Archive for March, 2007


Bad Pregnancy Poetry

March 28, 2007

Inside a Mother(hood store)

It looked like she was smuggling a globe-
Like she had an entire world under her shirt,
and I was fascinated.

I wasn’t supposed to be here;
I wasn’t supposed to be trying on the robes of maternity
I wasn’t supposed to want to be here.

The thin fabric clung to her newfound curves,
As tightly and softly as a lover’s embrace
I wanted to be a part of that fabric.

I wasn’t supposed to want this
I wasn’t supposed to want the smooth touch of motherhood
I wasn’t supposed to want her

And yet, in the dressing room,
I could not help but touch
The dewy wetness collecting under the earnest bulge.

I shouldn’t be here
I shouldn’t be in this womb of maternity
I shouldn’t be comfortable here.

And yet I was comfortable
Comfortable running my hands over the rising swell of her breasts
Thick with milk and sexuality.

This couldn’t be good,
This couldn’t be sending spasms of pleasures darting around me
This couldn’t be that good.

It was that good,
When my expert hands meshed seamlessly with her aching body
Satisfying and tantalizing at once.

The woman in the slick reflective glass
She wasn’t me
She was me.


Yes, You Will Be Tested on This

March 25, 2007

I am nothing if not committed to the continuing education of my readers. In that vain, I have a new term: (Yes, I know I should have used “vein” there, but the word vain makes me think about myself, and honestly, what’s more awesome than that?)

Squirrel. A squirrel, in my new parlance, is a person with one redeeming features that somehow makes the others palatable. For actual squirrels. of course, this feature is the bushy tail that separates them from rats. For humanfolk. however, it could be any one of a number of things. Lazy, dirty, annoying hippy on your couch that happens to be an amazing guitarist? Squirrel. Annoying unattractive girl who wastes the class’s time with inane questions and meaningless personal anecdotes but is generous with her perfect notes? Squirrel. Creepy computer science major that spends all his time in his room downloading questionable porn and eating easy mac, but can quote entire episodes of Family Guy with appropriate voices? HUGE NERD. And squirrel. Let’s all embrace this term, because who doesn’t like stupid and kind of bitchy slang?


Maybe Some Nudity Is Involved!

March 22, 2007

Hopefully my deceptively sexful and coy title tricked you into getting sucked into another of my pointless, meandering rants. Without further ado, here is a list of people who have been bugging me recently:

People Who Comment On Youtube Videos:

Now, it’s not the institution of commenting that bugs me-far from it. I think it’s good that you get to see what the world really and truly thinks of the video of you and your sorority sister’s lip-synching the newest Jeezy track. It’s just the people who do it are fucking idiotic. It’s just that the people who do it are fucking idiotic. Yes, I’m aware that I typed that last sentence twice; I did it in case that just such a person happened to stumble upon this piece somewhere. I wouldn’t want their moth-like attention span preventing them from recognizing and absorbing the factH that they have all the writing acumen of a drunk, masturbating, slightly retarded proscobis monkey. And I’m not even sure that’s a real type of monkey. One would think that they would realize this while going to work every day with their pants around their ankles and third degree burns all over their respective chests from trying to iron a shirt while still wearing it, but no. Nobody pulls them aside and says  “listen, penisballslol22, you might want to consider castration.” I have actually read people planning to fight (addresses and all) over differing opinions about the quality of a Jack Johnson cover from somebody who they’d never met.

So now you know penisballslol22 (and numbers 1-21, if you’re listening) – I value what you think. However, you have yet to express anything approaching a cogent thought, and as such, I have no choice but to issue a petty and bitter rant.

People Who Support Immediate Troop Withdrawal but Can’t Explain Why

Inspired by this recent conversation:

R: I just think all the troops should come home right away.

X: I’m not entirely sure that’s feasible. There’s still a lot of work left to to be done, I’m sure, and modern war is never simple.

R: Still the government lies, and the troops should come hope right away.

X: I’m not a military strategist, so I can’t speak for the situation, but I imagine it’s a good deal more complex than people give it credit for. I think if it were as easy as that, the government would do it if for no other reason than for popular support.

R: But I just think they should come home.

