Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Whistle While You Twerk

              With the ever increasing use of social media websites such as Faceplace, Instatwat, MyBook, and Twat-face, the understanding and appreciation of the English language has been on a continuous downward spiral since the commencement of the new millennium. Spelling has become atrocious bordering offensive, and punctuation is a mere fiction of the past. So it has come as no surprise that "twerk" has now been officially added to the dictionary. I suppose that even the dictionary, our reference for what is supposed to be grammatically correct English, should appropriately reflect the verbiage of our current derelict culture. Although I have many strives with several words and phrases coming directly from the common vernacular of this generation including "Bootylicious", "doohiki", and "mankini" which are all words that have been added to the lexicon of Miriam Webster, I have a particular issue with the recent addition of the aforementioned "twerk". More specifically, I am concerned about the way in which this word has gained cultural relevance. For those of you whom are not aware from where this word derives, please allow me to give you the backstory.

            Megan Levy, a news reporter for the Sydney Morning Herald, says "Twerking (or twerkin) is a dance move that involves a person, usually a woman, shaking her hips in an up-and-down bouncing motion, causing the dancer to shake, wobble, and jiggle". Twerking came about in the early '90s in New Orleans in conjuction with the bounce music scene. This dance was further popularized by strippers in Atlanta and Houston during the past two decades. Glennisha Morgan of the Huffington Post and  Norimitsu Orishi of the New York Post also draw striking comparisons between twerking and traditional African dances such as Mapouka from West Africa which has been banned from television on the Ivory Coast. So you can see that this idea of twerking is deeply embedded within the vast context of the African-American experience. This is important to point out because despite the prevalence of twerking in the Black community, a form of dance that is commonly recognized and understood, it wasn't until the 20-year-old anorexic Caucasian offspring of an illiterate country music star gave an abysmal rendition of this dance move at this year's Video Music Awards that now all of a sudden every news anchor in America has had the word "twerk" added to his or her teleprompter.

             It all started this past Monday night when this ivory-skinned crackwhore took the stage at the VMA's much to the disappointment to those of us who are fans of music. Miss Cyrus emerged from a gigantic teddy bear symbolizing her childhood or perhaps a future dabbling into bestiality (only time will tell). As Miley leaned against the now opened mouth of the furry friend, her tongue was dangling out of her filthy mouth like a golden retriever with Down syndrome. Not to be outdone, her "hair" (if you can call it that) appeared to be the result of a love affair between a lesbian seagull and a chainsaw. Her outfit (or lack thereof) can only be described as a strapless abomination; a leotard of sorts so tight it looked like an incubator for a yeast infection complete with pink circles on the breasts (or in the case of Miley, in the place where breasts would have been), and a teddy bear on the stomach. Upon seeing this I immediately scheduled myself for a vaccination. She somehow managed to make her way down the stairs without her labia popping out, I assume by the grace of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. She pranced her way onto the stage surrounded by a slew of Black women with giant bear heads attached to their necks or as perhaps Miley would describe them, "a group of her closest friends that in no way were casted to depict a collection of pre-Civil War minstrel performers". Miley even approached one of these women with a very well endowed posterior and proceeded to bend her over and spank her like a slave in "Django". Putting these pleasant slave references aside I would like to draw attention to the twerking itself. The first instance when she attempted to shake what I understand legally to be her ass (although I would like further investigation to confirm that the sagging flapjacks drooping above her hamstrings actually constitute a derriere) she was alone, and thank Jesus, Mary and Joseph for that. She gingerly placed her hands on the floor in front of her and began maneuvering her hips back and forth. I suppose this was meant to intice, disturb or simply cause an epidemic of reactionary vomiting as a plight against childhood obesity. No quicker way to lose weight than to engage in bolemia induced by watching nauseating images such as that of a piece of white trash twerking in a unitard. Sadly the devastating events to follow became increasingly disturbing with each hip thrust. The second attempt of twerking occurred with company this time, Robin Thicke, 16 years her senior, was standing directly behind Miley's booty (or where a booty would be on a person who actually had one). This image is particularly disturbing because of the implicit suggestion of pedophilia. Here you have a man who has recently been accused of perpetuating the condoning of "no means yes" in his creepy smash single "Blurred Lines" pressing his pelvis against the backside of a retarded hillbilly. I'm not suggesting that both parties weren't complicit, I'm simply pointing out that two prominent pop stars (who at one point had the exact same haircut) should perhaps think twice before engaging in lascivious behavior at an awards show largely watched by an audience who has never seen a rotary phone, a typewriter, or Cher's original face. I failed to mention that at the point when Miley met Mr. Thicke dressed in an appropriately designed outfit (a black and white striped suit reminiscent of the color pattern of a prison inmate serving time for statutory rape), had stripped off her kiddy-porn derived costume to reveal an even more scantily clad (if that was possible) Miley Cyrus in a nude bra and pantie set. The belligerent buffoonery continued with Miley also donning a number one foam finger when she gingerly penetrated the air in front of her vagina with said finger. Obviously Miley Cyrus is taking a page from the "Kim Kardashian Guide to Tasteful Behavior", now out in paperback. The remainder of the performance included the appearance of a rapper no one had heard of and continued gyrating from an attention seeking product of Billy Ray Cyrus and a promiscuous but undeniably attractive goat. In keeping with the theme of Miley Cyrus's hit song which she performed at the VMA's entitled "We Can't Stop", I must say to Miley, perhaps you should! At least before you get chlamydia.

