PC Makeover

For those of you looking for ways to erase porn off your PC, this post isn't for you. But since you're here, fucking Google it. And good luck.

Now, for those of you looking for the thick-slab meaty meaning of PC makeover, allow me to stop you at the baked potato. It's not as exciting as eating. 

What is exciting is telling the trolls to roll their Politically Correct bullshit in a Confederate flag, then wrap that flag in a Redskin's jersey, and set that dick-pile on fire. PC belongs on the shelf with Global Warming. Let them collect dust together and discuss how their underwear forcefully met the crack of their asses every day because the naysayers misunderstood them and couldn't resist a good ol' fashioned wedgie. (Don't feel too bad because wedgies are a part of our nation's history, so it's okay.) 

Why does Politically Correct sound like decorating your cotillion with floor to wall uppity white people? Of course there's no support for the Confederate Flag or Team Redskin in PCness because everyone's too busy piling dolphin-safe tuna tartar on their plates while sneaking bites to a baby polar bear resting in their Baby Bjorns, and drinking fuck-everything-American clean water. 

Because that's what the term "Politically Correct" has come to mean, right? 

Well I'm on to you, Righty. And I'm taking your 'Politically Correct' and I'm changing it to 'Shut Up and Get one Free', 'All You Can Eat for Freedom', or 'God's Plan'. You decide. 

Or...

How about just plain old 'Empathy'. It's amazing how Empathy, minding its own business, was snatch off its park bench--feeding hungry country and city pigeons--placed in the spin machine, and transformed into entitled socialist, un-American snobbery like Politically Correct. 

From all of us PCers, Empathy, I'm sorry. We're doing what we can, but you don't play a large role in our nation's history so, I'm sad to say, your makeover is going to take a white dick-pile being set on fire. 

Half-assed

Ugh. I'm in no mood to do this today. But I made a promise to myself that I would, so here goes.

...

...

Crickets are all that come to mind.

Surely there's something inside me that wants to come out besides mucous and excrement. All I've done this past week is poop, blow my nose, cough, and sleep. And honestly, that's all I want to do today. (Not that I'm looking forward to spending more than my average time pooping. I'd like my intestines to return to their regularly scheduled duties. Yes, I said doodies.) The end of my nose can easily be mistaken for under-cooked hamburger, and the heat from my eyes is one degree away from shooting a laser into my diseased pile of slimy Kleenex. I'm tempted to include a link to Honey Boo Boo's Thanksgiving feast so I'll not be the only person you find disgusting. 

I don't feel good, and I'm never going to be the kind of person who fakes it. This sickness-riddled rambling is all I have to give today. Next Monday, when this system has moved out of my body, I promise something less half-assed.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a tissue. My cough drop just flew out of my mouth when I sneezed and snot is exiting my face like there's been a nose fire.

I can't wait to be a full ass again.

Open Letter: Rush Limbaugh

Dear Fat Piece of Shit,

Let's not pretend I'm going to be civil. Being civil with a guy like you is like tying myself to your car and running alongside in good faith you'll not get on the highway.

It takes a big man to mimic children who are afraid to die from gun violence. Thankfully, your weight class qualifies you. Yeah, I'm taking cheap shots, but calling you Fat Piece of Shit feels so appropriate that every time I call you Fat Piece of Shit, I feel the world's economy get stronger.

Saying shocking shit that 1) makes no logical sense, and 2) you know will rile the feathers of liberals, gets you higher ratings. That's your shtick; I get it. You say something to taunt the other side and when the other side rebuts, your listeners have more reason to tune in because you're the fucking martyr. Poor Fat Piece of Shit, put upon by those lefty fucking idiots.

Well this lefty fucking idiot has an idea. I know you're hesitant to hear it, but I promise it's worth reading on. You'll like it.

You should go on a tour of elementary schools and perform your I'm-a-scared-whiny-child-who-doesn't-want-to-get-shot impression for the children and parents. Put your face where your mouth is and teach these fucking pansy-ass kids something about nutting the fuck up. Walk in with spurs on your Reeboks, a silver belt buckle large enough to hold back your stomach, and say, "Listen up, you lot of fucking softies. The President can't help you. No one can help you but you. So nut up and grow a pair, you pathetic second graders!" Maybe shoot a couple of rounds from a semi-automatic over the children's heads to help desensitize them to the look and sound of guns. Something like that. You can broadcast live from the school so your listeners can bask in the thundering applause you'll get in response to your children-are-fucking-crybabies-who-complain-to-the-President approach.

When the parents, moved to tears, come to you afterwards to shake your hand and thank you for turning their little Sarah, little Sarah who's been a little bitch for all six of her years, into a little Jason Bourne, you can get back on your bus, headed for the next city, and know you're making a difference. A fat piece of shit difference.

Good luck on tour,

Whack-A-Muse

Off to Another Colorful Year

Thanks to chilling temperatures, my wife and I are going on day three without water. While I'm grateful to have electricity, I'm over the empty faucets. And they'll likely remain empty until Wednesday.

