Saturday, September 28, 2013

places not to meet available men: church.

"jesus, i don't have anything appropriate to wear to church." i stood back and surveyed my closet, barefoot and naked save for the high-waisted spanx panty stretched up to my tits in order to force my liver and kidneys closer together while giving my dimpled meat carcass a smooth and buttery appearance, juicy j bumping loud on the stereo in the other room. helen looked on, amused, awaiting her opportunity to cover the one clean article of clothing i could find with hair that would inevitaby entwine itself into the fabric within seconds of having come near her grizzled fatness. i tried on this new black and white dress i let a salesgirl talk me into because i wanted her to think i was cool. "you really think the lion of judah is trying to see that much unpasteurized cottage cheese?" helen asked while i tried to find a suitable pair of non-orthopedic shoes. i blanched and glanced down to see more leg than i show to go swimming. i gasped in horror. "OMG I DON'T EVEN SHAVE THIS HIGH."

being a single woman is like being a motherfucking bad advice depository. every asshole on the bus who just happens to find herself currently sharing bedspace with some drooling neanderthal is always in my grill offering unsolicited relationship advice. advice that is often unquantifiable, because people never really tell the truth about how shitty their boyfriends are in real life. an analogy: i will never let anyone with bad makeup give me advice at sephora. i know it's happened to you bitches. one minute you're trying to decide if that philosophy microdelivery peel is worth it (it so is) and the next some garish beauty beast is coming at your face brandishing a teal eyeliner like a weapon. and you're trapped there, helpless under that harsh overhead lighting that makes everyone look like walking death, while she talks your ear off about all the new matte lipsticks they just got in stock that you totally might buy if an adult woman with brown blush haphazardly applied to the sides of her head wasn't the one trying to sell it to you. so stop telling me what to do since i can't prove your boyfriend isn't fucking the chick he shares a cubicle with or whatever. once or twice a week i get an email or twelve from someone's worried aunt trying to "help me" in my quest to "find a husband," and that shit is totally fucking stupid. is that really what you've gleaned from reading this shit, janice? that i wanted you to send me a listicle you copied from a match.com article about meeting your perfect mate? NAWL, BRO. this blog is about twerkin for a taco, although i appreciate your concern.

so i decided that i am going to follow every piece of bad advice proffered to me when it comes to all of the places in which i'm obviously not looking for attractive singles to date, because i am a writer of hilarious jokes. i'm going to hike my tits up, scrape off my man-repellent, and troll every single place i heretofore have turned an ignorant blind eye: while surveying plump organic nectarines at the farmer's market; while huddled around the water cooler gossiping about last night's episode of gossip girl; while barely maintaining my sweaty grasp on the pole as the train jostles me around like popping corn during my morning commute; while lingering in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store trying to determine which lean cuisine i already tried and hated. college, the gym, coffee shops, intramural sports teams, car shows, the frequent-flyer lounge at my local airport, blood drives, improv classes, in line at the DMV, best buy, the driving range: the world outside my apartment is a veritable smorgasbord of men just waiting for the chance to try to hear the small talk i'm making over the deafening music in the bar i picked because no one i know in real life would ever see us there. and i am going to try to meet every single one of them, one magazine article suggestion at a time. because science.

i'm no stranger to the father, the son, or the holy ghost. see that little dirtbag in the ill-fitting red tablecloth and cotton candy pink coat posing awkwardly in the vestibule of fisher memorial ame church after the 1989 christmas pageant scheming on how to get that apple out of jessica's hand without anyone noticing? HOMIE THAT'S ME. i have been baptized by fire and washed in the blood of the lamb, brothers and sisters. from age zero to "smart enough to understand rudimentary biology" i was in that church two to three times a week, my adolescent soprano singing earnestly along with droning hymns about jericho's tumbled walls and the mighty fortress that was our god. my mom didn't even really care about religion, she just worked nights at the hospital and was thrilled to get my ass out of the house for nine hours on a sunday. i grew up in a SERIOUS CHURCH. no television screens, no flailing women littering the aisles possessed by the spirit, no gym shoes or blue jeans: we were there to WORSHIP THE LORD, and that worship most certainly included neither tambourines nor smiling. 

i spent ten real minutes sweating and not cursing ("oh, crumbs!" "gosh, darnit!") while trying to locate the NIV bible i know for a fact is hiding someplace in my apartment just in case the rapture comes and just in case jesus is real and i need to prove that i know where ecclesiastes is while kate idled in the driveway below, smoking cigarettes out of her car window. we arrived at the church early, both sporting heavy black sunglasses and multiple tattoos. kate was wearing her mom's elastic-waisted khakis and a strand of real pearls while i was wearing the same black pajama dress that is basically open to my navel that i always wear. i should pray for some new clothes. we were greeted enthusiastically by a woman whose widened, horrified eyes belied the open-mouthed smile she'd accosted us with. kate filled out the visitor card she gave us with her real address and phone number (sucker) while i counted all of the walkers and scooter chairs filing in through the handicapped entrance.