The preceding conversation is as close to accurate as I can remember. It’s somewhat indicative of the mindset of a generation of college-aged people who consider themselves political and military analysts because they watch the Daily Show a couple times a week. Listen, I’m willing to admit that I’m not an expert military tactician. And maybe withdrawal is the right thing to do. But when your entire rationale is that “it’s just right” or “the government lied to us” and your supporting argument consists solely of an article from, you sort of lose my respect.

People Who Hate Emo Kids Just to Hate Emo Kids:

You know how it was funny and hip to point out the irony of a fad that stresses “individuality”? Well, now, that observation is trite and the idea is old. Look, I’m no fan of emo kids. And trust me, there’s a wealth of comedy material in everything they do. But making fun of the fact that they wear tight pants is simply no longer acceptable as amusing. When your only recourse is to call somebody a “fag” and then cackle uproariously, you might want to consider the fact that making fun of people is just not for you. And honestly, they do a much, much better job of making a fool of themselves than you and your frat bros could ever hope. So just chill out, have a Natty Light and pop in that Dane Cook dvd. Speaking of which,

Dane Cook, People Who Like Dane Cook, and People Who Don’t Like Dane Cook

And yes, I include myself. When Dane Cook is involved, everybody is annoying.

Animal Lovers:

Now, I like animals, and I’ve had pets all my life. I’m not talking about people who merely enjoy the company of animals. I’m talking about people who will never shut the fuck up about them. What’s that? A YouTube video of a panda sneezing? You mean animals have normal bodily functions? How exciting.

I don’t want to see a picture of your cat. I don’t care if you put a little shirt on him and made him ride around on a tricycle, I AM NOT AMUSED. It is simply not funny when you contort otherwise lovable pets into having human emotions and doing human things because you and the rest of the Ya-Ya sisterhood thinks it simply precious. Mrs. Kittypants isn’t thinking “weeeee, I’m in the circus!” She’s thinking “Get me off of this fucking tricycle so I can take my second late midmorning nap.

And enough with the animal movies. Penguins wouldn’t pay $10 to watch me go to great lengths to have frigid sex, and I don’t see why I should pay to watch them.  Especially the animated ones. If I have to hear one more bad animal related pun, I am going to hurt somebody. Fur sure.



March 21, 2007

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to hang out with influential writers? Well, fear not, for I have your best interest in mind, and can intuit their day to day conversations. For example, recounting a story of an improperly cooked muffin(I may or may not add to this list):

Ernest Hemingway:

It was early. The day was bright. I hadn’t had my morning coffee yet and I wanted a goddamn muffin. On the way to the store I shot an dog, in the left hind paw. I shot him, and then went to get my muffin. I ordered the muffin, and while I waited, I rifled through a magazine. Britney’s vagina again. Fuck. My muffin came back a little burned, so I shot the storeowner. The muffin tasted alright.

F. Scott Fitzgerald:

I have never been the type of person who would arbitrarily order a muffin. However, there was something special about this day, some collection of mist in the midsummer air, that led to my special sensitivity to the siren’s song of the cooked pastry, so that I knew what it was I had to do.

When I got to the store, the late fall foliage was collecting on the ground like the varied shades on an artists palette. I ordered my muffin concisely-to the point. Being both an honest person and not one to waste words, I told the gentlemanly shopkeep that I wanted my muffin toasted light as a single butterfly descending on a branch, a branch made of money. What I got was not this. My muffin was perceptively cooked beyond its means, so I tossed it into a trash can, where it would languish in a pile of old newspapers and self-regret, before I stepped out into the cold winter air.


And I, wearing shirt stained of both jam and mustard,

And being desirous of nutritious pastry, boldly exclaimed

“Summon forth to me a muffin – one perhaps of blueberries

Or cranberries, or the chocolate chips that are the woman’s savor

Cooked lightly, that I might enjoy it, and be refreshed.”

And what I received was not lightly cooked, but rather heavily.

As the charred remains of Britney Spears career

which are splayed across magazine and television alike

reminding us, as Icarus did, that hubris is folly

and that one must always avail themself of both toga and undergarment

continue to smolder ruinously, so was my muffin improperly cooked

black as the heart of stern Poseiden.


My mother is a muffin.


Shagstaff: Fetch me a muffin, shopkeep.

