Thursday, March 29, 2012

the great penis avenger.

OH MAN, this shit right here. at one-thirty sunday morning i was up doing laundry and obviously winning at life when i got a text message from an asshole. the laundry room in my building is fucking terrifying. there's a scary storage room attached to it and it's right off the alley and that shit is NOT BRIGHT ENOUGH, plus it's right next to the apartment of a dude who just happens to be having loud animal sex every motherfucking time i run out of clean underwear that actually fit. seriously, every time i'm unknowingly loading my clothes into a machine that one of the frat boys in my building has either pissed or vomited in (TRUE STORY), it's always to the soundtrack of loud-ass grunts and vaginal histrionics. whoever that dude is fucking straight up yodels at the top of her lungs to overcompensate for what i can only assume is weak sex. because if it was that goddamned amazing she'd be in a corner shuddering and crying or some shit, not reciting lines from what can only be the worst porn script ever written. "ooh baby, oh yeah, OH YEAH, give it to me, daddy. fuck me harder!" like she's reading them off cue cards, which is a hilarious visual. also, he shouts "say you like it!" a lot. i obviously need to start dragging my shit to the laundromat.

so this is what that text message said: "hey girl, i want to fuck that juicy ass of yours again. i need to redeem myself from my failure the last time." followed almost immediately by: GIVE ME ANOTHER SHOT AT THAT ASS, GIRL. I COULDN'T KEEP IT UP. I CAN'T LIVE WITH THAT. today, at this exact moment in the history of my life, there is not a single person on earth who should be sending me a message like that. i swear on my diaphragm that i haven't been withholding some lurid sexcapades from the internet, i promise. no craigslist dirtbags, no drunken hookups, no regrettable sleeping with an ex who has already moved on while i, sadly have not. even when i peeled apart the layers of my brain and fine tooth combed them for someone from whom this message would be appropriate i just came up with NADA. the last dude i was banging was three months ago, and he dumped me for some broad on twitter. aside from sexting your dad pictures of my nice tits in a hot bra, i'm not carrying on any relationships that are even remotely sexual at the moment. so who in the fuck sent this shit?!

i have a three-day text and/or call rule that you kids really ought to consider adopting: if i meet a dude who has expressed an interest (real or imagined) in hollering at my snatch (or ass) and phone numbers are exchanged, if at any point there is a lapse in contact for three consecutive days I DELETE HIS FUCKING NUMBER AND PUT MY AD BACK ON CRAIGSLIST. i already know: that shit is (dramatic sigh) so hard. and i've made every excuse you're about to come at me with: he's busy, he's playing "the game," he's waiting to see if you get in touch with him, et al. he totally likes you, it's just that his grandmother is sick and his babymama is stressing him out and as soon as he gets his tax return he's going to make it up to you and take you to a fancy dinner and boring yawn asleep snore. i've also heard that bullshit about hanging on to his number just in case he ever calls again because even though you've decided he's unworthy of your attention after the past two weeks of sloppy, sad unanswered voicemails you left for a person you SLEPT WITH ONLY ONE TIME, you need to know it's him so you make sure not to answer the phone.

get the fuck out with that. let's be honest with each other, okay? we keep those numbers because one day we will be drunk or stoned and lonely as fuck and saddened by all of the happy couples surrounding us at mia francesca sharing their spaghetti like lady and the goddamned tramp while we eat an entire entree by our goddamned selves, and we will take our sad asses home and get out our phones and find that fucking number and text something stupid in the middle of the night like, "dude, are you awake?" to which he will respond "ON MY WAY" while clenching his car keys between his teeth and putting on sweatpants with one hand and rifling through his condom drawer with the other. not that i would know anything about that. no, i have NEVER IN MY LIFE frantically run around my apartment at three in the morning hiding soiled clothes in the bathtub and books and dishes in the oven after saying some dumb shit like "just thinking about you!" to a dude who didn't fucking care about me enough to legally park his car on my block. that's right, folks, "i left my hazards on" has been said to me in the midst of foreplay.

