A Black Man in a White Dress - A Dennis Rodman Story

       Although I had no true Black role models to look to for guidance as a child, I did have one reference I could relate to in order to feel that I had some sort of accessibility to the culture; televised basketball! Yes, thanks to my Mother, we spent countless hours in front of the television watching Black people fight over an orange round ball. There has never been a time in my life when sports have interested me even in the least but in that instance I valued the time I could spend with Mom. In addition to "Mommy and me" time, there were some invaluable lessons I learned whilst being exposed to Black athletes. One time I was watching some sort of pre-game analysis on t.v. with Mom and I saw something rather strange. "Why is that man wearing a wedding dress?", I asked. "Oh don't worry about that dear. He's just special.", said Mom. I realize, only now, how much of an impact Dennis Rodman made in my life. He really carried the torch for Black drag queens at the time. The duality of his life always fascinated me; the fact that this Black man, the epitome of masculinity, could, for no reason at all, drape himself in a $5,000 Vera Wang wedding dress on the weekend just 'cause he felt like it. It really goes to show that we all just want to feel pretty sometimes.

         My first experimentation with cross-dressing was not self induced. I was 4 years old, and my Kindergarden class was holding a very special event that devoted an entire day to all of the children embracing clothing of the opposite gender (I'm not joking). I look back at this and wonder how this was at all possible, especially in a largely Christian community. Somehow, both my Mrs. Carson and the people of Terry Fox Elementary School were miraculously on board with this very progressive idea in 1990. Mom says that my Kindergarden class hosted this event in order to expose the sensitivity of the opposite gender so that one could learn to appreciate and sympathize with another person's struggle with one's sex. I'm sure at the time she didn't give a shit about that and was just curious to see what her Brown son would look like in a dress but that's only my assumption. Like with any challenge, I looked at this one with great determination. It was very difficult to put together an appropriate outfit in such a short amount of time. There was no way I could grow out my naps to an appropriately feminine length nor would there be time to order the perfectly sized weave. So I used with what I could scrounge up from my older Sister's closet. There, I found a beautiful green and white checkered dress with a white lace trim, cap sleeves, and a white satin belt that tied around the waist with matching white shoes. It was absolute perfection. It was the only thing in the entire closet that worked with my butterscotch skin tone. It HAD to work! I showed up with great pride that beautiful October morning! I was positively radiant in my checkers. My legs looked absolutely amazing! I remember the feeling of complete liberation which probably had much to do with the wind I felt through my inner thighs. The soundtrack to the Sound of Music was playing at full volume through my mind "Climb every mountain....". I sashayed into my class full of confidence. I was greeted by a slew of fellow cross-dressers who's outfits paled in comparison to my ensemble. Clearly I was the only person in the class who had a full length mirror. I am so appreciative of the fact that I had such a liberal Kindergarden experience. At that point in my life, at 4 years old, I discovered that I had the need to delve further into this arena of pageantry.

        My second adventure into womanhood occurred much later in life, in fact, quite recently. It was only this past October here in Dallas when my building, South Side, hosted its annual Halloween party. They held a contest for "best-dressed" with a $250 prize! I was determined to get this money. This was a matter of survival! Yet somehow, only until the very night arrived did I realize that I had not yet figured out an outfit! This was going to be a disaster. I had 2 hours to put something together. At first I tried on a purple unitard with goggles. I was going to say I was going as Esther Williams. After one look in the mirror I realized this wasn't going to go over well. So, in my feeling of defeat, I did what I always do when I need a pick-me-up. I went right to the kitchen and prepared myself a Bacardi and Coke! The alcohol/caffeine combination is deadly and consistently enlightening! After a few swigs of my freshly prepared cocktail with lime garnish I stripped myself naked of the purple unitard and began running around the house in search for ideas. I stopped for a moment in front of one of my MANY full length mirrors to gaze at my naked body when all of a sudden I was distracted. I saw it! Out of the corner of my eye, there it was! Some weeks prior I had purchased a lovely bright red vase covered completely in plumage! Yes, it was a vase decorated entirely in fire-engine red feathers and came with a matching boa! This was the inspiration for my outfit. I didn't know how at the time, but it was going to be the centerpiece of my ensemble! I picked her up and began running around my house looking for clothing options. After what felt like an eternity, I stumbled upon a tiny Black unitard (I have many) with short shorts. This was perfect! It just barely covered underneath my nips and cut just above my thighs with tiny black straps over the top. My mission was clear. I went into the bathroom and shaved all of my French Canadian hair off (there is much to shave off!). I slipped on the unitard and began searching for make-up! I found some beautiful bright red lipstick from Mac that perfectly matched the vase. I applied a generous amount and finished with a top layer of shiny gloss to make sure I could be seen from a mile away! After copious amounts of cocoa butter all over the rest of my skin and the slipping on some shiny black man-pumps, I was out the door wearing nothing but that strip of Black fabric with a red vase in one hand and my 3rd rum and coke in the other! This was going to be fantastic. As I ran down the steps to the Halloween party I was somewhat distraught, disturbed, and perhaps slightly embarrassed at the fact that I was seemingly the only person in costume. Did I get the month wrong? Canadians have their Thanksgiving a month early, is it the reverse for Halloween? I was quite concerned! The people around me seemed completely horrified at my style choice. This is Texas after all. I felt better once I found my friends whom showed up looking equally ridiculous....well almost. Shoniqua was dressed as Alice from Alice in Wonderland and Evangeline (who was wearing the "Diana" hairpiece at the time) was dressed in a sexy burlesque tu-tu situation. We matched! How fantastic! I was still slightly self conscious about my choice of outfit at that point but that all changed once I found the food and beverage station ("beverage" is the operative word here). After several swigs of wine from plastic cups I was feeling quite sensational and it was just in time for the announcement of the winner of the costume contest! I quickly ran up into a huddle of persons who like me had taken time to actually dress up in something. A hostess came out and began passing a microphone down the line. Each person took the microphone and introduced themselves as the character they had dressed up as. Shit! What was I going to call myself? I was wearing nothing but duct tape and a vase! What could I possibly call myself that would actually pass as reasonable? I saw the microphone getting closer and closer to me. I felt the diarrhea stirring. I was so nervous! I couldn't think! Before I knew it, I had the microphone in my hand! Just as I opened my mouth, Jesus came to me! He told me exactly who I was. "Hello everyone! I am Josephine Baker!" (Google it bitches!). The sexy African-American controversial banana wearing vixen had been manifested in my body that night! And I realized it just in time. This was perfect! Surely with my creative outfit and brilliant explanation I was sure to win the money! I stood tall with pride as though there were a small crustacean in my vagina. I was still in anticipation as the microphone was passed back to the hostess who bared a bizarre resemblance to K.D. Lang (Google her after Josephine!). After much deliberation with her associates she returned with an envelope. She slowly opened it up and began to speak. I tried to pass gas in that moment so the smell would be gone by the time I made my acceptance speech. As I trumpeted the new dawn, my spirits were crushed when it was announced that the winner was some Lady Gaga costume wearing bitch from one floor below me! What the Christ was this shit?! I couldn't believe it! Lady Gaga! Really? I was a piece of history for Christ's sake! Black history even! I almost pulled a Faith Hill moment but somehow I kept it together. I kept my dignity and my plastic cup of cheap Merlot in tact. I made my way back up to my room in defeat. I held back the tears for as long as I could in order to stop the mascara from running. I entered my room, sulking. I washed all the make-up off, put the vase and boa back on the self, took a shower, made myself one last adult beverage and collapsed onto my air mattress to wake up the next morning no longer Josephine. As horrific as the experience was, I am grateful to at least know that I have the confidence to pull off the very difficult color combination of red and black in an outfit while showing that much skin, as long as I've had Bacardi....

