Friday, December 24, 2010

Happy Birthday Jesus!

        Tomorrow is the day when Christians celebrate the day that their long-haired leader came shooting out of Mary's birth canal. Supposedly this pregnancy was not a result of penetration. I'm assuming in vitro was involved. Regardless of how the "virgin" Mary got knocked up, the fact is she birthed from her vagina the leader of a new religion; Christianity (the sequel to Judaism)! However, I find it interesting that it is rarely pointed out that the head of Christianity was born a Mediterranean Jew (he was practically Black). I'm pretty sure Jesus was wearing a Yamaka before the umbilical cord was hacked off (I'm not sure how they removed it considering the invention of sewing scissors would come centuries later). This little Jewy muffin ball would spend the rest of his life crusading for his Baby Daddy and ultimately be murdered by his mozza ball eating counterparts. At least the Jews had the decency when they crucified Jesus to wrap his lower half in a sarong to conceal his tiny penis. I'm not sure why the Jews have such tiny penises yet incredibly large mozza ball sized testicles but I'm assuming that it has everything to do with God (Baby Daddy) having a very good sense of humor. Who knew that a little Jew boy who looks like the lead singer of the Bee Gees would become worshiped by millions of followers, including Black people! Jesus, in that regard, was the original Eminem. All of the events leading up to his death unfortunately didn't convince the Jews that he in fact was the son of God. That must've been really bad news for whoever drove the last nail in the cross. I'm sure a lot of prayer was needed to ensure he didn't burst into flames when entering a religious establishment. That would be weird to murder Jesus and then receive communion years later at Christmas mass. I felt similarly when I went to church with one of my friends after pooping on his lawn. (I was 10 and unaware of my now self diagnosed IBS, please don't write letters).

       Essentially all of this is to say that there is a huge paradox I'm pointing out. Christmas Day is actually quite the predicament. While all of the Christians celebrate Dec.25th in salute to their religion, Jesus is busy getting his party on. Jesus doesn't celebrate Christmas because he's a bloody Jew! He's busy lighting the Menorah and getting drunk off of Crystal and Patron because for him today is just his birthday! Go shorty it's yo birthday! So while all of you Christy's gather at Church for Christmas mass just remember that somewhere your Lord and Savior is doing tequila shooters in the bathroom of some underground stripclub in heaven. I'm not saying you should stop celebrating Christmas, I'm just saying that we should all have some perspective. And by perspective I mean tequila shooters. By the way, I'm not sure why the blood of Christ decided to manifest itself in red wine, I've never been a fan of Cabernet Sauvignon. Now that we're in the 21st Century the blood of Jesus should take the form of Crown Royal. Just a suggestion.

     However you choose to celebrate this holiday season with your family, I hope that all of you enjoy the people around you. Celebrate whatever traditions you may have with dignity and pride. And always remember please enjoy responsibility. Do not consume the blood of Jesus and drive unless you would like to join him.

Happy Birthday J Dog,
Son of Christ (The paternal test results haven't come in yet but we have the same eyes)

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

A Brother of Another Color but From the Same Mother

          The sighting of an African American in my hometown is more rare than seeing me without an alcoholic beverage. On one occasion I actually ran into a Black man in my neighborhood. I was 7 years old and not prepared for what I was about to see. I was astonished. I had discovered Big Foot! He first greeted me with the obligatory head nod to acknowledge my Blackness. As we crossed paths he looked at me and said, "What's up my brother?" I kept walking and ignored him. He clearly had me confused with someone else. He wasn't my brother. I didn't even know him. It didn't make sense to me that I was supposed to feel some sort of automatic connection with him just because we were both the color of slightly over baked gingerbread. I was confused. At that moment, I thought of my actual brother, who is White. Had he been the one who walked by this African American man he would've paid my brother no notice at all. This seemed not to be fair in my head which influenced my decision to ultimately disengage in any acknowledgement of my Blackness during my teenage years. I've lightened up since then. You have to when living in America to avoid getting stabbed. I lived in Brooklyn for Christ's sake! However, I haven't let go of my confidence in the fact that I only have one brother. He is the same color of snow. And he is amazing.

          When I say my brother is White, he's not just an ordinary Caucasian. If you put him in a bag of marshmallows you probably wouldn't be able to find him. I've tried to test out this theory on several occasions but my brother has been less than cooperative. My brother looks like a cross between Harry Potter and Justin Bieber. But for the purposes of this blog and to avoid the longwindedness of a hybrid name let's just refer to him as Harry Potter. When I was 4, I remember Princess Toadstool (my Mother) being away for a short time. I knew she was in the hospital, but I wasn't quite sure why. It was very difficult for me not having my usual partner in crime for Patty cake around. Somehow I pulled through emotionally. After some time my Stepdad took me to the hospital to go visit Princess Toadstool. I walked into the room and couldn't believe what I witnessed. She was holding something very small in a blanket. It was the tiniest most adorable little vanilla dumpling you've ever seen. Upon being introduced to this strange creature, I was informed that this apparantly was my brother. "I have a cream puff for a brother?!?" was the reaction in my mind. He was just so incredibly fluffy. He was pink! Like Kirby! Nobody tells you that White people are born pink. I'm sure my Mother was as shocked as I was. This was absolutely ridiculous. He didn't resemble me at all. He didn't have my butterscotch colored skin nor was he thin. He was just this little ball of White jiggly fluff. It was very strange. So once we brought the little marshmallow home, the adjustment began. I remember my Stepdad drinking coffee out of my mug that had little Harry Potter's face on it! This was absolutely absurd. Where was my coffee mug? I thought. It's always difficult having your spot as the youngest most adorable child taken away from you but little did I know that things would get better. For the record, he is no longer pink.