the three-day rule eliminates the humiliation that is a result of the damage we cause ourselves at the hands of someone who is just looking for thirty minutes (twenty, let's be serious) with our naked babymakers. besides, you don't answer any numbers you don't recognize anyfuckingway. I LOVE THAT SHIT, a bitch who won't answer when i call her from my office because she hasn't programmed it in her fucking phone is all of a sudden worried about misplacing the number of a dude who fell asleep while going down on her?! stop that. also, when they inevitably do reach out again, you can be all "i'm sorry, who is this from?" without lying. which is exactly what i typed while standing under the buzzing fluorescent lights while leaning against the sloshing of the wash cycle in my house sweater and inside pants. nothing like thinking about getting your juicy booty fucked (barf) while in your cat hair covered sleep clothes. "FUCK ME LIKE A LITTLE SLUT!" yelled the woman in apartment 102. indeed.
remember that dude i went out with last january? no, not this past january, the one before. JANUARY TWO THOUSAND ELEVEN. the one who declared he was in possession of an "amazing penis?" well, he couldn't keep that penis erect, and all that time i'd spent worrying that ordering a catfish sandwich that came with coleslaw on top would result in projectile diarrhea drenching his amazing testicles was in vain. i'm never sad to unzip some baggy jeans to find a sadly deflated balloon animal in place of a massively engorged erection. especially if my jeggings are still on. that image of the pouting woman rolled over to the still-made side of the bed while her manfriend hangs his head in shame on the rumpled side makes me fucking laugh. is it really that tragic? man, bitches is tired. and the sooner i can kick you and your bruised ego out i can retrieve my garbage bags filled with unread magazines from where i hid them on the back porch so you wouldn't think i was on the verge of being buried alive by my own trash. i never hold a fucking grudge, i'm just happy enough to know that there was a naked dude in my room and i don't have to worry about pissing razor blades in a few days or stripping off my dirtbag bedsheets. then i holler at la taqueria.

do you get sex do-overs in real life? here's the thing: I AM PRETTY TERRIBLE AT SEX. i bore easily, my fetishes are gross and awkward to talk about, this surgically-enhanced butthole means i'd probably shit on any penis that crossed its threshold, i laugh inappropriately, the list goes on. i'll do pretty much anything asked, but for no more than twenty minutes. i'm not kidding, son. i set a motherfucking timer. "listen, bro. you have until 9:26 to pour battery acid in my eye while i fellate an eggplant or whatever it is you said you wanted, and then i'm putting my clothes back on so we can eat some nachos and watch the end of this mavericks game." i would much rather have phone sex twice a week and maybe mutually masturbate every once in a while if i'm in a good mood. if there have been disappointed customers i don't know about it, but that's mostly because i'm an insensitive jerk. seriously, though, i don't know that i've ever been sitting in bed scoffing at how much funnier saturday night live would be if i got a chance to write that shit and thought to myself, "hey girl, remember that one guy who got up and left right in the middle of that godawful handjob we gave him? omg, i wonder if he's awake right now?!"

how would that bullshit even work? do i bring a scorecard from the last attempt and see if dude gets better marks this time? does he just have to maintain an erection to pass the test, or does he have to, ahem, cross the proverbial finish line? do i take the average of the first and second scores? did i really have almost-sex with a dude who says "juicy ass?" if i say yes, how clean does my floor have to be? WHY AM I EVEN DEBATING THIS?! my default setting is raging piece of shit asshole, so after several painfully uncomfortable text exchanges (eg, sam: "who is this from?" sad balloon animal: "you know who this is! the one from match.com!" sam: "i deleted my profile a year ago." sad balloon: "we met in january." sam: "OF LAST YEAR?" sad animal: "yeah, uhh, sorry. i guess it's been awhile?") we continued back and forth like that until "the hills have thighs" came on cinemax and ii wrote a pro and con list on the back of one of those magazines i would have to hide in the hall closet if i decided to let him come over. the only pro was "i'm bored." my vagina decided against his invitation.