            Ultimately my ventures into the vagina world have been as few and far between as they have been invaluable to my experience as a human being. I've learned so much. It's hard to be a woman! My gosh. I don't know how they do it. I'm so fortunate that I am able to pick and choose when I want my estrogen to be at the top of my priority list. Just imagine being a woman without the hastle of tampons, mood swings, and Spanx! It's the most convenient and magical experience in the world! And I have Dennis Rodman to thank for this awareness. If it weren't for her, I never would've even considered putting on the red feather boa nor the green and white checkered dress. Thanks you talented basketball bitch! I knew since the first time I put on that green dress at 4 years old that my curiosity in the arena of cross-dressing would not easily be satisfied. After a few ventures into this world of the vulva, I have felt enamoured with a newfound joy and enlightenment. The one lesson I have learned most importantly from the experience is....When attending a Halloween party as a transvestite bi-racial Canadian it is best to go as Rosie O'Donnell so you can punch Lady Gaga in the vagina. Watch out for Halloween 2011 BITCH!

         



       

A Celebration of Blackness!

         February is the most fascinating month of the year for several reasons. Not only is it the shortest month on the calendar but the 28 days increases to 29 every four years. My Great Grandmother was born on February 29th so by the time she was 80 she had only had 20 real birthdays. That's bullshit if you ask me! By the time I arrived at the pearly gates I would've asked Jesus for a refund on account of my being gypped on over 60 birthdays worth of presents! I hope Grammy is in Heaven's V.I.P. section. She deserves it. My Grandmother was also born on Valentine's Day which makes February an especially important month for me. Besides all of these close family connections during this very special time I have come to find that since moving to America there is yet another tie that connects me to this completely unphonetically spelled month! Black people! Yes, that's right. February is the month where the people of color get to celebrate their ashyness. And since coming to the United States of Slavery, I have joined the Blacks in the month long celebration. For the last 4 years I have studied closely and learned the customs and idiosyncrasies of the 28 (or sometimes 29) day holiday!

           For all of the Whites whom read my Blog, you can think of African-American Black Negro History Slave Month as an extended Kwanzaa. I recall in Elementary School that we had a relatively watered down version of Black-oriented festivities. One year we studied Malcolm X, the following year it was Martin Luther King, I think after that it was Flava Flav, I'm not exactly sure, it was all such a blur. At that point in my life, the Blacks looked all the same to me anyhow. Recently, I have come  to find that in America, this month is SO much more than reading books! I have turned to my colored counterparts to help guide me late in life to the traditions of Black America. So please allow me to outline several important things that one must know about African American culture in order celebrate this month appropriately.

The Black Handshake (Blandshake)

          Let me make it clear that it's not as though I had never seen a Black person at all until I moved to the States (I'm not Sarah Palin!). More specifically I had never had any Black friends until my 20s. More importantly I have found that Black culture is incredibly different in the U.S., thus my fascination with the Black handshake. The first time I engaged in this activity it was completely involuntary. In my first week in New York City I was introduced to a person of color. He greeted me with a special handshake. I had no idea what the Hell was going on. It all happened so fast! He grabbed my hand and twisted it this way and that, something happened with the thumbs, and it was followed my some very aggressive slap on the back. "Was I just molested?" was my first thought. Do I need to call Nancy Grace? He definitely dominated the handshake on account of my having no clue what to do, so I simply followed. I did the reverse of what he did and tried to coordinate my movement in a way that this man wouldn't think I was a complete idiot. This continued to happen on several occasions when being introduced to Black men. One would think that I would eventually get the hang of it and become somewhat acclimated and comfortable with the gesture. However, with me, things that would seem logical tend not to become reality in my experience. The reason why it was so difficult to get the hang of it was because it seemed that with each Black person I met came a completely new handshake that I had never seen before. This threw me off a little. How was I to memorize each person's encrypted code of greeting gesture? Is there a place online I can research this. Is there an app on the IPhone that has a laser beam that can detect what a person's handshake will be prior to meeting them? Do they post it on Facebook? I felt completely overwhelmed! Thus, I consulted a friend. A few months living in New York City I had made a few colored friends at school. In my frustration of trying to assimilate to the culture I asked one my friends to teach me how to properly shake a Black person's hand. He explained to me that although each person has their own individual "swag" (the Blacks use this word like the Whites would use "style") on it, there are a few basic templates that most Blandshakes are based off of. After several tutorials, hours of practice, and patience I have now mastered the basics of the Black handshake. I have a limited but solid repertoire. However, my initial instincts in the "follow the leader" department were absolutely correct. As a Canadian, I will never have the instincts of the Black American so it's of the up most importance that I allow the African-American to determine which greeting he would like to engage in. Generally speaking, each person sticks to the same one. I realized that it was necessary for me to keep a notebook of handshakes associating each one to a particular person so if I met someone on one occasion I would be fully prepared to anticipate their handshake upon the second meeting thus impressing them and making them feel comfortable with my shade of Blackness (mine is Gingerbread by the way). Therefore, I haven't spent anytime developing my own handshake because it would be completely useless. However, I have realized the importance of perfecting some of the signature moves that the Blandshake utilizes. The gestures a Black male uses in shaking another Black male's hand are as follows but are not limited to: finger interlocking, the thumb press, snapping, the head roll, the fist bump, the neck pop, the chest bump, the ambiguously gay ass smack, the reach-around, and the one-handed shoulder smack. Those, of course, are merely the essentials. I have been experimenting with a variety of possible combinations in order to further establish myself in the Black community. The Black handshake is really my way of saying, "Guess what bitches, I like chicken too!"

Chicken (Speaking of which...)