       It turns out that Harry Potter would grow up to be quite the little Caucasian whipper snapper. At 4 years old the little marshmallow could out spell my Brown behind. I'm not exactly sure where he learned to spell and pronounce "Brochiasauras" but it definitely wasn't from me. I was the best speller in my entire 2nd grade class but there Harry Potter was, that little munchkin was too smart for my own good! He pushed me to be better! I began watching every dinosaur movie I could to ensure that I would at least match his intelligence in the "prehistoric spelling and pronunciation" department! I was determined. But I could never truly get mad at the little nugget. Harry Potter at heart has always been very sensitive and kind. Again, obviously this is something he did NOT learn from his older Browner brother. Speaking of Brown. He is still yet to point out the fact that we are clearly two different shades. He has no interest in this matter. To think that all of that time growing up I would stare at him and wonder how he and snow were the same color meanwhile he really didn't give a shit. I guess I really didn't give a shit either. It didn't bother me but I was completely fascinated by it. I looked  like an overgrown Chia pet and he had hair so blindingly blond you had to wear sunglasses when in close proximity.

             Harry Potter has a very strange relationship with animals. He's like Jim Carrey in Ace Ventura. My brother is like Morphene to animals. They immediately calm down and relax around him. It's very strange. I, on the other hand, am completely a hot mess when it comes to any woodland creature. I freak them out they freak me out. We do NOT have a good relationship, animals and I. When dogs see me I immediately run in the other direction. They bark and growl at me like I'm Michael Vick. I have no choice but to sprint away as quickly as possible. This is partly on account of my fear but also to deal with my inevitable diarrhea and find a toilet quickly. Harry Potter is just so easy and calm. I wish I had his nerves. I have to drink quite a few alcoholic beverages to come down to his temperament but at that point my intelligence has scaled way below his on account of the seven margaritas I've downed. I hope that one day I'll be relaxed as he. For now, I'll just settle on being the thinner of the two. However, I have to be very careful of what I eat because he's skinny behind is edging up on my waistline closely!

             At the end of the day I'm not exactly sure why Jesus decided to turn my brother into a marshmallow. But he did. And there's nothing I can do to change that. I wouldn't want to. If you put my sister on one side of me and my brother on the other, we look like the most delicious reverse-Oreo sensation that you've ever seen in your life! It's amazing. Harry Potter has a sensitivity and an approachability that is unmatched. I attribute this to him being born EXACTLY 7 days before Jesus. So, I raise a toast to my little White dumpling. Happy belated birthday! May we all bask in your glow.

Your Brother of Another Color but from the Same Mother

Monday, December 20, 2010

Secret Santa (The secret is, I pulled a name and I don't who the hell you are)

              I recently attended an event which most people dread. It's called a a "Staff Holiday Party". This was a  particularly strange ordeal for me because there was NO alcohol. I'm not joking. It's the longest amount of time I've gone sober during the evening. Not only am I no fun at all when I'm not heavily intoxicated but apparently neither is anyone else! However, the saving grace for this alcoholics-anonymous shindig was none other than another activity which I would normally dread; Secret Santa. For those of you who are not aware, Secret Santa is something that the Devil himself came up with. It is when you are forced to pick out a piece of paper from a hat which inevitably bears the name of a co-worker whom you have never met and you are required to purchase a gift for a stranger. In exchange, you will receive an equally thoughtless gift from someone you probably have never met either. At the place of my employment someone dreamt up the brilliant idea of having everyone fill out questionnaires that would coincide with the person who draws your name so that he or she will be better prepared as to which I aisle they should enter when purchasing your gift from Rite Aid. Unfortunately, when filling out my form I wasn't able to control myself from writing the most ridiculous answers I could possibly come up with. Here's what the unfortunate sole had to go off when purchasing my gift:

                                                     Name: Sean Smith

Favorite Junk Food: Bi-Racial Cookies (Halle Berry with oats)
Favorite Candy: Tylenol Extra Strength Gel Caps (or Vicodin)
Favorite Drink: Ketel One Vodka with a splash of cranberry, served with two lemon wedges on the rocks, garnished with a toothpick-based parasol in a rocks glass
Favorite Color: Brown and Thin
Favorite Restaurant: Hooters
Favorite Music: Gospel Hymns sung by Black people wearing brightly colored hats
Favorite Store: The Liquor Store across from my house
Favorite Author: Whoever wrote the Bible
Favorite Past Time: Sarcasm

Happy Holidays!