because even if there were a #fuckfail haunting me EVERY SINGLE NIGHT FOR A YEAR AND A FUCKING HALF, i would never have the unbridled audacity to 1 think that the person whose boner i'd killed would still have my stupid number programmed into his goddamned phone or 2 think that he might be interested in GIVING ME ANOTHER SHOT AT THAT DICK. (it broke my heart to just write that, gross.) even if it crossed my mind for a split second the next mental image would be one of him getting married to a nice girl who bakes regularly. a year and a goddamned half ago. i'd never assume that asshole was just sitting around waiting for his delicates to dry and listening to his neighbor's hooker scream, "fill me with your big, hard cock, big boy!" at the top of her lungs just waiting for me to give him another chance to wish i was a big plate of nachos instead of a wilted latex giraffe. he finally got the picture that i wasn't going to collapse in a fit of giggles and ask if he still remembered my doorbell code at the slightest provocation and sent a picture of his semi-flaccid penis. unimpressed, i told him that i was going to bed and maybe he could text me in another year if he felt like smooshing a mostly-empty condom against the inside of thigh again. and then i told him to "keep his (dick)head up." and deleted his fucking number. AGAIN.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

funny girl.

last week i got to open for baratunde thurston. if you aren't sure who that is, or why my stomach almost fell out of my butt at the fucking prospect, let me introduce you to him. okay, so i'm not one of these assholes who's always talking about some shit they just heard about on NPR. i hate those fucking people. i'm not referring to your casual, this shit was on in the cab i took home from the bar and i managed to absorb ten minutes of fruity liberal news between dry heaves in the back seat kind of asshole, i'm talking about that asshole in your life who is either 1 always interrupting your goddamned story trying to supplement the shit you're quoting from us weekly with real motherfucking facts they heard that morning on fresh air or 2 turning every stupid conversation into a bonerkilling news report or minimally-factual history lesson.

don't you hate that shit? there's always some jagoff in the room acting like goddamned morning edition trying to update a bunch of drunk bitches at a housewarming or baby shower on current events in darfur. WAY TO BRING THE PARTY DOWN, MAN. shut the fuck up with that shit. or there's that other asshole, you know the one, the one who condescendingly inquires as to whether or not you've heard of that new band of upstarts the black keys. "they were just featured on all songs considered, which i'm sure you didn't know, you ignorant swine." yes, genius, i've heard of them. FIVE YEARS AGO WHEN THEY WERE STILL FUCKING COOL, GAH. now listen, i don't hate public radio, but i do hate shit that is boring. i can't spend more than twenty minutes listening to white people whisper breathlessly in their inside voices. i just can't. but i did donate money to that shit so i could get a free i-Go membership. and so i could walk around thoroughly impressed with myself like these haughty fucking assholes.

despite my hatred for the dull, i did, however, tune in to hear my precious baratunde talk to terry gross. he'd been on my radar for a long time: i'd seen some of his stand up, sat with my nose pressed hawkishly to the television screen when he would turn up on some news show or another, and followed all of his work in the onion. i'm not sure how many soulmates one is allowed, mostly because i think that shit is a cruel fucking joke on those of us who have to bang dudes who work at foot locker and shit, but if you can have a soulmate whom you've never met in the flesh i was convinced that this dude is one of mine. he's hot, he's smart, and he writes jokes. i mean, come on. so i think terry gross sounds like a talking corpse and i feel like i give better interviews to helen keller when i ask her, "who's my evil little girl?" while rationing out her food in the morning, but that shit is beside the point. i had to fuck around for half an hour trying to make the antenna on my RADIO THAT STILL HAS A CASSETTE PLAYER pick up a clear signal in what is apparently the titanium-insulated cave in which i reside. it was worth it, though. he was fucking brilliant.

