Tie One On

I am as nugatory as an 8-track tape or anything uttered by Charlie Sheen. Ever.

Tony Orlando started it. “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree,” one of my top ten favorite songs from 1973, which sounds all treacly and vapid now, told the story of a convict who hoped to see a yellow ribbon tied to the town oak tree, indicating that his girl had waited for his release and still wanted something to do with his criminal ass. Apparently she really, really, really loved him because there were 100 yellow ribbons round that ole oak, and the whole damn bus was cheering, blah, blah, blah, as if a busload of strangers would actually rally around a fricking felon and give a shit whether he still had a girlfriend. Hell. He was the girlfriend in the pokey. But anyway. The point is that the color yellow and ribbons have been associated with support for loved ones away at WAR (not incarcerated, people) since the 19^th century when naïve girls wore lemon ribbons in their hair to prove that they were not in fact old maids, but had lovers who would be home soon from the front.

The awareness/support ribbon craze started in 1986, but really took off in ’90 when Jeremy Irons wore a red ribbon to the Tony’s to show his support for AIDS awareness. So technically we have gay men to blame for the fact that every white trash bumper and soccer-mom-mobile in the country has a rainbow of meaningless symbols haphazardly adhered to its fading finish. Who even knows what any of the colors mean besides the pink breast-cancer ones? Who even fucking cares? There are currently 101 awareness/support ribbons, including black-and-red atheist solidarity streamers and silver zombie awareness bows. Come on! Atheist solidarity? Zombie fucking awareness? At what point do these things become so diluted that they no longer have meaning? (Hint: already.)

Of course in our land of plenty where we must milk to death every goddamned opportunity to make a buck, reputable businessman and clearly-never-doped-up cyclist, Lance Armstrong, jumped on the yellow bandwagon, promoting those ubiquitous silicone Livestrong/UseSteroids armbands to raise money for cancer, and I just want to point out that he could have avoided the testicular kind had he not stuffed his nuts into a rigid, leather seat for most of their tender lives and also if he did not have a soul blacker than the ribbon for remembrance of the Virginia Tech massacre. The bracelets, which are fugly and become irreparably filthy in a surprisingly rapid manner, now suffer the same flaccid, empty purpose as all those ribbons. No one even notices the bows or bangles or bumper stickers any more. We need some new fad, some new made-in-Taiwan cheap piece of shit on which to throw away money, some new EMBLEM to show we care.

I’m thinking plastic replicas of the organs or body areas affected by disease. That would get some attention. I mean if we really mean it when we say we support something, then we should have no problem dangling a pair of rubbery testicles—with realistic hair and texture!—from a neck chain. Or we could wear a stick-on single boob to show support for breast cancer surgery survivors. Or a sheet of faux skin to advocate skin-cancer awareness. Or a bloody, hacked-off penis pin to encourage all the youth who were molested by priests. Well, you get the idea. And not only would we be championing important causes. Just imagine how many Vietnamese children we’d be helping! No more eating out of garbage cans for them! They could actually get off their bony asses and do something productive instead of swatting flies and whining. Every little bit helps! I’m really getting behind this great idea. I think I’m going to go put a brown support-the-sweatshops ribbon on my car right now.

Safe, My Ass

More people die yearly in car crashes than in shark attacks, and that absolutely does not make me feel better.

I let my kids take surfing lessons one summer in Cocoa Beach, Florida, and the instructor assured us that there would be noooooooooo sharks, yet it turns out that Brevard County has the second highest rate of shark chomps on Florida’s Atlantic coast. Yay. Such a good parent I am to serve up my children in a seafood buffet.

Honestly, whether a slimy, swimming thing has freakish rows of palm-sized razory teeth or not is hardly the issue. Don’t you think it is a tad coincidental that there is salt in the fricking ocean so that you cough and gag it up during the inevitable gasping that occurs right after a devious tidal wave opens a can of whoop-ass on you, and then its in-bred cousin, the current, drags you down so that your eyes widen to the size of Humvee tires, which just makes the brine in them that much more depraved? If humans were supposed to frolic in water, it would not be murky and contain living carnivores who mistake our jerky attempts to stay above the surface for the dying throes of seals. What the hell, the simple selachian brain stem muses. The poor thing is dying anyway, so I might as well not let it go to waste. Chomp.