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Sunday Church vs. Sunday Brunch

          Today is Sunday which I now have learned to be "Jesus's day". This makes no sense to me. If Jesus is so amazing (like those silly songs they sing at church say) then shouldn't every day be Jesus's day? Not to mention, it really cuts into my valuable time that should be spent eating Egg's Benedict and drinking mimosas at brunch somewhere downtown. It really tickles me that how on Sunday all the crazy Christ-y people spend the day worshiping someone who only has 3 letters in his name while the rest of us sane people spend the latter part of the day sleeping off their hangover or get drunk in the middle of the day which for some reason is completely appropriate because it's "Sunday brunch". As long as you're either drinking a Bloody Mary, Mimosa, or Screwdriver noone will find it odd their your toasted in the middle of the day for no particular reason. Any other day this would be sinful! I just love how Jesus worshipers and shameless alcoholics have picked the same day of the week to pay homage to whom they worship. Christians worship Jesus and alcoholics worship Grey Goose. I feel torn.
         As you are aware, I have recently joined the Bible Thumpers in their crusade to set gays on fire and thus have been attending church for the last few weeks; I'm not really fond of shameless drinking when the sun is out anyway. Today is Sunday and clearly I am not there because I am instead doing my Christian duty in writing filthy blogs. I don't feel badly that I'm missing church; I put my Bible on my lap as I'm writing this so I feel that I'm there with them (and by "them" I mean the 12 apostles). As a new found Jesus-kisser I was very upset when a few weeks ago I could not attend because I was feeeling under the weather. Apparantly I hadn't been praying enough and illness was my punishment. I convinced myself to consider praying to all Gods of all religions just in case I'm currently subscribing to the wrong one.  Obviously, I need to pray to each God separately to avoid offending any particular one. If I were Jesus I would be pretty pissed off if I knew one of the chosen people was talking to Buddha, especially if they were using my anytime minutes on the family plan. Did you know Hindus have 6000 Gods. I was praying all weekend! At least it helped distract me from the inevitable and everpresent diarrhea. I definitely need to switch to Verizon to get more weekend minutes. Perhaps I just need to buy a phone card. 

         Inevitably, no matter what I decide to do with myself on Sundays I'm sure that God will be well aware of what my intentions and thoughts are. Just by sitting myself in a pu will not guarantee me a seat in Heaven's V.I.P. section which I'm pretty sure includes white leather sofas encrusted with diamonds. I'm sure that God is well aware of the goodness in my heart and the insanity between my ears. Therefore, there's no need for me to feel guilty about not singing Jesus music today, I can just play it on my IPod. I know for a fact that church is no guarantee to Christ-like living. R. Kelly attends regularly.
So whether you're reading this on your MacBook Pro that you've propped up on your table at Sunday Brunch or you're enjoying this Blog from your IPhone in the middle of church when you really should be paying attention to lyrics of the gospel hymn. Please enjoy this Sunday and remember that Jesus loves you because he made you to be you and not R. Kelly.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Orange Prostitues (My Salute to the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders)

            The significance of cultural traditions often has so much less to do with the actual tradition than the festivities and customs that surround said tradition; thus becoming traditions all to themselves. Church is less about Jesus and more about the size of your hat and the volume of your singing voice. Thanksgiving is less about the Pilgrims and the Native Americans than it is about stuffing your face until you become the size of Kirstie Allie. The same is true for most cultural customs of this wonderfully ridiculous country.

       Since moving to America, this country is yet to let me down in delighting and fascinating my comedic curiosity in the crazy shit that people take part in. One of the most disturbing American past times is a very strange and peculiar event. Allow me to describe it. Thousands of Caucasian men come far and wide to meet in a secret cave to bask in their Whiteness. Upon arrival, they form several circles that appreciate in height all surrounding a plastic green garden of plastic grass that has been decorated with White flour (they really should use whole wheat flour) to create lines and numbers representing an encrypted code on the sacred green grass. Servants bring to them partially cooked penises on bread decorated with red, green, and yellow stripes. The White people drink this foreign elixir out of a plastic cup which displays the name of their Lord and Savior, "Budweiser" (with every sip you can just taste the racism). Once they have all been served this racist communion they rise and cheer for the upcoming event to follow. They peer toward central sacred evergreen garden when  their pawns finally make their entrance. Precisely 22 giant Negros in uniform race into the field. 11 come from the North and the other 11 come from the South. Each team of great Blackness faces each other and it begins. The White people scream and riot as the African Americans proceed to throw an oddly shaped ball around the garden and beat the shit out of each other. The game has begun. The great tradition of American Football!