       I've never been the best carnivore. Lately, I've been slowly veering towards the world of vegetarianism. However, in February, it's vital for me to let go of my dietary habits and adopt a love for poultry. Black people take their chicken VERY seriously. I'm not sure what it is about the bird that is so fascinating to them but I think it has something to do with its pageantry. A chicken in its live state is dressed in a plumage of feathers strutting around shaking it's tail feather; it's practically a hip hop video! So I suppose it's only natural for the Blacks to adopt this mammal into its culture of food. Even in my Caucasian environment of the family household we certainly embraced Shake 'N Bake as a staple in our dinners. However, in the Black community, the way that one consumes chicken is very specific. Fried chicken is certainly the most popular among the coloreds. There are many chain "restaurants" (I use this term loosely) that embrace African-American chicken. Popeye's is the first that comes to mind. For those Blacks who choose to take a slightly classier approach to fried poultry; "Rosco's House of Chicken and Waffles" is the next step up. Chicken and waffles is a phenomenon that has fascinated and bewildered me since the day I heard of it. It is seemingly perhaps the most ridiculous idea I have ever heard in my life. Why on Earth would anyone want to put those two things together on a plate? Surely, someone would need to be pregnant with twins at the time to crave such an unflattering duet. Or so I thought. I actually tried this cardiac disaster one time and I must say it was positively delicious. There's something about the way the syrup casually and unexpectedly drips onto the chicken that delights me to no end. I was very surprised that I enjoyed something that I imagined to be so bizarre. Never did I think I would ever top that kind of sense of adventure. Again, I was proved wrong when I came across an even more insane idea. Leave it to the Black community to constantly keep you guessing. They always come up with uniquely bizarre and creative ideas, especially in Atlanta! One time, here in Texas, I went to something called a "Soul Food" restaurant. The term "soul food" basically means that everything you are served will be enormous and so will your ass by the time you've finished the meal. The restaurant was called Buttons and they were having a free tasting the day before their grand opening. The company I had just starting working for had been invited which is comprised of mainly Black employees. We all sat down and were served a plethora of food with many different dishes. Most of the food was covered in gravy (or "smothered" as the Blacks say) so it was very difficult to determine what food group I was consuming. After that meal I'm pretty sure that in the Black culture, gravy IS a food group. At one point a plate was brought out with my new favorite, chicken and waffles! Next to it was another plate of chicken. I was immediately confused. "Is that chicken different than the chicken with the waffles?", I asked. "Oh that's chicken fried chicken." was the response. "I'm sorry what?", I asked. "It's chicken fried chicken?" my friend responded. Have I lost my mind? "How can a chicken be fried any other way than in the manner of a chicken?" I asked. My fellow employees tried to explain me to how chicken fried chicken is just a chicken that's fried "like" a chicken. "As opposed to a chicken fried like a hippopotamus?", I wondered. The more they tried to explain, the more confused I became. I'm on board with chicken and waffles, I really am. But "chicken fried chicken"? That's a little too progressive for me.

Alizé

        As a devoted drinker of adult beverages I appreciate a very large range of liquors. I have understood that there are certain forms of alcohol that are for Brown people exclusively. These include but are not limited to: Hennessey (or Henny), Courvoisier, Ciroc, Alizé, and Patrón. Black people, much like myself, often  enjoy a variety of spirits but the ones I have mentioned are always a staple during the month of February. In fact, Black people should be drinking plenty during this month. It is a celebration after all! What's a party without Alizé? Speaking of which, the popularity of Alizé has so much to do with the color it brings into the lives of colored people. Alizé comes in three varieties: Gold, Red Passion, and Bleu Curacao. However, these three versions must be referred to in a very specific way in the African American community. They are known as  Red, Blue, and Yellow because it's the color of the beverage that is used to celebrate one's Blackness! I personally enjoy the blue one. However, I think they should create a Limited Edition BLACK Alizé to formally celebrate African American Negro History Slave Month!

Overpants

       It's no secret that African Americans have large bums. That's why they're so good at sports. I've covered this topic in previous blogs. I do not want to exhaust the issue but large asses have become a much more prominent part of my life since moving to Texas. I think the moment the plane crossed into the border my booty grew an extra size. The thing about a large posterior is, it's a very difficult thing to hide. Personally, I don't see what the big deal is. A large tukkus is a wonderful thing and should  be celebrated. Certainly, the women in Dallas understand this, as they wear bikini tops and coochie cutters (White people usually call these "short shorts" or "Daisy dukes") to the club. Although, I see no problem with embracing all of Africa in the bum department, Black men seem to have taken this idea one step too far. This idea has been manifested in a phenomenon I like to refer to as "overpants". I was taught as a child that there is a very specific way that one should get dressed in the morning. First, you put on your underwear and then the pants go over top. African American men have decided to boldly go against this convention and reverse the order and thus "overpants". You can't properly refer to underpants as underpants if they're not UNDER YOUR PANTS! So many Black men wear their pants around their ankles with their underwear exposed for the world to see. Again, it's not as though I had no idea that this trend existed. I had seen it in music videos and in the movies, but I had no clue that people actually engaged in this ridiculous and totally unrealistic way of dressing. So when I actually became exposed to this face to face (or I suppose, face to bum) I was slightly appalled. Although, I think it's important to have an open mind and to recognize that sometimes our initial reactions can be somewhat of an exaggeration. It's not as though an underwear-clad bum is the worst sight in the world and it certainly has nothing to do with me anyway. It's up to each person how they choose to dress themselves. In keeping with this idea of acceptance I decided experiment in the idea of overpants to see how I would feel. One morning I stepped out of the shower, I pulled my white Hanes briefs up around my waist. I searched in my drawers for the largest pair of jeans I could find and I stepped into the gaping blue pant legs and slid them up just above my knees. I grabbed my belt, wrapped it through the waist of the jeans and tightened it to the smallest buckle and fastened it. The moment I let go, the pants dropped immediately to the floor. "This isn't going to work." I said to myself in disappointment. I decided to take a new approach. I went into the kitchen and grabbed a knife to created small hole in the belt that would make it fasten 3 sizes smaller than the smallest setting. "Brilliance!", I exclaimed in total victory. I tightened the belt to the new found anorexic setting around the top of my thighs and stood up straight. The pants didn't move! This was a complete success. However, I realized quickly that I would eventually want to actually go somewhere. I knew that walking would be an issue. Surely, if the homothugs can do it, so can I! I discovered quickly, that if I wanted to move one leg forward I would need to begin in a very wide stance. So I opened up me feet and stood broadly. I slowly moved my right foot forward but I felt a slight slip on the left side of my pants so I hesitated. After several failed attempts at walking I finally mastered a technique to keep the pantaloons lifted above the knees. Not only must one keep a very large and wide stance, but it's also very important to turn your feet out like a duck. This is essential because one must never pull one's pants up! You are not allowed to touch them. The beauty of overpants is that you have scientifically and artistically mastered a technique of duck walking while magically keeping your pants gingerly above the kneecaps with style and grace. This also develops a natural limp in one's walk which is a very important aspect of the Black man's swagger. There is a rhythm and a slight lean to the left that creates a rhythm in one's steps as though there was a prosthetic leg involved. For years I thought the African American walk was merely affectation but I have come to discover that the "gangsta lean" is out of complete necessity to keep the damn pants from falling to the ankles! I have become quite fantastic at overpants walking but I have yet to venture outside the four walls of my apartment in such an outfit. I would need several months of training before I could seriously endure a day's worth of sagging pants. One needs much inner thigh strength to hold up the pantaloons for a period that exceeds 5 minutes.