If we were meant to go in the ocean, it would be clear and chlorinated and vacuumed each morning by some guy name Julio. And fish free. Just a couple of months ago, scientists noted in the Yucatán Peninsula of Mexico the largest gathering of whale sharks ever recorded. Approximately 420 gnashers congregated in one spot, each one bringing its 3000 teeth to the party, which is 1,260,000 more teeth than I like to have near my bare legs, and don’t even bother to argue that whale sharks feed on plankton and that their teeth are teeny. I know all about mob mentality, and 400-plus sharks is a fucking mob if I ever saw one. A million tiny teeth can do a lot of gnawing. 

Besides. If I were in the ocean and realized 400 sharks had swung by for a visit, I would have a stroke and drown. My body, which absolutely resembles that favorite shark crudité, the sea lion, would then twirl lifelessly into the gaping maws where I would provide snack breaks for the throng and its ancestors for decades. That is why the only murky water in which you will ever find my ass is the bath. On the slim chance that there is something alive in there with me, at least I'm not on its dinner menu. I have enough to worry about with having to make sure I'm fucking tasty.

The Daily, Death-Dealing Drudgery

Weapons of fucking mass destruction.

Men say that they like us “natural,” that we don’t need all that “stuff” to be attractive, that we look our sexiest when we roll out of bed first thing in the morning or in my case, the afternoon, but whatever. This is flaming bullshit that men say because they want to get laid and because we don’t spend an hour blow-drying our pubes or mowing the patch like a stripper, or paint eighty-dollar make-up on our boobs and vaginas, which is what guys are looking at when judging our desirability on that 0-10 scale anyway. As long as there is a usable port, we are fucking supermodels. But the point is that women spend a Godawful amount of time and coin getting all dolled up for approximately nothing.  

I passionately hate rolling out of bed to start with, and having to suffer the twin-tortures of bathing and ablutions is like salting third-degree burns. But it’s that, or scare off the town’s children and draw a torch-bearing mob to the door. So. First comes the bath. Showers are for pussies. If you can’t get in there and stew in your own filth for a good, solid 15-30, you FAIL. After the inevitable drying off, preferably with a non-bacteria-infested towel that doesn’t leave a hint of locker-room on the skin, the mirror will probably by now be unfogged, and you can clearly see your mammothness in its reflective horror. Just ignore as I do. Before the petroleum-products application, there is the slathering of the creams. This is a vital and often over-looked step. But if you do not fill all your cracks and crevices with something, that bare mineral crap is going to settle in those valleys, and believe me the early-morning sun rising over that is not a breath-taking vista. And for God’s sake, don’t forget the mascara. Nothing says I have given up and even my genitals will crumble to dust on touch like pale, undefined eye slits.

After you complete your plastering, you must attend to your scalp growth. Short, scraggly, grey, long, bleached, woven, shaved, colored, thin, permed, thick: no matter what the status of your wig, it is an ugly lie perpetuated by Angelina Jolie movies that a woman’s hair will look luxurious without toil. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Condition. Rinse. Pat dry. Detangle. Comb. Flip. Blow dry. Flip. Style. Curl. Style some more. Spray. Fluff. And nothing better get near your ‘do for the rest of the day. God help an errant breeze. (I mentioned Him in the other paragraphs, and didn’t want this one to feel left out. I apologize in advance to the next one.)

The selecting of the garments is my least favorite part of an already excruciating chore. All of my clothes are arranged by category and color, and yet day after day, I stand there like a lobotomy-recipient, drooling, mouth-breathing, grunting, trying to decide what to drag over my shapeless carcass. It is a successful hunt when the pieces match somewhat and do not have any noticeable food-spills. The downside to being finished with the daily drudgery is that it means I am now ready for work or shopping at Wal Mart, both of which are slightly less appealing than bare-foot, fiery-coal traipsing. But someone has to purchase those weapons of beauty so I can start all over again tomorrow. Sigh.

WWYD?

If you were a first-grade teacher—keeper of small fry, warden of budding self-esteem, encourager of embryonic social and moral development—and you noticed that a tiny girl (whose hands could barely fill your palms and whose huge, brown eyes looked way up to you for protection from evil) sobbed hysterically every single day at exactly the same fucking time, wouldn’t you ask her what was wrong? Wouldn’t you call her parents? Wouldn’t you consider consoling her? What would you do? What would YOU do?