        It never once occurred to me that I would ever have to actually experience this nightmare but as I've said before, Jesus has a very peculiar sense of humor. I'm sure he heard my negative attitude on this American tradition then looked down upon me and said to himself "Alright bitch this is what you get for making fun of me in your last blog you Butterscotch bastard!" It turns out that at my job we are all required to help out with fundraising. I'm all for helping out my company. What I didn't realize that this involved working the concession stand at the Dallas Cowboy Stadium! We sold two things; Miller Lite and hot dogs. Obviously I was completely horrified when I found this out. I've never been a fan of food that resembles genitalia. At the same time I was slightly curious to see what Hillbillies actually look like up close, so I stayed optimistic. We arrived at the stadium and were immediately requested to don the most hideous uniform I've ever seen. It was the largest football jersey I've ever encountered; I could've fit at least seven Asian babies under there. There was also a matching cap which left an incredibly attractive red line circling around my bald head. Once we put these abominable clothes on we began to set up our cash register and count the the cans of beer and frozen penises which the Hillbillies call "hot dogs". Once our station was set up it was time for the game to start. I knew that the majority of the people attending this event would be Caucasian so I was not surprised to see them arrive on time. If the football audience was Black they would probably play about an hour of previews and advertisements to ensure that people would arrive just in time to see the kick-off. Anyways, once the Whities started coming through the door I was completely overwhelmed. These people certainly delivered in the trailer trash department. It was solid comedy gold! Imagine Wal-Mart with less teeth and more man-breasts. Some hillbilly with a dream decided to come up to me and order a beer, I just stared in complete awe. He was almost as intriguing as a lesbian. Finally, I awoke from my frozen state of shock and served him his Miller Lite. The carnies made their way to their seats encircling the football field. You could see the sheer anticipation and joy on their faces. I'm not sure what's so exciting about watching Black people running into each other but they seemed very happy. As the beginning of the show was approaching business was slowing down as most people had taken their seats so I slowly made way toward the field and stood behind the last row to take a peak at the beginning of the event. I wanted to see what all the fuss was all about. I imagined that the Negros would simply hobble on out, a White person wearing a prison-striped outfit would slap a ball down, blow his whistle and then the Blacks would immediately start fighting over it. That's how football works, right? I was wrong. I didn't realize that similar to church there is an entire theatre production that surrounds the game.  I peered down and saw them running out.....but they weren't Black....and they weren't giant.....they weren't even men. Ladies and Gentlemen, I introduce to you the most frightening thing you will ever witness in all of your existence: The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders!

        God makes some people Black. God makes some people White. God even makes some people Brown (that's me!). However, I was blithely unaware of the fact that apparently God also makes people Orange. That's right. These women were definitely not Caucasian, they were actually the color of pumpkins. I'm not sure how they came to be Orange. Were they born that way? Or did they scrub themselves in egg yolks every morning? Maybe they used yams. I'm not sure. In any case, these women were some of the strangest creatures I had ever met in my life. I had previously thought that my Mother (Princess Toadstool) was the happiest person on the planet. I came to find that she is second to the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. These ladies had Cheshire cat smiles that stretched from one orange ear to the other and they remained plastered on their shiny little faces for the entire 5 minutes they were on the field. I'm not sure what kind of medication they're on but I would like to follow one of them to the pharmacy and just say "I'll have what SHE'S having". Supposedly these cheerleaders were engaging in an activity called "dancing". I use this term loosely. I feel at a loss for words to describe what they were doing. I suppose the most accurate way of getting my point across would be to have you imagine a chihuahua dry humping an imaginary chair leg during an earthquake. Now just imagine that this chihuahua is orange with gigantic fun-balloon breasts. I think you get the picture. I felt the urge to scrub myself in Purell immediately after the "performance" (I also use this term loosely). I also have to mention that all of the pumpkin ladies had incredibly long, pin straight hair. One or two had black hair (looking as though the pumpkin was sprouting), a few had brown hair but for the most part the pumpkin ladies had a hair color so bright you would need to be wearing sun goggles to prevent blindness when staring in its direction. Most people would call this hair color "platinum blond" but I think it's much more accurate to refer to it as "cataract-inducing neon yellow". They looked crazy! I've seen so many different types of people from different continents all over the world but I never thought I would set my eyes on orange women with blindingly neon-yellow hair engaging in some of the most atrocious dancing I've ever seen in my life wearing nothing but glitter-covered dental floss. I felt like I was an audience member at the circus or R.Kelly.

        I thought football was about Whities coming together to watch the Negros beat each other up over a ball as they sit back and eat phallic-looking food but it turns out that they also come to watch Orange Ladies dressed like teenage prostitutes perform a mime version of humping. Also, I cannot over-emphasize the importance of drinking Miller Lite out of a plastic cup. By the way, I found out that the "Lite" makes it classy. It's of the upmost importance to understand that when downing copious amounts of alcohol whilst eating heavily processed food packed with saturated fat that you must always consider the calorie content of your beer that you're drinking out of a styrophome cup. However, I still won't ever understand the use of astroturf; it looks tacky and outdated. I'll be writing an open letter to the football leagues demanding that they use real grass fertilized by the great and talented cattle of this country. It's patriotic is what it is!

