Penises and Vaginas

A vagina is sitting in the darkest corner of a bar, the lip of a beer bottle gently grazing her lips as she takes a long swallow. The day was long. She's been looking forward to a drink since her feet hit the floor that morning.

A penis notices the vagina, sitting alone, looking like she could use a friend. He approaches cautiously. He doesn't want to be lumped in with all those other penises that the penis knows this vagina has had to deal with all her life.

The vagina is cautious. But the penis seems genuine. She invites him to join her. They leave the bar together. The vagina, grateful for the penis's distraction, tells the penis not to worry about wearing his plastic blanket. They marry.

The penis's family refers to the vagina as wife. The vagina's family refers to the penis as husband. Whew. That was easy.

A vagina is sitting in the darkest corner of a bar, the lip of a beer bottle gently grazing her lips as she takes a long swallow. The day was long. She's been looking forward to a drink since her feet hit the floor that morning.

A second vagina notices the vagina, sitting alone, looking like she could use a friend. She approaches cautiously. She doesn't want to assume this vagina is interested in vaginas like her.

The vagina is cautious. But the second vagina seems genuine. She invites the second vagina to join her. They leave the bar together. The vagina, grateful for the second vagina's distraction, tells the vagina not to worry about spilling wine on the carpet. They move in together.

The vagina's family refers to the vagina as roommate? friend? mate? What do we do? The second vagina's family refers to the vagina as girlfriend? partner? significant other? What do we do? It's so uncomfortable. None of this makes any sense.

What doesn't make sense? Moral fabric and outlandish judgment? Bullshit research and unqualified specialists? Fear and ignorance? What is so drastically different from scenario one and scenario two?

Allow me: A penis and vagina together are citizens protected by our nation's Constitution. A vagina and vagina/penis and penis together are not protected by our nation's Constitution.

President Obama finally figured it out. It's just penises and vaginas, not rocket science.

Hump-day Haiku: Flatulents

Suddenly, it's there,
Without a sound or warning.
My mouth was open.

Some couples pretend
They're impervious to gas.
Exploding outcomes.

The humor subsides,
During contest with cousins,
When pants are soiled.

This Just In!

Governor Uses Fear as Latest Tactic
By Whack-A-Muse © 2011 Bullshit Press

Madison, WI. -- Protests in Wisconsin continued after Governor Scott Walker's announcement that lay offs could start if the elimination of collective bargaining rights is not passed soon. "I'm more interested in furthering my career and political party than I am the right's of my constituents," Governor Walker said in a press conference. He tweeted soon after, "All the greats r loved/feared&I'll b counted w/them even if I have 2 fire evry1." "When asked about the financial crisis his state is supposedly facing, Governor Walker answered, "It's not about the money. It's never been about the money. It's about me being a giant asshole." Governor Walker put his arm on the podium, leaned forward, and whispered into the microphone, "Plus, it never hurts to get large corporate backing come the next election."

The reporters politely chuckled.

Still, the protests show no sign of slowing down. "I was telling my son just yesterday that if we fail, the bullies are not only gonna take over the playgrounds but every state where government wants to nail down Republican victories," said Jeff Gartner, a bus driver who works two additional jobs in order to save enough money to send his son to get an overpriced college education where, upon graduation, his son will not find a job for at least five years and need to continue living at home.

Anna Dunlop, a third grade teacher from Madison, said, "If they tried to take away collective bargaining rights from NFL players, this nonsense would stop in its tracks. When did we become the bad guys? I have never seen a movie where the terrorist was a teacher. Teachers are important. Far more important than an over-muscled Neanderthal who reads at a fifth grade level and throws and catches a ball for a living."

The NFL had no response.

The CEO of a large corporation, who wishes to remain anonymous, is keeping his eye on the situation. "It's simple math. If we can bust up the unions, the flock will be disbanded. They'll huddle into individual corners. And who knows? If this thing passes, we might be able to do away with the weekend, make workers work until we say they can go home, refuse them breaks and overtime, and strip away any shred of dignity they're holding on to. I've been dreaming of something like this since I was twenty-one and realized I was an entitled douche bag."

Governor Walker concluded by saying, "I really want to scare the shit out of people, but I can't open fire into the crowd now, can I? Threatening people with the loss of their jobs will put them back in their place--under the heel of my boot. Haha! And if I do fire 1,500 people, I can blame it on the Dems for not coming back. It's a win, win situation! God has proven he really does favor me."

Someone in the crowd yelled, "God favored Lucifer, too!"

Governor Walker smiled, waved, and left the podium.

Friendly Advice

One of the things I hate about being away from home for long periods of time is not having access to my own bathroom. While I'm grateful for public facilities--no one wants to dig a hole while they're at work or shopping for a waffle maker--I am tired of being assaulted as soon as I open the bathroom door. I'm tired of my eyes stinging and watering. Tired of my nose taking offense to a sourness that provides insight into one's junk food diet. Tired of receiving information I didn't ask for.