Apparently, 2013 wants to see me cry.

I can't wash my hair without my wife's help. Bathing feels old-timey as I crouch in the bathtub and scrub my essentials with a washcloth. I dip a cup into a pot of hot water, fresh off the stove, to rinse. My wife, with her own pot of water, takes my place when I'm finished. It's a sophisticated system.

The dishes, shoved in a cloth bag, came to work with me so they can be washed. Co-workers are kind not to ask what the cookie sheet is for.

I'm not drinking as much water. Food is eaten sparingly. Bathroom "situations" have become...interesting.

What is it about the New Year that likes to hand my ass to me? Remember 2011? Yes, pissing in the bathtub is fun, but the novelty soon wears off, as does the hilarity. I don't need, "We're out of pee water," to replace "I love you," or "What's for dinner," as the most popular saying in 2013 to add color to my life. Really. I don't.

So, 2013, if this is how you want to play it, I've got news for you. It's hard to beat someone who's shameless. I'll keep peeing in the tub. I'll stick to my side of the cookie sheet when my wife and I use it as a plate. I'll even continue driving the dishes around. But you, you're time will run out. Just do me a solid before you go: Don't tell 2014 what I've said.

The Art of Living

Nothing--not Anne Heche's 20/20 interview with Barbara Walters; not being stuck in an elevator with a fat man while I'm holding a sandwich; not even Michele Bachmann living in the White House--scares me more than dying.

You're probably thinking, 'No shit. That's an easy call.' And you'd be right. Dying is terrifying for most of us. But for me, it's not the idea of no longer existing or the idea of facing the unknown that scares me the most: It's what I'll miss.

What if To Kill A Mockingbird or The Night Circus or Geek Love had been written after 2173 and I never cracked their stiff spines only to soften them in a matter of days? What if Anne Hathaway had been born after I died and she didn't get to break my heart in such a gloriously unexpected way in Les Miserable? Don't even get me started on Jessica Chastain, Tina Fey, and Portlandia.

While there are plenty of people who think God has a fabulous library, a state-of-the-art home theater system where he gets the biggest blockbusters before Netflix, and holds a new gallery opening on the second Tuesday of every month in his floating sky-house, I don't prescribe to such comforts. When I'm gone, that's that. And with me, everything I've massively, lovingly appreciated will melt away with the burning of my lifeless body.

I'll not miss the bullshit of people, but goddamn, I'm going to miss the art of living.

Dick Licker of the Year

Competition was fierce this year, but edging out Newt Gingrich, Boy Scouts of America, Octomom, Carnival Cruise Line, and Justice Anthony Scalia for the Dick Licker of the Year award was the Iowa Supreme Court.

Congratulations, gentlemen. By unanimously agreeing with a man who fired his dental assistant because her attractiveness threatened his marriage, well, that's what I call real dickmanship. Seven dicks for seven brothers. Les dickerables.

What happened to holding people personally accountable for their thoughts and feelings? If we set a precedent to blame others--how can we possibly be expected to control ourselves?!--for decisions we're even thinking about making, what hope is there for the future generations of women?

Yeah, I thought it, too, probably the same time you did: designer burkas.

Don't think your name didn't come up during voting, Dr. James Knight. You felt, one day, you were bound to stick your penis in your dental assistant. Your wife thought so too and demanded she be fired.

That makes you a dick-licking motherfucker too.

I could dole out insults all day but I guess I should grow up and get to the heart of the matter.

Hey, dumb shits. You know who's a threat to your marriage? You and your wife!

Talk about a lack of trust, respect, and self-esteem. You didn't need to go to court, Dr. Knight. You needed to go to marriage counseling.

And you, Iowa Supreme Court, should never allow the internal insecurities of a marriage to dictate the outcome of a woman's employment. I hope the Dick Licker of the Year award looks as nice as I think it will sitting next to your Smug Fucker participation ribbon. 

c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s.

All right. I've heard enough. There are too many men in too many movies claiming the key to performing fellatio on women is spelling out letters with their tongues. Most recently, I watched a woman tell her boyfriend he's really good at it and he says it's because he wrote a short story. With his tongue.

What a fantastical way to admit he has no fucking idea what he's doing.

And she's lying.

I can imagine how it feels, having a tongue spell out letters in my cookie jar: erratic, unorganized, hit and miss. One second it feels great, right on the spot, and the very next the tongue is off on some unplanned adventure, nowhere near my pleasure cruise. 

I hate to be the barer of bad news, but women aren't typewriters. Our vulvas aren't looking for the next Hemingway to write the next great American story in our business. 

Then again, treating women's sexual needs with this kind of bullshit is the great America story, isn't it?  

I'm not saying this is true across the board. There are plenty of men out there who take pleasuring their women seriously. I like to think alphabet cunnilingus is nothing more than Hollywood urban legend, comparable to lesbians in movies sleeping with men. It's for a laugh. But something tells me, having heard stories from women who don't orgasm until their thirties, it's not a joke. 