       If you are ever in Texas, I highly recommend that you pay a visit to the Dallas Cowboy Stadium where you can witness this hot mess festival. There is no sense in bringing a camera because the hair on the orange ladies is so bright that no lense can capture its brightness. But please go for yourself to experience it one on one. Just don't bring any teenage girls with you lest they become inspired to become orange prostitutes.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Chocolate Line Dancing

        I was under the impression that line dancing and square dancing were for White people. In fact I thought Caucasians used this form of movement to celebrate how pasty they are. I envision a middle-aged man and his wife putting on cowboy boots, chaps, a button up shirt, jeans, and a cowboy hat and then heading out for a night on the town with other Whities to do the "Boot Scoot'n Boogie!" I learned a few line dances and square dances in Junior High School (part of the reason I thought they were White!). Most of these dances were incredibly lame except my favorite, THE CHICKEN DANCE! The Chicken Dance is one of the most highly enjoyable past times that was ever created (second only to the male version of the  Shake Weight). The jiggling, gyrating, and tempo changes are just absolutely riveting! The Chicken Dance is ALWAYS a must every time I visit my Step Dad in Salmon Arm. Although I always question whether or not it's the dance or the inevitable liquor leading up to the dance that thrills me. It's probably the combination. So it comes as no surprise that I was indeed surprised to see people of color embracing this so-called Vanilla dominated art form. 

              A few ingredients are needed before any Black line dance can start: a moderately sized dance floor that's preferably made of wood (perhaps a cedar or spruce), lights that move in circular patterns across the dance floor that alternate colors, a disco ball that spins uncontrollably, Patron or Hennessy, and a lot of Black people. Now, as I've explained before the people of Texas are NOT by any means of normal stature. They are size huge! Imagine the Michelin Man except in an assortment of colors. This becomes of most importance in a moment. On one particularly evening my friends and I arrived at a Jazz Lounge in Dallas and sat down. They had a live band and food. It was lovely! If there were any White people at all in that place, they must've been working in the kitchen, or perhaps they were midgets and I missed them because of how quickly they scurry. Anyways, everyone was sitting down and all was just fine. People are eating, drinking, and talking at the lounge and having a lovely time. Then all of a sudden the DJ plays some "old school" song that I've never heard in my life and then suddenly the herd begins! It's like elephants in Africa! You hear them coming from afar trekking to the watering hole in the Savannah! You see them, as though in slow motion, running with heavy strides to the dance floor. And please don't forget......THEY'RE ENORMOUS! SOOOOO ENORMOUS! I thought there was an earthquake! Women with gigantic hot-air balloon sized breasts bouncing up and down so violently I thought they would hit themselves in the face and end up in a concussion. They ran so fast. It was like for a moment speed forgot how fat they were. It was as though the people themselves paid no mind to the fact they had just devoured seventeen happy meals fifteen minutes earlier. I don't know how they managed to move so quickly but they did! I'm telling you, once that song comes on...YOU BETTER WATCH OUT! So there they were, 100 Black people squished together on a dance floor that was maybe 15ft x 15ft. Thank God I was sitting on the side at a table enjoying my cosmopolitan because had I been in their way I surely would've been trampled and crushed to death (at least it would be a funny story at the funeral, I guess someone else would have to write THAT blog). So the 100 Brown elephants were on the dance floor and they began the Black line dance. They actually ended up doing several different ones but they are all based on a similar template. Here's how Black dancing works.
1. You all begin facing downstage (that usually means in the direction of the DJ, the live band, or wherever most of the food is).

2. The herd usually takes a few steps to the right.
3. The herd takes a few steps left.
4. Then they "take it back" which means they move backwards. Usually when they do this they also lean back for dramatic effect.
5. The last step varies depending on the song. Sometimes they "walk it by yourself" which is a walk in place that allows the gigantically enormous individual to transition to the next facing which would be stage left.
 ***NOTE: Black line dancing ALWAYS moves in a counter-clockwise direction OR You may instead of "walk it by yourself" you may just simply chug or scuff your right foot to transition. It depends on the song.
6. You repeat these steps until you have faced ALL directions and it just keeps going and going like the Black Energizer bunny until the song finishes.
**ALSO NOTE: Black Line Dancing similarly to the White version is narrated so it's very easy to follow along. Just make sure to wear football protection if you're under 200 pounds.         

      In Texas, Black line dancing is used as a form of celebration of one's Blackness. It's a way to relate to your people whilst moving in a counter-clockwise direction. It's like talking loud in moving theatres while rotating. Although I have not been appropriately educated on all of the social dances of the Blackfrican American culture I certainly am incredibly curious to see how much Hennessy it will take to get me to participate.


Saturday, December 4, 2010

Lesbians of Starbucks

        A few months ago I packed up my things from New York and boarded an airplane at JFK airport and set off to a foreign land called Texas. Upon arrival I've noticed that there are a few things in this part of the world that don't quite add up. There seems to be a serious distribution problem in the lesbian community. In New York, one could find areas that were populated heavily by African-Americans or areas that have a large Jewish community etc. but never have I been in a city that seemed to be completely vacant of lesbians only to one day wander into an area of town that is completely overrun with Ellen Degenereses. Here's how it went down.