It's called a courtesy flush. Use it. Please.

Back Together

I am fourteen. It is summer. The windows in my pink bedroom are open. The curtains move lazily along in a breeze that is equal parts uplifting and lackadaisical. I am standing in front of a small boom box, which took me twelve weeks to pay off with my allowance, and I am kicking, punching, thrashing about. Acting a damn fool.

Johnny Rotten is screaming, imploring me to be an anarchist, and while I am not sure what being an anarchist means, I know that the grittiness, the lack of refinement, the heartbeat I can feel inside the music is doing something to me. The Sex Pistols are waking up my inner punk-rock girl. I am beside myself to meet her.

I soon discover there are women who rock. And I feel I win the lottery. Whitney Houston sings pretty but she does not turn up my internal volume, makes me feel nothing. How will she know if he really loves her? I no longer give a shit. My world is in metamorphosis, transforming into something I cannot get enough of. Something that has women grabbing the world by its balls, swinging it over their shoulder, and heading out to claim their own stake.

I will refuse to settle for mediocrity. I will be more than an expectation. I will not bother to dress the part. I will not wear torn t-shirts, safety pins, leather pants, thick army-type boots. I will dye my hair blue on occasion, or pink or yellow, but I will not cut it into a mohawk or shave it off. I will not feel the need to look punk-rock because for me it is a feeling, not an expression.

Yes, I wanna be your dog. Let's all have a holiday in Cambodia. Please, call me day or night. If I have a dime you better believe I'm putting it in the jukebox, baby.

I will think of that girl from time to time. And I will miss her. But when I discover things--like a class action lawsuit women have filed against Wal-Mart--she always finds me. We come back together and remember everything music taught us.

No Way Out

It doesn't take a genius to understand the gravity of designing a theatre set where the only way audience members can exit is by way of the stage. It is, quite plainly, a major design flaw.

I'm sure the director didn't think it would be an issue. The show only ran ninety minutes, and who can't hold their bladder for ninety minutes?

Then again, who said anything about bladders?

It was closing weekend of for colored girls. The house was intimately packed. My wife--the lady in blue--was on stage, delivering a monologue. I was engrossed, wrapped in the words being delivered to me, marveling at my wife's performance. The entire audience seemed to be entranced. Then came a stirring, on my left.

"Heeerrrrwwwppp."

The sound diverted everyone's attention as the young woman it belonged to stood up, her hand over her mouth, and ran onto the side of the stage as the vomit spilled through her fingers and onto the floor.

Whoa my god!

As the woman fumbled with the thick black curtains that separated her from the exit door, looking for the seam to get her the hell out of there, running back and forth, swatting at the curtain like it was a swarm of biblical locusts, I realized that yes, that really did happen.

It jumped to the top of the list of firsts.

Like an unexpected prop malfunction, the vomit sat there, mimicking the Pollock-like splattering of colors on the stage. It sat there. And it sat there. Begging for the spotlight one more time.

The gentlemen sitting closest to the vomit--it was close!--moved his feet as far from it as he could, pushing his body into his neighbor, recoiling from it like it was threatening him to a duel he knew he couldn't win.

All I could think was I was supposed to be sitting in that seat but through no act of my own I had been moved! In my mind I high-fived and belly-bumped baby Jesus. Secure in living through my own miracle, my mind quickly switched to the actresses. Having seen the show the week before I knew the actors sat on the floor, a lot. Oh, son-of-all-that-is-holy, don't let anyone sit in it. I thought how if one of the actresses put her hand in it she could set off a chain reaction, and the next thing we knew, we'd all be making our own Pollocks.

My wife, always a professional, continued on as if nothing had happened. And because my wife is such a seasoned veteran, during her next monologue a mop was produced, doing it's best to inconspicuously wipe away the smell and stain of a foiled exit strategy. Since the show was still in progress, there was no applause line for the mop, but the collective sigh from audience members could be felt as it traveled from inside out.

Standing in the lobby, after the show's conclusion, reports soon spread: vomit landed on the guy's shoe (originally my shoe!), an actress slipped in it, the woman made it to the trash can but didn't score a direct hit, the woman felt awful about it, the actresses were aware it was there, and so on and so forth. It was all anyone could talk about.

When it comes right down to it, the ego of vomit cannot be denied. And neither can the idiocy of giving the audience no way out.

Hump-day Haiku: The Grammys (Not in My Grandma Kind of Way)

An egg and Gaga,
Pointy shoulders and forehead.
She was born this way.

Singing and dancing
happens in my living room.
Where is my Grammy?

Justin Bieber fans
took his loss personally.
That's powerful hair.