"are you my new boyfriend?" i wondered aloud as a portly gentleman dressed head to toe in a magenta suit right out of steve harvey's circa 1998 wardrobe strutted past me, tipping his magenta fedora in my direction. we sat in the back so i could inconspicuously instagram proof that i had set foot in an actual church and read the 17-page program/news bulletin we'd been handed upon entering. to kate's amazement i sang along with all of the songs, some shit you just cannot forget, and managed to take communion without bursting into flames. long story short, i'm still single. and so are you, because your new boyfriend is not:

...the dude with the family. every hot dude at church is married. the young minister dude, the dude taking the kids downstairs for sunday school, the dude who drives the van to pick up the canned goods for the coup kitchen: all 100% married. which is why they are at church, because their wives make them go. 

...my grandmother. my grandma was one of those important-looking ladies who sat in the front row at the church in a white skirt suit and white silk blouse, a starched white doily affixed to the top of her wig with straight pins, a shiny white glove on each hand. she wore compression stockings and sensible black pumps and she looked exactly like her good friend ernestine, who wore the exact same uniform but was an usher, so she stood at the back of the church with one arm folded behind her back, a handful of programs tucked within. my grandma had a key to the church, a key to the safe and, most importantly to me as a nine-year-old, a key to the cabinet in which the grape juice used on first sunday was stored. sometimes i would get what was left over after i'd spent two hours after church washing out all of those tiny little glasses we'd used during communion and that was the best day ever. anyway, she's dead now. so i guess what i'm basically trying to say is that church is for old people.

...the recently rehabbed crackhead. maybe this is just black church, but there's always some dude fresh out of hazelden wearing somebody else's ill-fitting donated good clothes trying to holler at you from the first pew when he really should be focused on getting his life back together. we are happy for him, absolutely, but maybe the best thing for him to get addicted to next is jesus. and not you.

...the ambiguously gay choir director. a few years ago i went to easter service with my sister. i love easter sunday. because i love pretending that jesus is a pissed-off zombie who comes back to life to exact revenge on all those assholes who sentenced him to death. and all those badass bible verses about his death are the jam. if you set the wrath and vengeance parts of the old testament to a mannie fresh beat i'd play that shit at the club TONIGHT. "your dead will live; their corpses will rise. you who lie in the dust, awake and shout for joy, for your dew is as the dew of the dawn, and the earth will give birth to the departed spirits." i like to recite that shit in my sam jackson slash daniel day lewis in "there will be blood" voice loud as hell while i'm heating up a can of pork and beans for dinner. my sister elbowed me sharply in the ribs with a shiv she'd fashioned out of a couple dehydrated palm leaves, "hey. i hear that the dude playing the organ is single. you should holler at him." even though my dude's rendition of "press toward the mark" is the jammingest i've ever heard, i cut the hardest side eye i could muster at her and said, "YOU MEAN THE GENTLEMAN IN THE TIGHT-FITTING SALMON PANTS? NO THANK YOU, PRAISE BE TO GOD."

Friday, September 6, 2013

all the pages worth masturbating to in "fifty shades of grey."

your mom is such a fucking dirtbag. i ran into that broad in the female incontinence aisle at walgreens a couple weeks ago and was like, "what up, karen? you are looking HELLA RADIANT today." after shyly averting her gaze and blushing all the way down to her toes she whispered, "can i tell you a secret?" i nodded conspiratorially and led her over to the auto maintenance aisle because do motherfuckers really buy their motor oil at goddamn WALGREENS?! as i suspected: completely deserted. i pretended to inspect the air fresheners while she detailed, in hushed tones, how her glow wasn't the result of some new retinol serum made from unicorn tears or nighttime moisturizer derived from the blood of virgins. no, she had just finished reading FIFTY SHADES OF SLUTTY MOMS. "bitch, quit playing," i responded. "your cheeks aren't flushed that red due to some grocery store porn. HIP ME TO THAT NEW OIL OF OLAY, OKAY GAIL." but that bitch indeed was not playing with my ass. your mom spent her summer vacation with one hand on this walmart bargain book and the other hand shoved into the high-waisted full briefs she wears under those khaki linen pants she got on sale at chico's. "i really think you'd like it, sam," she gushed. "it's really wild." only moms say shit like "wild." i sighed, unconvinced that a book that doesn't have pictures of fat, juicy asses and big titties would do anything other than put this baby right to sleep. "fine then. wring out your copy when you're done with it then let me holler at that shit." she dropped it off for me last week and i started reading it on the toilet ten minutes later. CHECK HOW JAMMING MY SKIN LOOKS, WHAT.