Speech Impediments

         I grew up with the impression that Canadian culture was just a byproduct of American culture. The majority of our television stations are American, the products that we purchase come from the States, and so often the U.S. becomes our first place of choice for vacation because of the affordability and accessibility. So it became quite a surprise when I moved into Brooklyn that I had much difficulty understanding what the Hell Black people were saying. Certainly, not every African-American adopts urban speech but it became quite apparent that Ebonics as seen on television is a much watered down version of the actual thing. At first, I thought it was that people for some unknown reason just didn't know how speak good English yo! After some time I came to find out that Ebonics is truly its own unique language with rules and regulations just like "proper" English. The more time I spent around people who used what I referred to at the time as "broken English", the more fascinated I became in the world of Ebonics. As quickly as I was to turn my nose up at it in the beginning, I was just as quick to study and adopt it on occasion for comedic purposes. Somehow, me repeating Ebonic phrases with my Black friends became a large point of hilarity between us. Ebonics, simply sounds wildly ridiculous when combined with a Canadian accent. I practiced several commonly used phrases and tried to pick up as much as I could so I would be able to at first understand what people were saying and secondly to communicate with people. After some time, I realized that the shoe was on the other foot. Many folks had difficulty understanding what I was saying. I ignorantly forgot that like EVERYBODY in the world, I have my own accent and use of language that is specific to where I come from. Canadians have very cold faces, so we tend to speak quite slowly. African Americans on the other hand speak at a pace only matched by diarrhea following the consumption of a Mexican 5 bean taco salad. The adjustment was very difficult for me. However, after much practice, I perfected my delivery of a few urban phrases.  They are as follows:

"WHAT CHO NAME IS?" - This is a phrase that African Americans use to find out one's first name.
"WHO DAT IR?" or "WHO DAT BE RIGHT DIR?" - This is a phrase used to find out whom someone is that one is unable to see at the moment.
"WHACH Y'ALL FINNA DO?" - This simply means "what are you guys up to". Specifically the word "finna" refers to the idea of "fixing to" which is actually quite proper. Who knew?

I decided to use capitals to illustrate the volume in which Black people would actually use these terms. I'm not sure if there's something happening in the ears of African Americans. But I do know that as a Canadian I prefer to stand far away from them when they speak in order to avoid a burst eardrum. I think part of the reason that Black people talk so loudly is so that they are able to be heard over the movie that they are watching at the time. When Blacks go to the movie theater, it is required that they have full-fledged conversations with the screen for the entire duration of the movie (with the exception of the first 10 minutes because they have not shown up yet).

Closing Remarks

          It's important to recognize that there are many more African American celebratory gestures during this fabulous month of February. There are simply to many to list. I, however, have covered the basics so that we can all, regardless of ethnic origin, can celebrate Black culture for 28 (or perhaps) 29 days. It's important to remember that we are ALL Black during this month. So grab a chicken wing, shoot back a shot of Alizé, and start talking loud during the premiere "Big Momma's House". I wish you all a blessed weekend filled with Blackness!

Farting in the Bathtub (A Valentine's Day Story)

        Like most of my counterparts of the male species, I have never been particularly interested in Valentine's Day. Every year, the day comes and goes without notice. This may have something to do with the fact that I have consistently found myself to be single EVERY February 14th since I've been able to touch myself inappropriately. Obviously, I'm always very preoccupied with Black History Month festivities (or making fun of them) thus I have no time to concentrate on finding someone to permanently do the horizontal mambo with if you know what I'm saying. So there I was yesterday finding myself yet again alone on February 14th. It doesn't phase me any more, in fact it really has never bothered me at all. It's a silly holiday that has been taken over by the media and department stores making money off of hopeless blokes who are forced to spend money on chocolates, cards, jewellery and roses. My roommate bought his partner 6 foot teddy bear! Can you imagine? The only 6 foot chocolate colored item I need sent to me on Valentine's Day is a stripper! Preferably one that doesn't require batteries. In my solitary state, I decided that after hearing of my roommate's endeavours that I spend my evening with someone very special for the very first time in my history of Valentine's Day. I decided to hook up with a good friend of mine whom I've known for a very long time; Svedka.

        Vodka has always been very special to me. She's always there when I needed her, and she always delivers and with benefits! She is yet to let me down. I'm not sure why I never thought of this before, but I realized that she was the perfect person to spend my day of love with. After I came home from work (which let's just recognize for a moment that this is NOT  a statutory holiday so we all need to calm down slightly, if I can't sleep in and spend the entire day painting my toenails magenta to match my areolas, instead of going to work, it's not a REAL holiday!), I came home, took a shower. I made sure to spend a good amount of time on my genital region; it's of the most importance that one's testicles are sparkling clean on Valentine's Day. I mowed my pubes and choreographed a shape with the razor. I designed a heart with the hair above my no-no place. It took a while to make it symmetrical but in the world of designer pubic hair, patience and determination is the key! I got dressed and sauntered on over to my favorite place to shop in the whole world; Scott's Discount Liquor Beer & Wine located only a few blocks from my home! I walked in to the Asian owned establishment. First of all, let me make this very clear that I waste no time in the liquor store. This bi-racial thug knows what he wants! (Clearly, I'm not a thug but the verbiage just seemed to work so smoothly). I looked at the 3rd shelf and saw my girlfriend; Svedka! She was absolutely divine. She was gleaming on the shelf with her breasts out! She may not be top shelf but she tastes a step above well Vodka with a bottom shelf price. She's absolutely perfect for me! I purchased her for $23.47 and sashayed my way home with my best friend in my black plastic bag. I purchased a few limes at my local grocery store in my building before elevating myself to the 8th floor where I live. I grabbed myself a sexual Collin's glass and poured myself an AMAZING vodka and 7 up with two lime wedges. Before sipping my concoction, I made out with the glass a little bit. It's important to tease your beverage sexually, plus I had rimmed the glass with sugar and lime so it was  undoubtedly infectious! I decided that I needed some nourishment to go along with my beverage. Normally Vodka is the perfect complete dinner but I decided that on this special occasion I was allowed to have solid foods only with the self agreement that I would drink 3 cups of Ballerina Tea afterwards. I poured myself a second drink as I whipped up a very amazing spicy vegetarian chili. In my last preparations before the meal was complete I received a phone call from someone. A female friend. This was strange for me on account of me already having made out with my glass beverage filled with my longtime girlfriend; Svedka. Merely answering the phone made me feel like I was cheating. I digressed and answered her call. This female friend is my dear companion Shoniqua!

