuring myself in every imaginable position and watching enough pornography to write a dissertation, I am just thinking out loud. Much like Kafka saw a cockroach and said “what if”, I see a vagina and say “hmm….”

You see, this whole train of thought began when at graduate school a mixed sex group of friends began talking about masturbation. Attending graduate school at a small Southern liberal arts college on top of a mountain, your only options for escape from the demands of academia are to indulge in the natural beauty of the surrounding landscape or to obliterate your mind with cheap beer and overpriced pot. Being scholars, we chose the latter.

Through the haze of stale cigarette smoke and empty Miller Lite Pitchers, between our rants about Shakespeare and the flaws of structuralism, some unassuming male soul made a comment about a female counterpart’s dildo. Well gentleman, let me clarify this for you know, so yet ye soon don’t forget: not all women use a dildo. In fact, many don’t.

What the fuck? I know.

Let me pause for a moment so any potential female readers can understand this male mindset. As young boys, males live their lives with a sense of dissatisfaction, a feeling that something just isn’t right. Is it a yearning for life’s greater truths, a desire to understand the world’s secrets? No. It is the yet unknown realization that we can rub our penises against things and it feels good. No other moment in life is as sweet or as memorable.

Once realized, we cannot help ourselves. Remember when your little brother, around the age of eleven or twelve, locked himself in the bathroom for hours a day because “his stomach hurt”? That wasn’t Lime Disease my female friends, that was masturbation. I do not think I am exaggerating when I say it completely takes over our lives. Suddenly, anything and everything is seen through completely perverse eyes. Shopping at the grocery store, the uncontrollable urge finds itself inside you, and without warning things like cantaloupes and sourdough bread bowls take on a whole new perspective. Hell, I clearly remember at twelve years old finally retiring my beloved teddy bear and Mr. Pillows to the attic, and it had nothing to do with maturity. I knew they were no longer safe. If they were not banished now, I could not help but fuck them.

I understand and appreciate that this might be surprising to some of you ladies out there, possibly even disturbing, but it’s the truth. If your boyfriend or husband denies it, they are being about as honest when they say things like “I would love to hear about your day” or “Of course I remember your middle name”. When at age thirteen you find yourself with your underpants pulled to your ankles, your mothers “best pillow” squeezed between your knees as you thrust and fumble, your learn to base your life on lies.

I digress, however. Back to the issue at hand. I am sitting at a table, cheap beer coursing through my veins, and a female friend announces that not all women own a dildo. I am dumbfounded. Society has bestowed upon women not only the acceptance but a kind of sexy allure for female simulated sex. If a woman owns a dildo it is considered an emblem of independence, a sign of a healthy sexual liberation. It says to men “I don’t need you” yet at the same time suggests a sense of eroticism and sexual openness. Now if the roles are reversed, however, and a man makes mention of the “Pink Lips Pussy Strocker” or “Silicone Flexi – Power Rod Anal Vibrator” hiding under his bed, he’s a fucking freak. My, oh, my how the tables of sexism have turned.

Women are given the means and the power, and yet, like a pair of perfectly good breasts ruined by minor back pain, they waste it away.

In the days and weeks following this revelation, I spent hours questioning this divine irony. Why would God give this gift to those who would not appreciate it? I searched my soul in wonder, and finally, like a Rotating G-Spot Rabbit Vibrator throbbing in the night, it hit me: Adam and Eve.

When God’s first creations disregarded his command and ate of the forbidden fruit, he spared their lives but cursed our race with a punishment worse than death. Think about it. In the Book of Genesis there are two separate creation stories. An unexplainable divine mystery? Proof that the bible was falsified? I think not! The first time round God gave Adam a vagina, and he quickly saw where that was going. He couldn’t keep his hands off himself. Cucumbers, carrots, fuck, even pineapples; nothing was safe. Realizing the errors of his ways, God took his Holy White – Out, dabbed that shit out, and bam!, modern biology as we know it.

In the end, I guess it is all for the best. I mean, if men had that kind of self – pleasure at their disposal nothing would get done. Echoing through the hallways of a typical suburban home, one could hear the frustrated voice of a wife, reminding her husband that if he did not hurry they would be late once again. Something crashes to the floor, the frantic sound of clothes being readjusted is heard, and then the flustered reply of the husband, locked in the bathroom, pleading “Just give me five more minutes. Please!”