Shopkeeper: Young men shouldn’t have their muffin fetched for them, in deceit of their vigor.

Shagstaff: What sayest thou knave? I need a muffin, toasted lightly

Shopkeeper(preparing muffin): Ah, the conceit of youth! To think that any muffin require little more than a light toasting. You must want your muffin prepared well.

Shagstaff: On my mother’s head, I will cause you harm if my will is not so.

Shopkeeper(handing muffin): I hope she is still married, for her maidenhead was lost long ago, in a forgotten alley. And if you are so prodigal with the skulls of your parents, you shall have your will soon enough.

Shagstaff: This muffin is burnt.

Shopkeeper: Talkest thou of Britney Spears?

Ralph Ellision:

I left my house today, a house whose only witness is the 1,369 Christmas lights I forgot to take down. I was in search of a muffin. Making my way to the store, I tripped over a copy of The Souls of Black Folks, while Mims’ new song “This Is Why I’m Hot” blared from a car window. My car was also being ticketed by a white traffic cop, so I threw a copy of Richard Wright’s Black Boy at him. Not metaphorically. Literally.

Upon arriving at the store, I ordered my muffin as dark as possible without being burnt. When I finally received it, it was too light, but I didn’t complain. Each bite choked me a little. Because of the lightness.


Unconnected Ramblings

March 21, 2007

>As most of you should know, there was yet another situation where somebody in New York got shot many, many times by cops. And it made me think. I’m sure that police go through a lot of training. Maybe sometime in the first couple days, they could go over the difference between a wallet, an ipod, a cellphone, and a gun. Perhaps just a lil’ slideshow on the first day? It seem like it would save them a lot of trouble.

Oh, and while they’re at it, they might want to go through a bit more target practice. Seriously, three cops needed 50 shots for one unarmed man? He couldn’t have been moving very much after the first twenty or so. At that point, they probably could have walked up and bopped him on the head with a billy club.

>I saw a commercial the other day, for some law firm, that was entirely in English, except for the end, when across the screen was written “Hablamos Espanol”. Now, if somebody doesn’t know enough English to know the phrase “We Speak Spanish”, wouldn’t they be kind of lost throughout the rest of the ad?  Is there really some Spanish-speaker out there so lonely that they don’t even care what service they’re being rendered, as long as their customer service rep speaks their language?

>It’s always weird to me when teachers make snide or kind of bitchy comments. When I was a senior in high school, due to senior projects and such, by the middle of the spring there were only two people in my French class. Note the following exchange:

Teacher: Since there are only going to be two of you in the class, and you’re already in college, we’ll probably just watch a lot of movies and do fun things.

Jeet (the other student): Really?

Teacher: Haha. Of course not.

This exchange was hilarious to me until I realized that I would have to do work, at the end of my senior year, in a class where there were only two people. It also meant that I had to pay close attention for every minute of every class. Damn. This same teacher also ruined one of my happier moments:

Little Kid: X! X! Can I have your autograph?

Me (giving autograph and trying to hide huge smile): Sure!

I then turn to walk away, at which point this teacher asks what the exchange was about:

Teacher: What was that about?

Me: It’s funny, but he wanted my autograph…

Teacher: HHAHAHAHAH. No seriously. What was it about?

Me: I am being serious.

Teacher: What, did you borrow a pen from him or something?

Me: No…

Teacher (walking away): AHAAHAHAH. Why would anybody want your autograph?

While this was quite a valid question, it was also an incredibly dick thing to say. Pointlessly long story short, I kind of expect some teachers to be mean about schoolwork. But not just for no reason.


Probably Not For Kids

March 20, 2007

This is the beginning to a story I just wrote. If you’re lucky, and nice, I might even give you the epic conclusion.

Adrienne was nervous. She was nervous about what she was wearing, she was nervous about what she was doing, she was even nervous about who she was anymore. She brought herself to look in the mirror.

She breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t her. No, this person in the mirror –the one with the jet-black wig, the wine-colored lipstick and the skin-tight and thigh high skirt – couldn’t have been her. Which was good, because she would never do any of the things that this girl was going to do. Adrienne was completely and utterly heterosexual, and had never so much as thought about even a drunken makeout session with a close friend. The girl in the mirror was different.