Held Hostage

Don't roll your eyes. Don't look uncomfortably away. You don't have to understand. You don't even have to agree. But what you must do is allow me my own feelings. You do not have my permission to discount anything I have to say or feel on the subject of my pets, which I consider my four-legged children.

I do not ooh-and-aah over babies. I am simply not built for children. Babies do not move me. Not in the slightest. But you show me a basket of puppies and I melt into the floor, a puddle of sappy syrup waiting to be poured over piping-hot puppy pancakes, dripping over their little bodies like an invisible layer of protection. I love their soft, freckled, hairless bellies; their inability to contain their excitement as they crawl up and over and around me like an untrained circus star finally getting the spotlight; their sharp little teeth trying so hard to make a snack out of my finger; their pleading eyes that say, "I may be a shit sometimes but I will love you forever." I cannot walk into the Humane Society for that very reason. I cannot save them all. And that just about kills me.

I do not share the death of my "first born" with anyone but my wife. I don't even talk about it with her often. Yet I think of it at least once, if not ten times, every day.

I will not go into details. The details are private. They are reserved for darkness. For quiet. It is between us. When I strip away everything, it is the details that replay in my mind. It is the details that paralyze me into not moving on. The details are a place I cannot stay for long for fear I will not return for hours, even days. So, no, you cannot have the details.

What you can have is how it feels. My grief does not move in and out of me like vapor. It sits inside me, a sold mass, bumping into organs, clotting the blood into my heart, holding my thoughts hostage. It twists and turns me into something so fragile I cannot breath because I will break. It holds my hand tightly but offers no comfort.

I am not being dramatic or trying to garner sympathy. I do not need anyone's sympathy. It is, simply, very real for me. And if you do not understand it, I do not particularly care. Just do not treat me like my feelings are less-than because you do not value an animal's life the way I do.

When parents lose two-legged children, it means something. I am here to say that losing four-legged children means something, too. Their passing should not be casually dismissed. They cannot be reduced to cat, dog, bird, horse, etc. They have personalities. Behaviors. Little things only they do. It's unfair to patronize us when they die.

It's been four years since my beloved beagle died. There's little to nothing I wouldn't do to have one more day, one more hour, with her. I realize these thoughts get me nowhere but I cannot help to think of them. I miss her as much as I dare you to miss anyone.

Valentine's Day Ego

The show starts at sunrise. Flowers are sent. Stuffed animals are compared, through sidelong glances, for their sizable meaning (the bigger the bear, the bigger the love, unless it's microscopic and then it's cuteness means you must be loved immensely.) Singing balloons are delivered, sure to annoy everyone within earshot. Look at you. You are one out of a million other women receiving flowers on Valentine's Day. You are very special. I know I feel something special, stirring inside me, watching it happen over and over again. Something like a fork in my side because I'm done before it even starts.

It's tired. Unoriginal. A large percentage of the women around me who receive flowers on Valentine's Day do not receive them any other time during the year. Sending flowers when everyone else is sending flowers ensures you'll get lost within the flock. It's a ridiculous spectacle. Please keep the rest of us out of it. Stop trying to convince us how much you love one another because it makes me think you're convincing not only us, but yourselves.

Hitler could have sent a dozen roses too. It proves nothing.

Does this make me sound like a heartless bastard of a woman? Maybe. But I know a few things about romance and a lot about being in love. The one thing that never occurs to me is to include anyone else. When you invite others into your romance, it is no longer intended for the love of your life but for everyone watching. It reeks of ego.

So, this Valentine's Day, let's all remember that it's not the number of flowers, the size of the teddy bear, the song the balloon is singing that holds weight. It is what happens when no one is watching that is truly measured.

Face It

I thought my recent rail against Roethlisberger would be the end of it for awhile. And then Chris Brown danced his way into living rooms last night as the musical guest on Saturday Night Live.

I am this close to losing my cool.

Mr. Brown's physical brutality towards women is a fact. Yet, once again, the dollar speaks louder than moral decency. Two years after his attack on Rihanna and he's back in the business. And pockets are filling fast.

Oh my god! I am so tired of this incessant forgiveness for despicable behavior. How much more are we going to take? Oh, right. As long as it doesn't affect us personally it doesn't matter. As long as we feign disgust and disappointment after it initially happens we're covered. Holding that stance takes integrity, discipline, and, let's face it, it's easier to keep standing in line at Starbucks. The rest of the world can settle itself without our interference.

Wake the fuck up. We all belong to the world. We may not think the decisions we make or the way we feel and speak out about things matter but they do. The term "chain reaction" exists for a reason.

If you're a woman and you have supported this abuser's return, you might as well punch the next woman you see in the face. You should be ashamed of yourself. If you're not, take your passive ass to the nearest cliff and jump. Because, let's face it, the world already has plenty of condoners and enablers. One less is no bruise off my back.