          As much I condemn, ridicule, and make of fun the hideously distasteful behavior of a barely of-age pop star, I can't emphasize enough that she in no way is the problem facing the youth of America. It truly is up to the parents at least to establish what is deemed permissible and acceptable within the walls of their own home. Surely any child who isn't blind, deaf, and mute (in that order) will be exposed at some point to the many atrocities demonstrated by the so-called role models of our tweens and teenagers. But it can't be pointed out enough that at least the idea that unacceptable behavior being defined in the home at least provides some sense of delineation between what is appropriate and what is outright destructive behavior. I have much sympathy for parents these days but I must say if you throw a computer, an iPhone, or an iPad (or any combination of these) at your kid without restrictions, than YOU are the one who is responsible for the demise of today's generation. You can bitch all you want about the young people of today or the pitiful examples that are put out by the record producers, the media, and Ryan Seacrest. But the truth is, the people who are to blame for shameless activities of the children of this country are and always will be the parents. This gold star promotional mentality that is dumped on children is giving them a false sense of reality thinking that they are so special that the world will fall at their feet. The acceptance of trash, reached easily by technology, encourages the idea that bad behavior is perfectly acceptable and in fact rewarded with extended television series and a perfume line. So the next time you're at Best Buy looking at the latest technological device that will give your child unlimited access to pornography, videos of the homeless being assaulted, and step by step instructions on how to forge a passable driver's license to buy alcohol, perhaps you should consider that your four hundred ninety nine dollars and ninety nine cents plus warranty might be better spent on a bicycle they could ride to and from school, a pet they must take responsibility for, or even food certification so they can get a job and earn their own money. These examples would truly be beautiful investments not only in your child's future but for the prognosis of the nation. I almost included dictionary in that list of investments but with the addition of the word "twerk", I must discontinue my endorsement of the great book of Miriam Webster. Twerk on white trash. Twerk on!


Friday, February 15, 2013

Diarrhea: A Valentine's Gift That Keeps on Giving

           Valentine's Day is a loathsome holiday filled with incredibly irritating people basking in the insincere attention they're receiving from some venereal disease ridden companion who is probably cheating on them the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year. I was going to spend this blog elaborating on this fact. Unfortunately my plans came to a screeching halt when an unforeseen event took place in my underpants. This predicament ended up being a much more pressing topic than the aforementioned one. Here's how it went down.