        Starbucks is not exactly my cup of tea (or coffee I suppose). I normally make the decision to forgo overpriced beverages. I'm also incredibly weary of any place that is decorated in too much green, I feel like I'm in Narnia. However, on this particularly cold November morning I thought I would treat myself to a grande caramel macchiato (which also happens to be my screen name on Lava Life). As I walked in I immediately was distracted by the pastries. Baked goods and I have a very intense on and off relationship. We hadn't been seeing each other for a long time but the carbohydrates were calling my name. I tried to resist until I lay my eyes on the most beautiful little treat I've ever seen in my life. Cranberry bliss bar! Have you ever had one? It's basically crack with icing. It's only available during certain times of the year, similar to the McRib. I reached into my pocket in search of a moist toilette to mop up the impending drool from my mouth and I made my way to the counter to place my order. I couldn't help but notice the cashier's striking resemblance to Melissa Ethridge. I think she was asking me what I wanted but I was frozen and starstruck. I just kept staring at her just waiting for a rendition of "Come To My Window" (P.S. If you ever have the rare opportunity to sing this on karaoke night at a bar I suggest you change the words to "Come to my lesbian!" it really gets a good laugh). Finally I placed my modest order of 7 cranberry bliss bars and I upped the size of my macchiato to a venti. I was preparing for the inevitable sugar drop in my blood stream only provoked by being in the presence of lesbian customer service. Once she informed me that she would not except food stamps or my library card as form of payment I finally gave in and handed her my hard earned 40 dollars. It seemed to me that she was working there all alone which in Dallas is not strange on account of the city becoming completely desolate after 5pm. I think most people here spend their evenings in Mexico. So I assumed that she would make her way through the Starbucks obstacle course of endless coffee pots, vanilla pumps and caramel dispensers to make my beverage but Melissa Ethridge just stood there. I looked behind me to see if there was another customer waiting or perhaps a dinosaur had roamed by but there was no one. She wasn't moving, she just stood  behind the register. I thought, "Is my beverage going to make itself?" But of course I didn't actually say that to Ms. Ethridge because the lesbians are known for carrying tools on them at all times. The last thing I needed in my life was a wrench thrown at my labia. Then, I heard some ruffling and rummaging around behind the coffee pots. It sounded like something small was sneaking around behind the bar like a tiny cat or Asian person. Why would my Mother be behind the counter at Starbucks? After a few moments of awkward silence between Melissa Ethridge and I, I saw a tiny little hand emerge from the darkness behind the counter top to present a Christmas themed Starbucks cup. I stood still in confusion. Did a toddler just prepare my beverage? I thought child slavery was illegal. I guess the health benefits make it worth it. "Venti caramel macchiato!" a burly voice emerged. I moved in disbelief slowly toward the counter top. Before I took my beverage I peered over the ledge. I couldn't believe what I saw. It was the tiniest most adorable lesbian I have ever seen in my entire life!  She was Melissa Ethridge 0.5 . The lezbo-burista was a mini-me of the cashier. She had short brown hair in the front and long blond streaks in the back; imagine if Ryan Seacrest raped a pigeon, this would be the result (I want to make it very clear that this would only be a result of rape; a pigeon would never engage in such an act with a midget voluntarily. The dating standards of pigeons exceed the likes lawn-gnome sized television hosts). And boy could Little Seacrest move fast! I've never seen someone run around so efficiently in my life! Mexicans have NOTHING on the lesbians. My drink was delicious with a slight but delightful lesbian flare. It tasted like a rainbow with a hint of tool belt. I would've left a tip for her if I hadn't already spent my day's pay on 7 cranberry bliss bars.