           Allow me to give you a brief back story on Shoniqua. I met her 4 years ago. We were both employees of a company in Toronto. We quickly became friends. It wasn't long before our relationship moved beyond drink buddies/employees to spending many an occasion naked together just simply enjoying our skin contrasts under harsh lighting as good friends. Afterward, I moved to New York and she ended up there as well some time later. We lived together for a while. During that time there was plenty of farting, laughing, usually followed by more farting. She eventually moved to Dallas, Texas for work and I followed suit a month there after. We're inseparable like Lil' Wayne's butt cheeks. Shoniqua is of the Caucasian variety yet her silhouette suggests otherwise. I will touch on this more specifically in another blog. We have become very close and have always been the best of naked friends. Thus, I felt an obligation to speak with her yesterday even though I felt I was betraying my true bitch Svedka. Shoniqua invited me over because she desperately wanted to see my naked body traipse around her house. I don't blame her. Who wouldn't want to see all 145 pounds of my Milk Chocolate physique doing log rolls on your bathroom floor? I digressed and agreed to come over but inside I felt a tremendous guilt for leaving my Vodka behind. Then, in a quick blond moment I realized that Shoniqua only lives a few doors down on the same floor in the same building as I. So what a better opportunity to introduce my two dearest friends to each other? I immediately poured myself another drink, finished up my cooking and somersaulted my way over to her apartment. I knocked on the door with glass in hand. She opened up the door and before I could even see what was going on, Shoniqua blindfolded me (P.S. The kerchief she used looked suspiciously familiar to the top Mariah Carey wore in her "Loverboy" music video, YouTube that later!). She grabbed my hand (the one without the booze) and guided me over to her kitchen table as she was apparently preparing some delicious treat for the three of us (her, myself, and Svedka). I removed the blindfold to reveal so many things that I was completely overwhelmed. First of all, Shoniqua was dressed in a pink little satin number with white lace at the top complete with red pumps! This was very embarrassing as I was wearing a track suit with our company logo on it. What a disaster! This is the problem with men, we don't think about the details! Sure, we're just friends, but I needed to recognize that it was Valentine's Day and I needed to step it up as her Brown friend! Along her hall was a trail of white rose pedals that went from the door leading all the way into the bathroom towards the tub. Her bathroom was decorated with candles all over (including a Menorah which threw me off a little), a bottle of Chardonnay in a bucket of ice, beautiful music playing and the piece de resistence, the bathtub filled with bubbles, grapefruit essential oils, and of course the rest of the white rose pedals and a rubber ducky (I think the same one R. Kelly uses to lure Black children). I took one look inside this absolutely beautifully decorated environment and all I could think was "Why is she wasting this on someone who doesn't like vaginas?". Don't get me wrong. I LOVED it! I just felt like it would be nice if once you do something so nice for someone on this special day that she could at least get some good fellatio out of it, you know? However, regardless of the fact that only mere good friends would share such a romantic evening I played along as the sexy Brown Canadian lover and hopped into the suds with my Chardonnay. I got in very slowly as to not to get stabbed by the dradle (I assumed there was a dradle to match the Menorah, I thought there was some sort of Jewish subtext to the evening I wasn't aware of, I was slightly disappointed not to find a dradle in my bum). At this point, I really threw in the towel and completely cheated on my Svedka when I was offered a glass of the delicious Chardonnay. The worst part is, I enjoyed the wine so much! It's one thing to cheat on your liquor of choice but it's quite another to thoroughly like it! At that point, I was too relaxed and feeling too wonderful to care. I enjoyed chocolate and wonderful conversation with my streaker in crime! It took everything in me not to fart inside the tub. I contracted my situation as hard as I could and I held her in. It's important to be respectable and not fart OR poop in the bathtub when someone else is in it. Obviously if you're by yourself either is acceptable. After a long and incredibly relaxing display of nudity I removed myself from the warm soapy bowl of wonder and dried myself off with a red towel Shoniqua had set aside for me. The next logical place for two people to head was the boudoir. It's interesting how even though the last time I saw a vagina was the day I was born I still find some way to fall into convention. I had decided that on account of us being unable to engage in sexual behavior it was important for me find some way to return the favor of her being so generous and thoughtful. I decided to give her a massage. I tried to be as thorough as possible going from head to toe excluding the no-no place obviously. I gave my wonderful friend a kiss on the cheek and made my grand exit in my track suit.

        The next day I woke up and felt like I had been hit by a pick-up truck driven by Rosie O' Donnell. Once I arrived at work I was informed that she had woken up feeling the same. I've spent the entire pondering what this was on account of. I have now determined that it was not the Chardonnay or Svedka that caused this. Clearly it was the grapefruit! Citrus fruits can be real skanks! I also pondered on the fact that I had spent a romantic Valentine's Day with someone without testicles. I think ultimately my vagina-dominated evening was a gift from Jesus (perhaps trying to persuade me to be interested in vaginas). I was so fortunate to not be bestowed with the stress of knowing I would have to not only impress a mate but have to perform the horizontal mambo afterward! Instead, I had an opportunity to be wined and dined by my dearest friend knowing that even had I farted in the bathtub it only would've led to an amazingly embarrassing conversation the next day at work! So I encourage you all that on Valentine's Day 2012 to call your best friend, invite them over, and just be naked for a time period not to exceed 4 hours. And if you do enter the tub, DO NOT fart if it's not your tub! If it's yours, then it's really up to you how much you value your relationship. I've decided that this will be theme coming up for all future February 14ths! Valentine's Day with a Naked Friend! So I cheers to you! Happy Valentine's Day! May your day be filled with a plethora of genitalia!

P.S. In regards to my problem with choosing between Chardonnay and Svedka. All I can I say is....that's why God gave us TWO hands! Cheers! HAPPY BIRTHDAY NANA!

Applecheeks (The Life and Story of an Amazing Tukkus)

         In honor of Black History Month I would like to pay tribute an African-American woman with an amazing tukkus. She is a co-worker of mine and has delighted me since the day I first met her. She intrigues me for a multitude of reasons. Specifically, I'm always interested in people who's asses could potentially have their own sitcom. My dear Black friend whom is the subject of today's rant certainly has a posterior that would fit into this category. I didn't notice her delightful tukkus until one evening we both had received complimentary tickets to see a performance at the Winspear Opera House here in Dallas. She was wearing a sexy one-piece green number that was silky and cinched in at the waist. She was radiant. She looked like light-skinned Black Barbie (like the kind of Barbie that would be in the Ethnic section but light enough for White girls to actually purchase). We sat through the performance and everything was just fine. Once we got up to leave she was walking up the stairs in front of me and I couldn't help but notice that there was a third party attempting to have a conversation with me; her bum! It was like a strange Siamese twin trapped inside of a green Snuggie arguing with itself trying to decide which bum cheek would get the first word in. "Oh my God. Stop fighting!" was the first thing that I thought to myself. Then I began to wonder if my friend knew that the battle between good and evil was happening on her own behind! I was completely enraptured by what I was witnessing, perhaps even more so than the performance I had just witnessed. Her bum was better than the Winspear! At some point later I told her it looked like two Grannysmith apples in a wrestling match. She was quite delighted to hear that. Perhaps it wasn't the first time! So for the purposes of this rant I will refer to her as such. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Ms. Applebum!

          I met Applebum back in September when I got this new job. I immediately looked to her as someone to go to for advice and guidance. She's my superior. She's also 32, and I think that makes a big difference! Although she may not look it (Black don't crack!), I have discovered that something very special happens to Black women once they pass the age of 30. They bloom into a whole new kind of species.....a kind of species that will WHOOP YO ASS if you piss 'em off! OK! Don't get me wrong. I love Applebum! She's smart, hard-working, and has a tukkus to match but she has somewhat of a short fuse and has no problem with letting you know when she has an issue with you. But the thing with Applebum is, she always "comes correct" (as the Blacks say). She won't go off for no reason. Believe me when I say that if she comes for you, you have DEFINITELY done something to deserve it. And I have to say, I really respect those who are honest about how they feel. I think it truly gets a lot accomplished! I come from a Caucasian Canadian household in a White Christian community where it is always acceptable to plaster a fake smile on your face and cuss people out in the privacy of your own mind only! It's certainly refreshing to hear people speak their minds for once. It's just a little jarring sometimes on the account of me not being used to it yet. To be clear, Applebum doesn't yell or get hysterical. She just gets very stern and VERY serious. This usually gives me instant diarrhea. Applebum keeps me thin!