Well. If you were my first grade teacher, here’s what: You would snatch me up by the shoulder and drag my snuffling, five-year-old ass out into the hall where you would hiss at me to stand there with my nose against the pebbly wall that smelled just like old Play Doh ® and hope that the principal didn’t walk by because if he did, then I would get a paddling. And then, every day right after lunch and right before math class, I would bury my tear-puffy face in my little black patent leather purse as I waited for Mrs. B. to let me back in  the room. I thought, as most young children do, that if I closed my eyes and couldn’t see anyone, then they couldn’t see me. I believed that I made myself invisible, and that’s why I never got that dreaded spanking. And I realized that I had to stop the crying if I wanted to go to my beloved reading class, which followed math and which required the whole class to move to different seats.

So. I bucked up. I didn’t utter a whimper after lunch ever again. And I just allowed the twisted son-of-a-bitch who sat next to me in math to put his hand down my panties and simultaneously grab my hand and force it to fondle his dick. Every day. Like a good girl.

Thanks, Mrs. B., for teaching me that when a five-year-old girl is sexually assaulted, even by a peer, that she is the one who deserves to be punished, and that crying is not an appropriate response. That was one powerful lesson, you clueless fuck. And all I was really expecting to learn from you was how to read.

Bully THIS.

Yeah. It’s really funny until her parents find her swinging from a belt in her walk-in, and then you bitches are going to juvie.

Okay. I was a bully once. In elementary school, there was a poison-ivy-covered girl named Trudy, who was a year younger than I. For as long as I knew her, she always came to school pink because her mother slathered on the calamine lotion every morning. Her parents had burned yard clippings, which unfortunately included some poison, and Trudy inhaled the smoke, causing a severe reaction that took ages to heal. So, yeah, she looked like a little leper, and I can’t imagine why I felt the need to smack someone who was already down. But she followed me around the playground at every recess, and I kind of wanted her to go the hell away. So, budding bitch that I was, I took total advantage. The only redeeming comment I can make is that I didn’t bully or embarrass Trudy in front of others. I just made her my errand-slave. Go get me a wet paper towel. Go get me a basketball. Go get me a snack. I loved giving orders, and I’m sure all of my husbands past and present who may be reading this are currently shaking their heads in unison, and they can kiss my ass and bring me a goddamned Coke Zero for Christ’s sake.

Anyway.

Trudy was so obsequious, we were a natural fit. I can’t remember how the relationship ended, but she probably just got wise on the last errand and never returned with that bag of BBQ Fritos.

I’m not surprised at myself, of course, for falling into the role of task master. When I was in first grade, I shit you not, my entire class would gather around the large oak on the playground at the beginning of recess so that I could assign jobs. I selected who played on the slide or the swings or the merry-go-round or the monkey bars every freaking day. And my peers actually did what I said. No arguments or complaints or disobeying. And then my parents moved into their newly finished house, and I had to go to a different school where everybody, including my clearly embalmed and soulless teacher, hated my fucking guts, and I was forced to touch this kid’s penis every day before reading. But that’s another story.

What does surprise me is that I bullied Trudy even after I, myself, was pushed around by others, especially Teresa M., who in fifth grade strong-armed me out of my M&M’s after we went over to the high school to see their version of Alice in Wonderland, and the teenaged stars gave us free bags of candy. Bitch. I hope those fuckers melted in your hand.

Bullying now, though, has gotten completely out of hand. Neither Trudy nor I went postal and gunned down our tormentors, I’m happy to report. But the bullied of the 21^st century don’t take it quite like we did a few decades ago. Kids snap and kill themselves, sometimes taking innocent bystanders with them. Of course, harassment is far more insidious than it used to be too, considering the viral capabilities available with a few keystrokes and mouse clicks. Scay-reeee. I guess I can’t really grasp the mechanism that fuels not only a desire to hurt someone who’s already defeated, but the capacity to act on the desire. I blame parents. And Disney. And Charlie Sheen.

So. To all you parents of bullies out there: Your ugly little minions are just like you. Your example sets the bar. To all you bullies out there: You are going to spend a good portion of your life being Tyrone’s bitch and having painful hemorrhoids. To Trudy: Please forgive me! I hope your skin healed. To Charlie Sheen: Go away. And to Robert B.: Your penis is probably the same size it was in first grade. I hope I never find your sorry ass.