page 11 "i sail, i fly, i indulge in various physical pursuits. i'm a very wealthy man, miss steele, and i have expensive and absorbing hobbies." A DUDE WITH HIS OWN HELICOPTER?! my vagina exploded immediately. i would let a man with his own plane dog walk my ass, real talk. poor people can't really fuck with rich people long term without somebody getting murdered, but would i have a tawdry affair with a dude who could whisk me away to his private island for months at a time? you bet your taco i would. also, i like the idea of a person with absorbing hobbies. i can't date anyone who is going to fuck up my tv-watching time or interrupt my listening to podcasts in the shower for hours on end. go shoot something, my dude. get out your hang glide. back up off me for a minute. when a motherfucker lives in a studio apartment with two members of his disco ska band or whatever there is no room to get away from him when he is being annoying. with a rich dude you could just chill in the servants' quarters for days at a time without his even knowing you're there. and that is the sex, when i'm peeing in the jacuzzi in the guest house eating all his fruit roll-ups and homeskillet is too far away to know any better.

page 30 "when i glance up at christian grey, he's watching us like a hawk, his eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard, impassive line." maybe i'm a motherfucking caveman, but i nothing would bring me more joy than two strapping meatbeasts brawling for my affection. a massive slab of brisket slamming himself into a burly pork loin to prove that he loves me the most? yes, please. it doesn't even have to be that serious; they could just, like, sit at the pancake house having a civilized debate over which of my three standard sex moves is the hottest (answer: none of them) and i would die from fucking swooning. oh, i know. jealousy is gross. but that's probably because you've never seen a dude pull out a bayonet or a basket-hilted sword on the other gentleman calling for your affections. HUBBA.

page 48 "he tugs the hand that he's holding so hard that i fall back against him just as a cyclist whips past, narrowly missing me, heading the wrong way up this one-way street." BITCHES LOVE GETTING RESCUED. not that we need it, because we are strong and powerful goddesses fully capable of running our corporations and raising our artificially inseminated offspring and basically not needing you dudes for shit, but if you 1 kill that mouse for me or 2 shout down that internet bully for me or 3 snatch me out of the jaws of the bear that is currently mauling me to death you can go on ahead and help yourself to every single part of my vagina. sometimes when i have a manfriend over i'll just start a grease fire in the kitchen and stand there helplessly waiting to see whether he can save me from it or if he'll run screaming from my apartment in his underwear like a bitch. i've almost died from smoke inhalation, like, seven motherfucking times. 

page 88 "he sits down beside me and buckles himself into his seat, then begins a protracted procedure of checking gauges and and flipping switches and buttons from the mind-boggling array of lights and switches in front of me." i like to watch people working with their hands. because i am a doughy creative, all i use my hands for are soft shit like putting condiments on hot dogs and taking bathroom pictures of my boobs. if someone ever built me a table (or put my ikea dresser properly together) my vagina would probably detonate. i'm talking all of my insides, ON THE OUTSIDE, if i walk into my apartment to find you've expertly installed my air conditioner. 

page 122 "he pulls out of me immediately and rolls onto his side of the bed. i pull my knees up to my chest, utterly spent, and immediately drift off or pass out into an exhausted sleep." BEST PART OF THE SEX. the rolling over and going to sleep part. bitches gotta be at work at 7 in the morning, shit.

page 137 "'anastasia, i'm going to come in your mouth,' his breathy tone is warning. 'if you don't want me to, stop now.' he thrusts his hips again, his eyes are wide, wary, and filled with salacious need." what a goddamned gentleman. nothing sexier. nothing is worse than some silent film star who doesn't let you know that he's about to ruin your afternoon by surprising you with a mouthful of briny dick snot. it's like when you're trying to swallow an unexpectedly bitter pill (prednisone especially, BARF) and that shit is on your tongue for half a second too long while you try to get your water or juice or whatever together and you start gagging because you weren't ready for it to taste so bad and now that nasty shit is in your tastebud memory for the rest of the goddamned day. i would never fart in your mouth without at least attempting to bat your head out of the way, why not do me a solid in return, homie?