i read his book, "how to be black," in a weekend. it's satirical self-help, which is the only kind i can stomach. GO BUY, PLEASE. you'll die laughing. also, you will better understand how to deal with black people. i kind of want to buy one for every white person in my life, but then that would be undoing several generations of carefully-crafted economic oppression or some shit. so you assholes need to go get it for yourselves.

anyway, i found out he was doing a show at the hideout in chicago on his book tour and, after hyperventilating into a brown paper bag for ten minutes, decided i was going to go there and calmly introduce myself and coolly congratulate him on the success of his book. NO I DID NOT. i decided i was going to buy new pants and construct some sort of pulley system that would allow me to rest my tits on my fucking clavicle and write, "if you want, i'd stick my finger in your asshole" on the business card i was going to forcefully shove into his (front pants) pocket. seriously, i had a fucking plan. it even involved lipstick.

the day of the show i was swooning fangirl nerd shit all over facebook when my lovely friend diana in minnesota sent me an email that said this: "so if you want to meet baratunde, i can probably help you out. let me email him." my first thought was, "i love her and everything, but this bitch is totally pulling my dick." i responded politely despite my doubts and told her that yes, i would be ever so pleased if she could make our virtual acquaintance. then i went back to memorizing passages i could quote at him because THAT'S TOTALLY SMOOTH AND THE BEST WAY TO LURE HIM BACK TO MY DIRTY APARTMENT. an hour later she was texting and calling me with this life-altering message: "he read a bunch of your writing and wants to know if you'd open the show for him." AND THEN I DROPPED DEAD.

i'm going to blow through the boring shit: 1 i left work early and almost cried on the train 2 i was wearing the worst fucking thing to perform in ever and was so mad at myself 3 i went to starbucks because i haven't been sleeping well and decided that ravaging colon upset > dozing off in front of my goddamned nerd crush 4 i couldn't get a cab to save my fucking life and it was raining and gross and by the time i got one i looked like something that had been caught in a drain 5 COFFEE ALL OVER BACK OF CAB AND PANTS. of course.

i've never performed at an all-black show except for one i hosted a couple years ago. so i didn't know that not only did i NOT have to leave work early, i could've gone the fuck home and taken a nap beforehand without worry that i was going to ruin the show. colored people time is a real fucking thing, dude. the hideout was a ghost town when i got there, which i've never seen before ever. every white literary thing is teeming with scruffy hipsters half an hour before the show even starts, yet there were tumbleweeds blowing through the bar ten minutes prior to this black shit. i walked into the main room and watched a slide show of baratunde on a screen onstage. no one was in there save for me and these two black dudes, one of whom looked like...no, wait a minute, IT CAN'T BE...eep!

 
i squinted at the screen, then looked at this dude across the room who was wearing a red hoodie. back at the screen, back at the dude. screen, dude. SCREEN, DUDE. and i decided that he must be my one true love, mister baratunde thurston. i finished the dregs of my espresso (GAH, BUTTHOLE) and walked confidently over to him with my hand extended. taken aback, he shook my hand tentatively. "i'm samantha," i said, expectantly. why had he not fallen weeping into my open embrace? what was this look of confusion? seriously, HOW COME HE ISN'T OPEN-MOUTH KISSING ME RIGHT NOW?! after another few seconds of blinking something finally registered behind his eyes. "oh yeah, you're opening, right? i'm the host! nice to meet you. we're still waiting for baratunde to get here!"