           I have been under the weather the last few days, seemingly because of some ill-timed ordered pizza I shoved down my esophagus on Monday (or so I thought). For the last three days my diarrhea has spoken volumes while I myself have been silent (along with my blog). So it was only to be expected that my determination to maintain my regular work hours amidst my bowel's misfortune would ultimately result in a catastrophic situation. This inevitable circumstance saw fruition yesterday on Valentine's Day on my way to the train after work. While I was briskly walking across the street, it happened. I soiled myself. This wasn't on purpose. In fact, I can't even call it a mistake. The diarrhea emerged like a thief in the night; totally unexpected. One would naturally assume that I was trying to create some sort of flatulence but alas no. It was completely involuntary. So there I was, in the middle of the road with secretly soiled underpants. I stopped dead in my tracks (Thank Mary and Joseph that there were no cars on the road). I was completely astonished at what had just occurred in my Hanes. And then something extraordinary happened; even more extraordinary than the Valentine's surprise. A thought popped in my head almost as quickly as the diarrhea made its grand entrance. Without missing a beat, a voice came to me and said "This will be funny later." I recognized this to be the voice of Jesus. He has spoken to me many times before, like the time I almost considered switching cell phone providers (Jesus always knows when to chime in). I took a sigh a relief, of course being cautious not to become too relaxed lest I release additional diarrhea.

           With this new found joy in my heart and unwelcome present in my pants I had a very important decision to make. I had the option of walking back to work five blocks to deal with the situation. The other option was to grin and bare a twenty minute train ride home in hopes that no respectable individual would sit next to me. I chose the latter assuming it would be a better punch line later. So the diarrhea and I boarded the train (I did not purchase an additional ticket for the diarrhea. Thank God she wasn't caught). I conspicuously took a seat at the very back of the train which was the sparsest in terms of population. My eyes widened with every stop as I gazed at boarding passengers all the while praying that no one would venture towards my diarrhea's direction. My prayers were answered (presumably by Jesus himself or perhaps Allah) as I remained solitary for the duration of the ride through all ten stops with only my settling diarrhea to comfort me. I arrived at my stop. I stood up (which is the most joyful experience for anyone who has recently diarrhea-ed themselves). I took a brisk walk of shame with my head hanging low toward my apartment building impatiently anticipating a dive into my shower. I practically sprinted past the front desk security and onto the elevator with additional prayers being answered as I rode up to the eighth floor again in solitary confinement. With no front desk security to look puzzled at me, I ran in full Ussain Bolt force down the long hallway to my unit. I burst through my front door. The next thing I knew, I was naked in the shower surrounded by the smell of a mountain breeze, the latest fragrance of the generic brand of men's body wash I purchased from Target (the "t" is silent). Frankly, I don't recall even taking my clothes off. I assume the experience was so horrifying that I blocked it from my memory. I don't even know what I did with my underwear. I probably put them in the garbage disposal.

                After washing up and drying my body with my cheap hundred thread towel (also from Target), I launched at my computer perched on my bed so I could begin furiously typing a hilarious blog at the previous amusing antics I just experienced. Unfortunately the words did not materialize on the page because by the time my computer had started up, I had passed out on the bed and didn't wake up until thirteen hours later, just in time to go to work. Dehydration anyone?

               What diarrhea has taught me over the years is that we are all human. We are all completely ridiculous and poop ourselves often, way into our adult years. That's just what it means to be alive. The other thing I learned is that diarrhea is very funny, even when you are carrying it around with you. This was a real revelation for me because I have been dealing with perpetual diarrhea for the last six years now and this was the first time that diarrhea seemed to force itself upon me and just happen. Every other diarrhea story I have written or can remember involves me furiously trying to fight off the urge to poop myself at an inconvenient time and ultimately ends in a happy ending where I win the fight and find a bathroom in the nick of time. The one common thread that has remained constant even though I have broken my string of success stories is that every diarrhea story I have involves public transportation. I am not sure what those two things have in common but I'm guessing Lucifer is involved (that or Jesus has a very good sense of humor). So for those of you who spent  yesterday giving undeserved blowjobs or maxing out your stolen credit for someone whom you love yet cheats on you regularly and hasn't told you about their "cold sores" should bask in the fact that single people like me spent in learning life lessons from an unconditional companion who will always stay with me for the rest of my life; diarrhea. Something a box of chocolates only wishes it could be.

Happy Valentine's Day