           I was completely elated after having been thoroughly entertained by the lesbian antics at Starbucks. I was still confused how I had never seen any others anywhere in the city besides that Starbucks. I was disheartened on account of the fact I would not be able to bask in their pigeon like glow every day. I'm not exactly a millionaire, I can't afford a caramel macchiato everyday! So you can imagine the overwhelming joy I felt when I received a $25 gift card for Starbucks for my birthday. It was by far the most useful present I received second only to my other friend who got me a jumbo-sized multi-pack of Summer's Eve. From that day forward I made a commitment every day to skip on over to my new favorite coffee shop and watch the antics of Melissa and Seacrest. I knew if I switched my drink of choice to a simple Americano my card would last for 12 whole visits as long as I resisted carbohydrates. That entire week I felt my spirit lifted up by the lesbians as they were a very significant part of my morning. That weekend when I still had a balance of 11 dollars and 42 cents on my gift card I was at the mall with my friend and we happened to walk by a Starbucks. Le'ts call this friend Poopface. He wanted to go in but I refused. It's very rare to feel love from such consistent lesbians and I felt it inappropriate to cheat on them with their heterosexual counterparts. I found my argument on my commitment to Melissa Ethridge and Ryan Seacrest to be quite compelling however Poopface was not persuaded. Poopface wanted coffee and he deemed it ridiculous to take the train halfway across town from where we were just to see some lesbians. Obviously, he has no priorities. I begrudgingly decided to go with Poopface. I thought that as long as I didn't purchase anything it wouldn't be disrespectful. I stood in line with him for a moment. Poopface made it to the register and began to place his order. In that moment as I was feeling slight guilt for being in that establishment and dishonoring my trust with my lesbians I gazed up and took a look at the cashier. As my eyes slowly made my way up from the Mack truck-sized green Starbucks apron to shoulders that were as broad as Liza Minnelli's career to a triple chin with stubble to a windblown tie-dyed hairdon't, I stopped breathing. I was in total shock. There she stood in front of Poopface and me. The biggest most amazing lesbian that I have ever seen in my life. Not even in the movies had I ever set my eyes on such enormity. I had finally met my idol; Rosie O'Donnell. I began to perspire profusely and diarrhea was definitely on the way. But I was absolutely ecstatic! "Would you like anything darling?" she said. I was unable to respond. Not only did she look exactly like Rosie O'Donnell but she also happened to be Vin Diesel's voice twin. "Would you like something?" she repeated. Did I want something? Yes! I wanted her in a to-go box! All I wanted to do is take her home and put O'Donnell on my coffee table. I would leave the apron on for effect! I was blown away by how amazing this super lesbian was. At that moment I threw in the towel and decided that my lesbian dynamic duo were old news. I had a new lez to follow. It was time for an upgrade!

        In the remaining weeks leading up to today's blog I have found that the finding of lesbians in two Starbucks locations in Dallas were not a coincidence. This is a social phenomenon that has wiped the entire city (and perhaps all of Texas). The crazy part is, you can't find them anywhere else in the city at all. They're not on the street, they're not at the football games, they're not even the one's the plumbing companies send to caulk your tub! The lesbians LIVE at Starbucks! For me, that means, I try to spend every waking moment there because I am now completely addicted to those lumberjack buristas! Lesbians are my new cranberry bliss bar! And the best part is, unlike pastries, they can also fix my car and chop wood for my fireplace. I have a feeling it's going to be a very cold winter.

       I raise my overpriced Starbucks cup in salute of my lesbians! You will always hold a special place in my heart (and also my wallet). Can a brother get a two for one deal up in here? My gift card is maxed out!