This girl needed a name, something that forced a woman to the implications of their own tongue. Something playful, yet sultry. A name that had to be said breathlessly. For the life of her, Adrienne couldn’t remember where she had heard this name, but as soon as it came to her mind, it stuck. Dazdemona.

Dazdemona was in love with her own name. Her friends often jokingly accused her of narcissism, but if they had any idea of the little jolt she got from saying her own name they would never let her hear the end of it. How could she not love it? It required a whole-hearted commitment from the lips, it was a mélange of cadences, and even managed to sneak in a discreet moan. She said her name once to herself in the mirror before snatching up her keys and her phone, stuffing them into her purse, and sauntering out of the door. It was going to be a good night.

Another good night, she mentally corrected herself. All of her nights were good, and none of them ended up alone. Sometimes it was guys, most of the times it was girls, and if she felt really playful it was both. Tonight, however, was a ladies night. She was going to find a woman and please her thoroughly that the name Dazdemona would make her have to cross her legs. She hailed a taxi with a flick of a wrist trained with years of experience, opened the door, and settled into the back comfortably. She leaned towards the partition and gave her destination in a throaty half-whisper “2nd and A, please. And hurry.”

Hurry the driver did. They were at the corner in less than ten minutes. Dazdemona slipped several bills into the drivers hand, making sure to trace her thumb on the inside of his palm for good measure. He didn’t count the money.

The entrance to the club was non-descript, and a tourist would never have found it. Kat’s Cradle wasn’t for tourists, though. It was for people who knew what they were doing, and anyone could tell from the way Dazdemona confidently slipped through the spray-painted gray doors that she fit that description. Everywhere she went, even places she had never been before, she was a regular.

It was crowded, and sweaty. Not just the people, the entire atmosphere was covered with a thin mist, as though the room itself had just come from a romp. She loved it. She squeezed her way through the throngs of undulating women and to the bar. Before she could say anything, she felt two warm hands slip around her waist, and hug her from behind, a hug that smelled like vanilla. It was Kat herself, the owner and proprietor.

“Anything you want is on the house tonight” Kat murmured in her ear. “I owe you one.”


How Great is Steak and Blowjob Day????????????

March 15, 2007

As you may or may not know, yesterday was a little constructed holiday called Steak and Blowjob day. It’s not really less fabricated than Valentine’s day, and only slightly more simple-minded, but this one is for the men. And you know what?

Fuck that.

I’m serious. While this might be an understandably minority viewpoint, the entire idea of Steak and Blowjob day pisses me off. First and foremost, I’d like to think I’m slightly more complicated than a Bud Light commercial. The holiday is lazy and generic, and homogeonizes male desire into two physiological and frankly kind of boring impulses. The subtle implication is that their is nothing in the world more desireable to a guy than those two things, and if those two things aren’t at the top of your to-do list at all times, you’re somehow less masculine. The fact that it was intentionally set up as a counterpoint to Valentine’s Day (a holiday which I’m not fond of either), suggests that the male equivalent of “love” and emotional bonding is a side of beef and some fellatio. I’m just about tired of the idea that women are completely emotional creatures that want love and affection while men are concerned primarily –nay, exclusively, with food and sexual gratification.

Beyond that, the idea for the holiday is intensely limiting. While Valentine’s Day is trite and commercial, at least it allows for some room to acknowledge the person with whom who might choose to share it. A couple might easily decide to spend Valentine’s day heckling old footage of the Special Olympics as paddling down the French Riviera in a boat made of puppies, and be romantic. Not so for Cow-n-Chow day. I understand that it’s supposed to be simple, as somewhat of a response to the vagueries of VD, but it should also specifically enjoyable, because otherwise, what’s the point? How about a different holiday, like Keep it Simple Day, where everybody just keeps things simple, and you give your boyfriend or whatever what he might like, not out of ulterior motive, but because you know him and want to make him happy.

Besides, there’s no reason that A1 and Hot Sauce day is a special premise. By putting these things on a pedestal, you imply that they are or should be somehow a difficult thing to attain, rather than a relative occurrence (if that’s what you want). In addition to being mildly offensive, it’s also just stupid, and plays into cultural stereotypes that are as ridiculous as they are banal.