Litterbugggggggggggggs Bug Me

So I’m in the drive-thru line at Mickey D’s tonight because I had a little extra time for a nutritious meal, and everybody knows McDonald’s is synonymous with healthy, when this ghettomobile in front of me will. Not. Move. Does this driver not realize fast food is called fast food for a fricking reason? I notice that the vehicle’s rear window, which was probably shot out after the robbery, has been replaced by a warped web of packing tape, which looks simultaneously bulgy and crispy. Been there a while.

Anyway, at the exit from the parking lot into traffic, the car just sits there and sits there becoming one with the asphalt even though there is nary an auto for five thousand zillion miles. WTF? Then! A shard of lone straw wrapper flits out of the driver’s window, immediately followed by its remainder. Oh, I get it! The nimrod behind the wheel needs half a fucking hour to figure out how to unsheathe the straw, insert said instrument in his drink, and then determine what to do, what to do with all that refuse. Lord knows the waste paper would be sorely out of place inside the car, and I can totally understand why the driver could not possibly dirty up his surroundings. As if there isn’t a pile of assorted shit behind the driver’s seat that’s been there since the Reagan years. Hell, there is probably an undiscovered Schwarzenegger child in there somewhere.

My point is that I will never comprehend why litterfuckingbugs litter. How freaking hard is it to lay aside your wrappers and sacks and cellophane and Styrofoam ® until you get home where you can toss it all on the bathroom floor with the other debris? Throwing trash anywhere other than in a garbage can is such a lazy, reprehensible, disrespectful act. McDonald’s places trash receptacles all over their parking lots and drive-thru lanes to give the slovenly the least restrictive opportunity to discard their crap. Still, no. The scum of the earth continue to give the finger to society. I say that offenders who get caught, even if it’s just by me, should not only have to pay a hefty fine (to me), but should have to spend at least 52 weekends retrieving rubbish from interstate medians and shoulders. In the heat of the day. At rush hour. With bare hands and no little stabber on the end of a pole either, you sorryass cheaters!! If you can’t do the time, don’t do the griiiiiiiiiiiime.

Dumber than a Plank

Stop imitating me, you idiots.

So apparently people have been idiots since the 4^th/5^th century although I am pretty sure this isn’t big news to any of you. As long as there has been human-kind, there has been stupidity. (With reason comes the inherent opportunity to be unreasonable.) But in the late 300’s-early 400’s, this crazy Christian dude, Saint Simeon Stylite (who began physically abusing himself at age 13 in the name of the Lord), sought some serious spiritual solitude by sitting in prayer for 37 years…wait for it…on top of a pillar. (Some accounts say 39 years, but whatev. It was a long fucking time.) Simeon, who was really trying to get away from the crowds of pilgrims who came to him for divine guidance, ironically made himself available to the throngs and preached sermons to his visitors. His favorite topic: the evils of profanity. Dude would’ve hated my ass.

Eventually, St. Simeon’s feat evolved into the even-stupider-than-praying-on-a-pillar-until-death-from-a-thigh-ulcer pole sitting craze of the 1920’s and ‘30’s. The longest anyone lasted on a flagpole was 51 days, until this Polish guy in 2002 who stayed on a pole for 196 days. But he took a short break every two hours. That should NOT count. And besides, how do we know he wasn’t on a Pole for 196 days? I mean, hell, it could’ve just been his wife.

But. Leave it to the Aussies to bastardize and criminalize the whole craze. Pole sitting has turned into a little something called “planking,” AKA lying face down on a chosen surface and imitating a plank. Some professional Aussie rugby player named Wolfman planked during a televised game, and a new fad was born. Now people, and by people I mean blisteringly intoxicated shits-for-brains, have planked on race car tires, lots of way-high-up balconies and building ledges, train tracks, and all sorts of super-duper-dangerous venues on which to lie rigidly in place. Last week, I saw news reports that a couple of people have died while planking because they fell off the narrow planes on which they were lying, and, no, I do not mean airplanes although I’m sure someone will think to plank on one of those any second now.

Listen, I know oodles of people who do a damn good impression of wood, and even they aren’t obtuse enough to prostrate themselves on some precarious perch where one little shift of a nut may cause their blood and guts to be forever separated from their scattered body parts. I know that as long as there are extreme sports, insanely dense morons, and Miller High Life, there will always be poor, grieving widows, stuffed into brown pleather recliners hawking their gratuitous grief on respectaBULL news shows as their diaper-clad minions spill in and out of the screen doors to the double-wides. But shouldn’t…wait. Wait. Survival of the fittest.
Rethinking.

Nevermind. Plank on, idiots. Plank on.