"The breast part of waking up is a lezbo in your cup!" - Folgers

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

The Simplicity of Poop

          My Mother (Princess Toadstool) recalls when both my sister (Barbie) and I were very young and we had a less than conventional living situation. I was in a crib, Barbie in her small bed, and Princess Toadstool supposedly slept in a pile of boxes. I'm not sure why she did this but I'm assuming it was out of necessity. Yet this still confuses me because Princess Toadstool isn't just tiny, she's a little vanilla nugget. The people on her side of the family have this strange tendency to become full grown at the age of 5. So by the time my sister was 6 she would've been about the same height as my mother; size tiny. Mom and I could've easily shared that crib. The boxes were quite unnecessary. We had a plastic yellow Fischer Price dining room set which normally are used for toddlers during playtime but because my entire family at the time were the size of chihuahuas including Princess Toadstool we had no problem making every meal a tea party in our make-believe dining room. Princess Toadstool would make pancakes with smiley faces on them; this was our idea of gourmet. The ridiculousness somehow made them more delicious.
         It goes without saying that in these earlier days our family did not have a plethora of wealth. So our days consisted of very simple and more importantly free activities. One of which was going to our local playground; Jubilee Park. Princess Toadstool would take Barbie and I to chase the squirrels and sit on the teeter-totter (I think this is referred to as a "see saw" in America). The teeter-totter was a perfect little ride for our family because out of the three of us, any pairing would balance out the weight perfectly on account of my Mother being the size of a large toddler. The three of us were like the Musketeers; we were together all the time. So in an effort to establish my independence I thought it prudent to escort myself underneath the slide at Jubilee Park and take a poop. This was unannounced of course. I'm not sure how Princess Toadstool found out about this. Maybe Barbie told her or maybe Princess Toadstool saw me do it. In any case, it was for the better that my defecation became known because I needed my family to realize that I was bold and creative. Retrospectively, I don't think my incredibly innovative and undeniably brilliant choice of artistic expression caused too much of a commotion on account of the vacancy in Jubilee Park with the exception of only the three of us. However, this was not the case when at a later date I decided to make another brown proclamation in the bathtub while Barbie and I were both in it. This resulted in my being punched in the face. The same was true when I made my final declaration of smelly independence on my Grandmother's floor in her apartment. Even at a young age I recognized the importance of the comedy rules of three.
          Princess Toadstool didn't have a car. I don't think she's large enough to drive one. Go-Karts are pushing it. So we walked everywhere. We walked through downtown. We walked to the park. We walked to the grocery store. I don't think we really had money to buy much of anything at the grocery store but that was of little interest to me. Barbie was in elementary school so during the week it was just Princess Toadstool and I wandering around aimlessly. I loved going to the grocery store for two reasons. First of all, I love ceiling tiles! I love ceiling tiles more than Christmas. I love how they seem so never-ending. Every time we went into Supervalu I would look up and count every tile for as long as I could until Princess Toadstool finally dragged my Brown tukkus outside to go home. The second reason I loved the grocery store was the bakery! There was a woman in the bakery who would give me a free cookie when Princess Toadstool and I would pay a visit. I guess this was her version of affirmative action. I would always pick the same cookie. I don't remember what kind of cookie it was, I didn't really care. What was important was the color! It was a light brown with dark chocolate stripes that crossed perpendicularly. This cookie was definitely bi-racial. At the time I had no idea what bi-racial was. I really had no understanding of race at all actually. However, I knew that I shared a very special connection with this cookie. I forever stayed committed to only that little brown delight. We are still friends today. If only the same could be said of Milli and Vanilli.
        These very simple activities brought me joy as a little Brown nugget. But nothing excited me more than the event of Princess Toadstool reading. This was an absolute trip; a phenomenon if you will. I will never forget Mom picking up her favorite Dr. Suess book, opening it up and beginning her cycle of crazy.
Please allow me a moment to backtrack….
         I've always been fascinated by people who, on a dime, are able to switch between two forms of speech. Tyra Banks and Oprah are two women who have mastered this talent. A scholarly friend of mine informed that this is referred to as "code switching" in the world of academia. My Mother is one of the best. Most of the time, Princess Toadstool has a very ordinary spunky Canadian voice. Yet, somehow at certain instances she morphs into what I refer to as "the airline stuartist voice". This is a voice that is incredibly magical, articulate, and White. This happens to her on two occasions. First, when she's reading and secondly, when she sees babies.
       I’m not sure what comes over Princess Toadstool when a baby is in her presence. I don’t think I will ever understand this. It must be similar to the feeling Tiger Woods gets when he visits a trailer park or perhaps the feeling that Muslim women get when they have the rare opportunity to see their own knees. Princess Toadstool is overwhelmed with joy once in the presence of a wrinkly newborn. She becomes a cross between a lightbulb and a midget on heroin. I’ve never seen anyone so elated in my life. Immediately once she sees the baby she runs up to it and starts speaking in a pitch only dogs can hear. Her eyes enlarge to the size of grapefruits and she can’t stop smiling like Mel Gibson in Germany. What freaks me even more than watching my own Mother turning into the Avon lady on crack is watching this poor baby who probably doesn’t know any better become equally ecstatic over Princess Toadstool’s completely ridiculous behavior. I’m not sure how any human being can tolerate such a level of insanity. This is why I don’t trust children, especially babies! They’re all crazy.
         When Princess Toadstool is not busy harassing people under the age of 3 that are the same size as she, she spends most of her time speaking and communicating on a relatively sane level using a non-abrasive pitch. Except of course on one other occasion, story time! I think back to those days I would sit with my sister and my Mother in the bed and she would read us magical books by the likes of Dr. Suess and Robert Munsch. Princess Toadstool is amazing at reading, almost as amazing as Barbie doing the Carlton. Mom would invite us on to the bed. We’d hop up with so much joy already in our hearts in anticipation of the dramatics to come. At this point Princess Toadstool would still be in her ordinary state which would remain consistent up until the point of the opening of the hard cover of the book. It was as though there was a light that was unleashed and sent a nuclear-active beam into my Mother’s brain that would brainwash her the moment the first page was unveiled. Barbie and I had front row seats to watch this extraordinary transformation. And then, the voice! “The Spooky Old Tree by the Berenstine Bears” she would say in an incredibly convincing and frighteningly haunting tone! You would’ve thought my Mother was a newscaster on Fox announcing the commencement of World War III. Princess Toadstool completely embodied whatever she was reading and in the case of “The Spooky Old Tree” this was complete and udder mortification. We watched the blood physically run out of Princess Toadstool’s face and the sweat drip down her face. I swear every time she read it was an audition. She would wrap her arms around Barbie and me and shake profusely to evoke the horror of the book. Princess Toadstool provided a complete surround sound 360 degree experience of the book. With every turn of the page we felt the heightened drama of the plot complete with separate and incredibly distinct voices meticulously crafted for each character for effect. Only once the words “The End” were spoken (after an incredibly drawn out pause) and the last page of the hard cover was closed was I able to finally exhale in relief.

         As a toddler I found this experience slightly overwhelming and disturbing. I was also completely fascinated and addicted. I feel similarly about my first experience with Percocet (I was in the hospital at the time, please don’t write letters). This was an incredibly wonderful time in my life. Things were simple. Wake up, eat breakfast in a plastic kitchen with nugget-sized family, count some ceiling tiles, poop on municipal property, listen to an insane woman recite Berenstein Bears in a pile of boxes, go to sleep: Rinse and repeat.

Those were the days.