is this what it feels like to be a white person?! to confuse all these similar-looking black people on a regular basis and have to hop around with one foot in your mouth all the fucking time? how do you guys do it?! i flushed hot and red and heaved a relieved sigh that i hadn't gushed, "OH MY GOSH, I LOVE YOUR BOOK!" to the wrong motherfucking dude. what kind of simple shit is this? i obviously need my black card revoked. i had just watched 732 projected pictures of this dude crawl across a gigantic screen in a well-li room and still confused him for someone else. i returned to my table and hung my head in shame, waiting for the NAACP to kick the doors in and sentence me to read the autobiography of malcom x. AGAIN. finally the real baratunde arrived, and i held my breath and tucked two handfuls of bar napkins into my bra to soak up my nervousness. i swear to god, next time you see me you should touch my tits. it's like a goddamned charmin commercial up in there.

i tried my best to press against his penis during our introductory hug, but those tend to be short and brisk. stupid manners and etiquette, grumble grumble. anyway, he's fucking hot in person. and has a really nice smile. and was surrounded by groupies. what kind of assholes sweat book-writing comedy dudes?! i mean, other than this asshole? baratunde was polite and incredibly complimentary, and charming in the way that makes you want to punch a hole through his throat because you know that you could never make that kind of first impression on a person. especially when you're wearing a sweat bra and espresso jeans and a cheese shirt. when it was my turn i read my love letter* to white people, which is fucking fantastic. i brought the house down, and that was pretty excellent. there were a lot of fucking people there. i imagined that some of them might want to bang me, especially since i'd referenced K2 in a fucking comedy bit.

when baratunde finished and the lights came up there was a mad rush of people swarming to congratulate him (and shove business cards into his pockets, i bet) and i couldn't get anywhere near. so i sat with caitlin and drank a coke and waited to see if anyone wanted to have sex with me. a couple retired secretaries (i'm judging solely based on their party clothes) came over to tell me how adorable and funny i am, but they were both married and wearing shoes too pointy to belong to a real middle-aged lesbian. some young black women came over and shook my hand and promised to "tweet me," and that made me laugh because my twitter is such fucking bullshit. then this white dude came over. baratunde had twatted about me earlier, and this gentleman had seen the tweet and decided to do some research prior to shelling out eight whole dollars to see some dumb bitch he'd never fucking heard of.

"i'm really surprised that WHITE GUY you blog with has you as a partner," he said, in all seriousness. "that letter was kind of offensive." i waited for the punchline. "i've followed ian's work for a while now, and i've been to a lot of his shows. and his choice of you as a contributor was puzzling to me. he lets you say all this stuff?" first of all, that letter was heartfelt and magical. second, HE LETS ME MOTHERFUCKING DO WHAT? i tried to remain calm and figure out what to say that wouldn't result in my having to wrestle this dude to the floor with a broken beer bottle. "he didn't purchase me," i said slowly. "we write shit on the fucking internet. he doesn't let me do shit." this asshole then went on to explain the power dynamic between black and white people especially in a comedic context. you know, the things we can and cannot joke about, culturally. mucho boring.

if you aren't reading my other blog, irbyandian.com, you fucking should be. it's ridiculous and hilarious and you wouldn't want this fine gentleman to be having all the fun, would you? no, you would not. comedy dudes are so fucking weird and terrible, especially when it comes to comedy ladies. rarely do you find one who isn't pulling his dick out all the goddamned time trying to prove how he's so much funnier than you are. and if not that, he's pointing to your ass and saying that's the only reason anyone is listening to you. it's so gross. YOU AREN'T FUNNY, HOMIE. NOT MY FUCKING FAULT. also not my fault that you're not progressive enough to deal with the sassy black sidekick you've dreamed of ever since you saw your first episode of "gimme a break." that dude talked at me for another two minutes, which is a long fucking time in real fucking life. about his failed comedy career, the inappropriate jokes he wasn't allowed to make, the women who rose to stardom when it really should've been him. finally, when my eye-rolling had reached a thundering crescendo, he said, "so why isn't he here tonight?"

"he's at a klan rally," i lied, then went to hug baratunde again. here's hoping he finds that card i slipped him. and that i don't spend our first date fawning all over somebody else.

*click here to read the letter. feel free to write me one in return.