         When looking at one's traits and emotional tendencies you really must take a moment to examine that person's past in order to discover how they ended up to ultimately become the person who they are today. We are all merely a summation of our genetics and upbringing. That's all! So it was very curious for me to hear Applebum talk about growing up as Black girl in America. Applebum is from Columbus, Ohio which is the 16th largest city in America (the 15th is Nikki Minaj's ass). Columbus is also the home of Geraldine Fredritz Mock, the first woman to fly around the world in 1964! You don't need to Wikipedia that name to know that clearly that woman was White, her friends called her Jerrie, for Christ's sake! Anyways, Applebum went to THE Ohio State University and received her B.F.A. in Dance Education with a minor in Physical Education which I think is pretty amazing considering that computers had not been invented yet. She completed her entire length of study using the only available technology at the time, the typewriter! However, this is not the most significant part of Applebum's education. On a business trip to San Jose, California, she revealed some very important information about her childhood education that clearly has informed who she is today! Specifically, I'm talking about her experience in 7th grade. At that time (the year was 1904), there was something in the Ohio Elementary School curriculum that I believe has been since removed. In 7th grade, Applebum became acclimated with 12 bird calls, all coming from the state of Ohio. And by "acclimated", I mean the little nugget children learned how to perform all 12 bird calls by name. I believe that it was at this very moment when Applebum became a perfectionist. As I say, she's a very hard-worker and at times is very critical of herself. I think I have found out exactly when that seed was planted in her life. This is when she discovered her talent to become a worker bee! You see, it wasn't crazy enough that she, along with her classmates, had to learn not one but TWELVE bird calls, but Applebum took it one step further. She went into her backyard in Columbus and practiced them ad nauseum until she perfected all of them! TWELVE! She has been holding the torch for perseverance ever since! I have not seen her perform them yet but I would imagine it's a great party trick! I'm sure I can convince her to give me a personal rundown and demonstration of all twelve if Patrón is involved. (I know what I'm getting a certain someone for their birthday....)

          I think the most prevalent moment in our relationship is when she and I took Pilates together. She looked amazing as always in some cute outfit on her mat. We were stretching, reaching, and breathing; lengthening our muscles. We sweated as we tried our best to execute the movements. I was trying hard to pay attention to the instructor when I looked out the corner of my eye, and there she was giggling to herself. I had no idea what was wrong with her! You can't laugh and exercise at the same time! It's crazy! It's like having sex and pooping! They just don't go together! But what I didn't realize that she knew something that I didn't. Something was about to happen that I clearly was unaware of. Picture in your mind the two of us with our legs wrapped around the outsides of our arms holding on to our ankles rolling back onto our shoulders lifting our posteriors high into the air and then back down again only to repeat this motion several times in a row. We were facing each other as we did this motion together. Back and forth, back and forth. She's giggling away, and I'm still confused yet we're both still concentrated enough to continue exercising. After the 6th repetition or so she rocked back with her lovely Grannysmith apple bum high in the air. She paused in that precarious position for a moment. Instantaneously, she released a short yet very obviously LOUD fart! Applebum farted in the middle of Pilates and she thought it was the funniest thing ever. I couldn't believe it! I had no idea what to do with myself! So I just started laughing. Looking back on it now, it was pretty amazing. She couldn't have worked out the timing better. I swear it was pre-planned. And come to think of it, it smelled a little like apples....

        I swear it's not me that's obsessed with African-American women, or at least I certainly didn't set out to have such an obsession. It's only turned out this way because the Black women that have been a part of my life have for some reason been so incredibly delightful! Applebum has been sent down from Heaven addressed "To BrownAndThin, From Jesus". That's right. Mr. Christ himself sent a light-skinneded angel to entertain and guide my Brown behind (note that the extra "ed" was intentional, just say it phonetically). Applebum is a joy. Not just for her maturity and guidance but also for her sense of humor and friendship. I don't know what I would do without Applebum. I'm certainly not ready to join Match.com so I hope she stays in my life for a long time as my friend. I wish all of you reading this have an Applebum in your life (either attached or as a companion). It's of the upmost importance that we have someone whom we can rely on and look up to who happens to have a booty you can bounce 25cents off of. I have my roll of quarters and a bottle of Tequila ready.....HOLLA!

Dedicated to a dear friend!
Thank you for being the apple of my vagina......

                       

I'm Leaving On A Jet Plane (And I'm Slightly Intoxicated!)

       My self-diagnosed IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) is not well coupled with travelling via airplane. I avoid this endeavour at all costs but unfortunately this was unavoidable a few days ago when I had to travel on business to California. I had known for quite some time that I would be boarding an aircraft, so this gave me ample time to calm myself down enough to behave appropriately once aboard. I prayed several days beforehand consecutively in hopes that Jesus, Muhammad, and Buddha would hear my call. I avoided eating solid foods for 24 hours before the trip to evade any possibility of bowel movements. Thirdly, and most importantly, I cleverly disguised my alcohol consumption pre-boarding by filling what was formerly a glass jar used for Ragu with a plethora of Cabernet Sauvignon (boxed of course). The morning of the flight I woke up bright and early to make sure my apartment was clean, all my things were packed and in order, and primarily to make sure I had a healthy amount of time to get my alcohol buzz started. I normally do not advocate drinking before Noon but this was a classy exception. I was boarding an aircraft at 11:40 and I needed to be able to black out the horrible experience.

        Whenever you have a major issue in your life that prevents you from being functional in society it's important to look back into your history rather than forward into the problem to find a solution to your predicament. I'm not exactly sure what has caused me to so fearful of flying. Airplane travel used to be a breeze for me. My Mother told me that when I was 4 I went on my first plane. She said I got so excited that I briskly and undetectably got out of my seat and ran frantically up and down the aisle and knocked over two flight attendants. I have no memory of this. I may have been slightly tipsy at the time. Perhaps that was the experience that started my phobia. I do recall, however, one time when I was 12 being on an airplane and consuming what was referred to as "chicken" (I use this term loosely). Several minutes later I was throwing up violently in my seat. Thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph for the fact I was able to find the plastic bag located in the seat in front of me in time. I had very good aim. I made sure there was no spillage. My sister was sitting next to me at the time. She couldn't stop laughing. She thought it was the funniest thing. I'm not sure what was so entertaining about watching your Brother cough up a lung next to you but somehow she found the humor in the situation. I guess the apple doesn't fall to far from the bi-racial tree.

         In any case, at the age of 24, my tolerance for flights is out of control, just like my IBS. But I was prepared this time. I had done everything I could to make myself as relaxed as possible. On my way to the airport I sat in the back seat of a friend's car carefully sipping from the glass jar slowly becoming inebriated. I kept telling myself positive thoughts and filled my mind with visions of rainbows and tampon commercials (they're very soothing when you think about them). We arrived at the DFW airport with plenty of time to spare. I gingerly placed my empty glass bottle in the garbage and made my way straight to security. I had already checked in and printed my ticket online from home! I love it! It's just like e-giving in church. I was desperately trying to keep my eye on the silver lining. My focus on positivity however was immediately crushed once I reached the security line. There is no way that this "process" doesn't bring stress to absolutely everyone who must tolerate it. First of all I don't appreciate having to dismantle my entire wardrobe and insult the designers who created it by smushing them into Tupperware bins. It's disgraceful is what it is. The first disposable bin had my wallet, cell phone, keys, and belt. The second had my trench coat, shoes and "personal item". The third had my cowboy hat (a must for all Texas airports). And behind that was my carry-on hot pink suitcase. I wore purple pants at the time so I was really giving a rainbow coalition in my ensemble. So there I was wearing nothing but purple pants that were held up with nothing but hope, a tank top, and un-matched socks waiting for the walk of shame. I'm not exactly sure what chemical explosion I was exposed to as a child but clearly there is some metal radio-activity happening in my bloodstream because I am yet to not set off the damn alarm. I stared disappointingly before even going through the metal detector straight at the poor lady who's job it was to humiliate others. She gestured for me to come through. I held my breath as I stepped underneath the detector and sure enough the alarm went off like I'm some sort of terrorist. The "police officer" (again, I use this term loosely) proceeded to wave her metal detector wand all over my body lingering for a few extra moments in my genital region as though I was carrying a hand grenade in my imaginary vagina. (For the record, I wasn't). I suppose it makes sense because many criminals keep their drugs in their bum. I couldn't ever be a drug dealer on account of my self diagnosed IBS getting in the way. So I forgave her. I dread the day that I get a full pat down or worse, a flashlight in the tuckus. I'm pretty sure FOX news did a special report one time on airport security putting flashlights in people's tuckus's. It was riveting. I could be mistaken, I was drinking Goldschlager at the time. You can never be too trusting of one's memory having taken Goldschlager. I learned the hard way.