page 219 "i reach across and pick up my first-ever oyster. i squirt some lemon juice on it and tip it up. it slips down my throat, all sea water, salt, the sharp tang of citrus, and fleshiness...ooh." i want to get the shellfish tower at maude's sometime soon. that shit looks amazing. every time i walk past people who've ordered one i have a mini hate seizure because i am too poor to pay $165 for a succulent tower of fruits de mer. in addition to all those gin smashes and lyonnaise salads i like. so i guess what i'm really trying to say is what are you guys up to this weekend? IS ANYONE FREE TO TAKE ME OUT AND ALSO PAY. get at me.

page 259 "he shows me the list. my subconscious runs, screaming, and hides behind the couch. spanking, whipping, biting, genital clamps, hot wax, paddling, caning, nipple clamps, ice, other types/methods of pain." fuck most of the shit on this list for real. one time a dude i now hate decided to spice up his oral sex game by sucking on an ice cube and drooling freezing water into my sex hole. i'll let you guys draw your own conclusions on how the rest of that night went down. there was about to be some smoke in the city, especially since that fool caught me off guard. and what kind of dumb ox wants to chill the orifice into which he is about to insert his penis? DUDE'S TESTICLES SHRIVELED UP LIKE CRAISINS. i almost sprinkled them on my salad, for real.

page 311 "christian is sitting on the living room couch reading the sunday papers." fuck, i love a dude who reads the newspaper. there is nothing hotter than that for real, especially if his lips don't move while he's reading.

page 375 "she likes pancakes, bacon, and eggs." now this is some goddamned romance. i hate remembering what i like to eat for breakfast.

page 414 "i am on my second cosmopolitan. my mother is on her third." so i'm not drinking right now, because i'm sick and trying to avoid alcohol due to its inflammatory properties because when you have a killer autoimmune disease you will try anything to feel better even if it includes abstaining from booze or mainlining aloe vera juice or eating a can of salmon a day, and all i want to do is watch people drink. because drunk people are hilarious. and sometimes sexy. your mom and i got korean chicken wings last night and she drank two whole bottles of wine and that was better than any movie i've seen in the last six months. sidenote: did you know she can fit her whole fist in her mouth? you didn't?! WELL NOW YOU DO. (ps, your mom rules.)

pages 430 "he reaches between my legs and pulls out the blue string and gently takes my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby toilet. holy fuck...and then he's inside me...i grip on to the sink, panting, forcing myself back on him, feeling him inside me." if i wrote erotica, it would be 500 pages of period sex bookended by a prologue and epilogue solely consisting of bitches eating cheeseburgers and yelling at the tv. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD DO I DELIGHT IN PERIOD SEX. i read twilight, because duh, and even though i am officially team jacob (shut up) all i could think when edward and bella got to the sex part was, "please lord let this bitch get her motherfucking period." because vampire period sex has to be next level, right? all vicious teeth gnashing and rapturous guttural moans?! OH MAN. i am about to step up my fanfic game, homie. as soon as i work this cramp out of my fingering hand.

page 472 "the sex is amazing, he's wealthy, he's beautiful, but this is all meaningless without his love, and the real heart-fail is that i don't know if he's capable of love." this right here. all of this. i know this is just some dumb book that some soccer mom wrote because her husband doesn't fuck her or whatever but THIS IS THE THING RIGHT HERE. i'm at that age, friends. that age where i need to know that the dude pouring hot wax on my anus and trussing me to his bedposts like a chicken fucking loves me at least a little bit. or maybe a lot, whatever. i only want to have sex with people who love me. i'm getting sensitive in my early-onset old age, i guess. that anonymous "maybe i'll call you tomorrow" meaningless sex shit is a motherfucking drag and i am decidedly too old for it. grumble grumble fall in love with me or get off my fucking lawn grumble.

page 513 "he stops, and the anguish in his expression is palpable, his gray eyes burning. 'i don't want you to go,' he murmurs, his voice full of longing." no one has ever begged me not to leave them other than my dumb slutty friends who are salty that i'm trying to leave the club and it's not even eleven o'clock yet. there's always that one broad drunk on vodka sodas hugging your ankles as you're trying to wave down a cab, crying for you not to go home because she hasn't found a dude to go home with yet. that shit is gross and secondhand embarrassing. but this 50 shades of begging i totally fucking live for: some hot gorilla standing across the room, lips quivering, tear/snot mixture dripping from the tip of his nose, pleading with me not to leave? WHY IS THAT NOT MY REAL LIFE. i once got thrown out of an apartment by a dude who waited until i got to the front door to call out and ask me to come back and change the television channel because i had broken the remote, his voice full of longing not to watch the food network anymore. i hate my life so fucking much.

i don't need you bitches passing judgment on me on the goddamned bus. I SEE YOU, cutting your eyes at my luminous skin while i'm trying to get my kindergarten erotica on during my infernal morning commute. to hell with you jerks. i'm reading the next one on my goddamned kindle.

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