Listen up, gods of pleasure. Tongue fatigue sets in quickly when you listen to men who live with their parents or drive BMWs. Cunnilingus doesn't have to be so complicated. Generally speaking, her clitoris prefers pressure on one side or the other, the top, going back and forth, or up and down. And if you feel the need to try this bullshit at the vaginal opening, stick with the letter O. Just stay present and her body will guide you, unlike Hollywood screenwriters.

Here We Go Again

Every time it hurts me. Every time I feel like throwing a monstrous fit. Every time I wish for change.

Checking the "single" box on my medical records is fucking ridiculous. When offered, checking "other" and writing "domestic partnership" on the line provided sounds like my wife and I made an agreement to grow tails, stay off the couch, and pee outside. But my integrity won't let me check the "married" box because, well, it's not true.

I recently conducted a medical review over the phone. Perfectly Pleasant Pam asked me my name. Date of birth. Single or married.

Oh, boy. Here we go. I sighed. "I guess I have to say single, unfortunately."

"Well that's all right," Pam said. I imagined her shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

"It's not legal for me to get married," I said. I wanted Pam to know that being denied the right to marry was not "all right" with me.

"Well I've been with my guy for nine, ten years," Pam said. She briefly elaborated, suggesting it was hilarious that being with her guy for so long provided her no pleasure in checking the married box.

Congratulations, Pam. Your relationship is a riot. You and your guy are a couple regular Everybody Loves Raymond types that American's adore. Aren't you fucking special.

Pam seemed relieved to move on to questions concerning my medical history.

I thought Pam and I were done; we'd had our moment and it had passed. We were compadres, working on the same team. Then she asked me for my emergency contact, which I provided with no hesitation. Her name is...Her phone number is...

"Is this your friend?" Pam said.

The phone's for you, Pam. It's 1995 and it wants its "roommate" back.

"She's my WIFE," I responded.

Pam didn't know what to do. Stuck between wanting to seem cool and having a hard time hiding her true self, she stammered and may have accidently shot a staple into her leg.

Fail, Pam. Epic fail.

I'm begging, imploring that people like Pam are soon put out of their misery. She can call me carpet licker, diesel dyke, homo, fag, or anything else her and her guy can come up with behind my back, just as long as there's a word for what I am on my medical records: Married.

Something to Write About

I'm not a fan of bumper stickers. I don't feel the need to let other drivers know things about me. I don't need to plead with strangers to "<Not> blame me because I voted for the American." What difference does it make if strangers know I'm an uninformed, ignorant racist? Unless I'm rolling through Detroit, none.

While it's great to want the Dalia Lama's safe return home and monks to stop being persecuted for their beliefs, announcing I want a "Free Tibet" says I'm political without being political. Who doesn't want a free Tibet? Some Chinese, maybe, but come on. Americans love to rally against bullies who don't allow freedom of reli--what's that now? Our President must say "God bless America" after he gives a speech? Well, you know what I mean. "Free Tibet" is doing nothing more than accentuating the orange-ish hues on my 1984 Volkswagen Jetta's rusty bumper.

Who gives a shit about seeing my family displayed in stick-figure formation? Nothing says I'm thinking about the environment I'm leaving for my six kids, two dogs, and one cat than driving through the Starbucks' drive-thru in my Range Rover. Who cares if our ecological footprint is so big my family, singlehandedly, can one day be blamed for dependence on foreign oil?

Fuck it. I'm important, and I can do what I want.

You got that right. Do what you want all day long. It gives me something to write about.

What Was That?

Something unexpected happened over the weekend. Something I assumed would be quite innocent turned out to be an evening-shattering event. At one point my wife and I looked at each other, each wiping streaming tears from our faces, and wondered aloud what was happening to us. One of us had to keep swallowing, her throat burning, to keep from balls-out bawling. 

It started when Walter chicken-pecked the first few notes—"It's. Time. To..."—on Kermit the Frog's dusty piano.

There was no coming back from it.

If you haven't seen The Muppets, let me tell you, that movie wasn't messing around. It lifted my wife and me over its head, cracked our backs over its knee, and left us to crawl to a payphone to call for help. The Muppets’ studio in ruins?! The Muppets no longer friends?! No longer relevant?! It took everything we valued and loved in our childhoods and set them on fire right in front of our faces. 

And then Kermit and Miss Piggy had to go and sing Rainbow Connection as a duet. You might as well have beaten a basket of puppies before our eyes the way we carried on.

When my wife asked me, “What’s wrong with us?” I tried to say something about our reactions maybe being linked to our youth being over, how we’d never feel that joyfully light again, that we’d never feel so over-the-top connected to anything like the Muppets again, but couldn't without breaking down. 

So I took a minute. 

With tears still rolling down my face, I settled on, "I'm so glad we didn't see that in the theater.”

And that's how we left it: laughing about being the two adult women in the audience who couldn't manage to detach themselves from the fuzzy friends who meant more to them than just entertaining puppets.