        The embarrassment and annoyance felt undergoing the experience of potentially being probed by a flashlight is only matched by the experience of having to reclaim the items that you have so trustingly inserted into the X-Ray machine (which I'm pretty sure is from the Devil). Without fail, I always get something confiscated. This time it was my toothpaste AND my shaving cream. I was so pissed. The man told me I could check them underneath the aircraft if I wanted to. Yes, I would absolutely LOVE to pay $35 so I can have my toiletries for the 2 days we're in California. Lord knows they don't sell toothpaste or shaving cream in Los Angeles, they're only available in the Black market. I decided that he may discard them. After that ordeal was underway, I made my way through the terminal to find my gate and toilet just in case the IBS kicked in. Up until then I had done a pretty substantial job of keeping my diarrhea at bay. It shouldn't of been too difficult to do so on account of not having eaten anything solid for the past 24 hours, but with me you never know. In search of the gate I came across one of the most wonderful and titillating contraptions ever invented by Jesus; the electronic runway! I still don't understand why anyone would need anything so ridiculous nor do I understand why I find it so incredibly delightful. What I do know is that I will consistently get on the silly invention and ride my way along as though I had been born with no legs. It's like a ride in the middle of the airport. I'm pretty sure the intention is that you are supposed to walk along so that you may move quickly and with ease along with your suitcase but I always ignorantly decide to stand still in order to get the most out of the ride. I really needed a break at that point anyway. The stripping and re-dressing really did a number on my cardio.

          I found my gate along with the rest of the people in my company. I sat down and tried to make light of the situation even though I knew it was very possible I was approaching death like "I Know What You Did Last Summer" except on an airplane. My cowboy hat ended up being a great conversation piece. I didn't realize that something on my own head would bring such delight to people's lives. I suppose this may have something to do with the fact that my cowboy hat is the size of a Japanese toddler. My alcohol buzz was at its highest at this point so things were looking up. Not all had been lost. I tried just to focus on my conversation to avoid thinking about the impending doom of being suspended 2000 ft in the air only moments away. I'm still not convinced with the idea that something larger than Rosie O'Donnell can float for 5 hours. A little skepticism is healthy. I'm pretty sure that's in the Bible somewhere. Speaking of which, I didn't have my Bible on me at the time. I figured they usually have them in the hotel room (which by the way someone explained to me that they are actually NOT complimentary). However, I felt disappointed in the fact that it was at that very moment when they called my row of seats for boarding that I really needed Jesus...and a toilet.

       It starts with perspiring, than heavy breathing, followed by the full onset of diarrhea. I was at step #1, 5 minutes after sitting down. I had placed my carry-on bag in someone else's overhead  bin, mine had already been taken by someone else and thus starts the evil domino effect of stealing overhead compartments. It's a slippery slope, just like R.Kelly hanging around Kindergarden playgrounds; it all seems so innocent at first. And this is only to be blamed on the airlines for charging for checked luggage. Now, no one takes any checked luggage if it can be at all accommodated. So now we're all fighting like Mary Kate and Ashley trying to shove all of our belongings for our 5 week trip to Bermuda underneath the seat in front of us. This world is a scary place. In my effort to pretend I didn't hear the bickering behind me about "Who's pink suitcase is in my spot?" I focused on meditation. Deep breaths, in and out. But before I knew it, the horror began. The shaking, the trembling, we were moving! I forgot to buckle up my seat belt so I frantically clipped it together. I had no idea where to put my cowboy hat. I felt rude keeping it on because the person behind me would not be able to see the instructional video of how to put on the air mask in case we become submerged. By the way, listening to such instructions is not exactly a calming experience for any flyer! With my luck, I would be the one person on a full flight who's air mask wouldn't drop! I'm just saying... With my cowboy hat in lap, we began moving faster and faster. I purposely chose an aisle seat when checking in online as to not be put face to face with death outside the window. I looked straight ahead and grabbed the hand of the person who was seated next to me. It turned out to be another company member but at that point I didn't care who it was. If Osama Bin Laden had been seated in 22G he would've been hand and hand with a bi-racial blogger for the entire trip to California. (Please don't write letters......that's my job!)

             What follows the increase in velocity is the most dreadful part of the ordeal of flying that I could  possibly experience. The take off! It begins with a slight tilting of the plane, which tends to feel more than slight! It feels like you are about to be catapulted like a Negro in the circus (I'm not sure if they actually shoot Black people out of canons but I do live in Texas and I wouldn't be surprised after what I saw at the Rodeo!). After the suggestion of catapultion you feel the plane leave the ground. At this point you feel like not only have you left the ground behind but you are pretty sure at this point that your intestines have stayed there with it! Usually this is where the crying begins. I squeezed tighter on my poor co-workers hand. She'll be fine, she can get worker's comp. As the tears rolled down my face and as my diarrhea was on the brink I knew there was only one thing left I could do. I had to sing a song in my head that would bring me to a place of Zen, my happy place! "Girl you look good, won't you BACK DAT ASS UP!". These of course are the lovely and soothing words written by the wonderful songbird and lyricist Juvenile who I believe at this point is fat and incarcerated (in that order). I closed my eyes and kept repeating the chorus over and over again until I opened my eyes and the plane had leveled out. I took a sigh of relief. I made sure not to relax too much, I needed to find a toilet to do that.

         Once the seat belt sign came off which seemed to take an inordinate amount of time, I jumped out of my seat and scurried over the "restroom" (again I use this term VERY loosely). I believe the appropriate term for this mere suggestion of a bathroom is "commode" (also a creation of Lucifer). Once I had sufficiently scrubbed the seat with Purel and placed several layers of Bounty Quicker Picker Upper all over the seat I gingerly lowered my tuckus onto the bowl. A few minutes later I stood up, lowered the seat. (The order of the next events is very important, you should take notes, it could save your life). In order, to evade the most frightening part of the commode I first zipped up my pants and buttoned my belt. I grabbed my bag (you must ALWAYS travel to the commode with your purse so someone doesn't steal the bitch!) and unlocked the door. I placed my hand on the door knob ready to burst out and placed myself in a deep lunge to get a running start. With my right foot I gracefully lifted it up behind me and delicately placed it on the flush button, The very moment I felt the button pressed I jumped like a cat and exploded out of the commode! I'm not sure if you've ever stayed in the commode long  enough to listen to the noise that the flusher makes on an aircraft but the sound is so evil you would swear it comes straight from the belly of Adolf Hitler.

          Once back in my seat, I took a few moments to catch my breath and calm myself down. This is usually somewhat of a difficult task. Being suspended thousands of feet in the air trapped inside of a floating piece of metal with diarrhea and a buzz that is quickly fading is not exactly a day at the spa. I felt uneasy and winded, like Oprah after a light jog. I'm sure this had something to do with the 40 yard dash I made from the restroom and perhaps the lack of nutrients I had consumed recently with red wine in a glass bottle being the only exception. I had a flashback 12 years ago to the day I vomited next to my Sister on an aircraft. I nervously rummaged through the back of the seat in front of me for the token white paper bag. Before I could find it I came across a spectacle. A beacon of hope. It was a book that seemed to emit a golden glow, like Jesus. But this wasn't the Bible. It was far better, it was an online mile-high magazine. Ladies and gentleman, I introduce to you, SKY MALL!

           The days of flying, just like church, are forever changing thanks to technology. Nowadays, we can order tampons from EBay, we can find abusive soul mates on Craigslist, we can even post pictures of our tuckus on a website all without leaving the privacy of our own home. I am neverendingly surprised by what this world has come to be; flying is no exception. As I picked up the Sky Mall magazine I couldn't believe it was real. Could people seriously consider shopping during the horrific experience of being aboard an aircraft? Apparently so. However, I was still convinced that you would have to be slightly insane to do so.  This assumption was confirmed when I opened up this beacon of delight known as Sky Mall Magazine. The products in here are so deliciously hysterical, I couldn't have written it better myself. So I won't. I will simply and accurately describe exactly the types of products you can buy whilst being airborne (complete with the actual pictures that SkyMall advertises with).

Head Spa Massager

Just like the title suggests, you wear this contraption on your head (apparently so does your dog). The ads simply says "Relax away migraines and more, without drugs!" Really? Does nobody drink anymore? Apparently looking like Judy Jetson is a better option. Yours for $49.95

"The Peeing Boy of Brussels" Statue and Fountain

You can also purchase a piped version which includes recirculating pump. Dear God, what has this world come to? Talk about the worst Valentine's Day gift ever! Only $198

Luxury Pet Residence

"Masterfully assembled from fine mahogany-finished hardwood". Okay stop right there! Since when is the dog able to appreciate mahogany? How can it, when it's busy licking its own balls!? The ad continues, "this furniture-quality residence satisfies your pet's need for comfort and privacy". PRIVACY? Really? Yes, that's one thing the dog doesn't get enough of...me time! Your dog can bask in its own solitude for a mere $299!
        

The Slanket

 It hurts my eyes! Make it stop! I'm really trying hard to wrap my head around this one. Not since Crocs have I seen something so hideous. I stopped reading at "Put your arms in 13'' wide sleeves...". I immediately needed to grab the puke bag.

E-Holder

"The Hand-e-holder is a device for the back of your iPad that reduces awkwardness providing a comfortable way to hold your iPad with one hand while leaving the other free to type". I didn't realize there was an epidemic of people being born without laps. Yours for the bargain of $39.99

Helpy Carry-on Harness

A picture says a thousand words. Most of the ones that come to mind are obscenities. People put harnesses on their children so I suppose this in comparison is not as ridiculous. What cracks me up is at the bottom of the ad the product is categorized as "Unisex". Thanks for letting me know! All yours for $29.99.

Pet Ramp

Your dog has NO reason to be on your bed, especially if you ever expect to engage in sexual activity with a spouse or one night stand. You're just asking for a divorce! $199.95 is the price you pay for your bed sheets to have the fresh scent of kanine!

The Always Cool Pillow

Apparently people have very warm faces in America. I know nothing of this because I come from the North where our heads are noticeably colder. Supposedly the problem of over-heated faces is a very big issue in this country and thus has been rectified by the ingenious invention of a pillow with a self-regulated temperature. I don't like abbreviations but may I say, WTF! $89.95 and it's yours!

Ceramic Pet Fountain

Necessary, is the first word that comes to mind. $79.95 (Replacement filter $11.95)

Relax 'N Nap

Looks like someone had a few too many margaritas. Bargain price of $99.95

Indoor Dog Restroom

"The mat and tray system gives dogs a place to relieve themselves when they get outside. Ideal for high-rise dwelling dogs". How about ideal for perverts! This is absolutely revolting! Exactly where and how are you suppose to clean this atrocious piece poop covered AstroTurf? Yours for the bargain price of $99.95 (Replacement mat $49.95)

The Genuine Turkish Bathrobe

It is impossible to achieve true happiness without draping yourself in overpriced cotton. $119.95 (This is not a typo)

The Canine Genealogy Kit

No explanation needed. ($59.95)

BOB

Meet BOB! This stands for "Body Opponent Bag" who curiously looks like my Eighth Grade Science teacher. It's very important when working out that you punch something that has eyebrows and parted hair. All yours for $299.99 plus S&H!

I-Restore

"Get your confidence back" is the slogan for a new device that grows back your hair in weeks! Ladies, if you ever come home to your man sitting in bed wearing this ridiculous contraption, you are required by law to openly make fun of him! Yours for only $499.99! (I suppose this is cheaper than 10 weaves per year)

Epilogue

        Needless to say, my once nervous temperament quickly calmed down with the delight that was bestowed upon me from SkyMall magazine. With each page new found joy entered my heart. Ultimately, I learned a lot from online/airplane shopping. I learned that people are as insane as they are lazy. Who needs a Velcro glove for the iPad? What kind of dog needs its own wheelchair ramp for the owner's bed? Since when was carrying roll-on luggage an issue needed to be rectified by bungee cords? Clearly America has lost its mind! And I'm enjoying every minute of it. Thankfully this insanity brought me to a place of comedy in my fearful mindset of flying. So I am very fortunate to have been blessed with such a ridiculous book filled with hilarity! It's very much like the Bible, except in paperback.

       Before I knew it, the plane had landed. It was so nice to be safe and sound back on land. There are very few moments in my life that I enjoy being sober but this was one of them. The buzz does have to wear off at some point and like hell I'm going to pay the absurd price of 10 dollars for a tiny plastic bottle of Merlot on the airplane! I was classy enough to drink mine in the car on my way to the airport out of a real glass bottle! That's some sophisticated shit! We actually arrived in Los Angeles early due to "wind systems" as the pilot put it. Wait a minute? Are you telling me the wind actually blew us to California? Now, I've really heard everything. The most important thing is that I was alive unlike the poor White folk of "Final Destination". I even made it back alive here to Dallas! Jesus must really love me to have saved my life twice on an aircraft. But as I've said before, big J certainly has an odd sense of humor. So of course only I would have to experience the horror of last week all over again tomorrow! That's right, we have another business trip out to San Jose this time at 7:30 in the morning. I have my glass jar ready! This time it will be filled with Svedka Vodka and 7 up with 2 lime twists. I can't wait to read the next edition of SkyMall! Maybe they sell diamond encrusted flasks?