Friday, March 14, 2008

Dirty Little Secrets

I was recalling a friend's honors thesis the other day. It focused largely on how freely people self-disclose shit on the internet that they wouldn't in a million years tell their closest friends. I've never really been big on the whole self-disclosure bit, so I've decided that it's time I got on to that. Can't be stuck in the dark ages forever - I have 13 year olds in their underwear on MySpace to compete with! So, in light of my pressing need to keep up with the skanks, I have decided to share with you all of my dirty little secrets – things that are so embarrassing that they could end a marriage. Well, okay, maybe not. They haven’t ended mine yet, but they do receive the occasional side-long stare and/or patronizing nod. And my mother thinks I’m a freak. So there.
So here we go in no particular order…

Fizzy Water. I have a small addiction. I used to have a large addiction. That was to nicotine. The small addiction is to carbonated water. You see, giving up nicotine is a lot like hitting yourself repeatedly in the head with a baseball bat that someone has lovingly hammered 5 inch nails through. It’s not so much that the desire to smoke is over-powering (it’s strong, but most times you realize that actually sucking down a cigarette makes you feel worse than you did) as it is that you, well….lose all control of your emotions and become a ranting, raving, possibly stampeding, angry elephant with sharp tusks every time something goes wrong. One minute fine, next minute FUCK OFF. So you have to retrain yourself to, you know, not flip out like a idiot every time you drop your pen. It’s kind of like being two years old and realizing that pitching a fit on the grocery store floor is only going to get you spanked – and by that I mean it sucks.

What this all brings me back to is my new addiction to fizzy water. Seltzer. I like that word. Seltzer. I like most things that can be associated six-degrees-of-separation-style to going in someone’s pants. But I digress. Addiction. I think I drink about half a gallon of the stuff a day. And it makes me fart. A lot. But I still drink it. And then I blame my farts on other people. And I smile deep inside my heart.

Revolving Doors. I am abso-fucking-lutely terrified of them. The rest of the population goes dashing through them like this is a completely normal thing to do. Am I the only person in the world who recognizes these aberrations for the incarnation of unholiness that God himself would spit upon (and, in fact, probably will when he comes to earth to personally damn and escort the inventor to hell – that is, if God takes an interest in revolving doors) that they undoubtedly are?!? Are there no other sane people out there? No…? Okay, I suppose it probably bears noting that this may, in fact, be a personal problem. And to be quite honest, I can’t actually remember anything bad happening to me in or even near one of them. No recollection of getting pinched, or stuck between doors, or any other of the multitude of heinous ways to die that flit through my brain every and require me to take deep breathes and count to ten every single time I have to walk through one of these god-forsaken sideways rat wheels. I take this as evidence that not only are revolving doors evil, but they give off an aura that only I have been blessed to sense.

David Bowie. This one gets to my husband the most. Actually, I think this one gets to most people the most, but you know what? You can all bite me. David Bowie is god, and one day you will all realize that I was right, and you were wrong. And yes, I have watched Labyrinth all the way through just to marvel at the amazing growth spurt his bulge goes through, and yes, it is better than yours. (Except for you honey, I love you best *innocence*)

Inuyasha. I have a small obsession with this show. Ok, small might be understating it a bit. I made my husband buy me all 167 episodes and 3 movies on DVD. Yes, it is animated. Yes, it is directed at an audience approximately 10-16 years in age. Yes, I miss that mark by almost 10 years. No, I don’t care. And you know what, there is an entire community of anime-loving people who will gladly accept me into their lives and love me just the same and not judge me like I know you are doing not-so-silently right now. The problem is that they never want to leave their mother’s basement to play with me. So, lets make a deal – you’ll never tell anyone about this, and I will never disclose the names of certain individuals whom I know for a fact watched Disney’s Tarzan frame-by-frame just to see if his butt flap would fly up and expose his hot monkey-junk. Deal?

and finally...

All bow before the Mistress of all the is Good and Evil. And Lettuce.

Cher. Okay, so maybe this one isn't so much of a secret. And maybe it hasn't actually been a secret ever since I serenaded every non-hearing-impaired person in downtown Minneapolis with random selections of her catalog from the window of a cab at 3 in the morning. And maybe "If I Could Turn Back Time" sounds better when the singer is not slobbering drunk and trying to pick up the guy on the corner at the same time. And maybe George W. Bush is an awesome guy. But I think you may be reaching. Come on people! This woman sold hair products while wearing a wig. SHE IS THAT FUCKING GOOD. And she wants some love.

To the Wainkstains Who Sent Me the Prayer Mat

Dear sirs/madams -

I happened upon your truly charming envelope while sorting my mail out from the pile behind the door where it falls so neatly each day. I was shocked to learn that Jesus himself had sent me mail, and it warmed the cockles of my heart to see that he hand even hand addressed the envelope! In blue pen! (At first I was a bit confused by Jesus speaking English and writing in roman letters, but I eventually figured he'd had 2000 years to practice and I was probably over-analyzing things).

Unfortunately, the illusion of a personalized message on an envelope is lost when the ink has the same sheen as the rest of the printing on the envelope. Also, actual writing leaves dents. Now, you've managed to get Jesus on your payroll writing personal messages for all of your mail recipients. I can't imagine that its cheap to keep a big-name celebrity like that, so it follows logically that your organization must have a sizable bank account. Or maybe you are paying him on prayers? Either way, could maybe chuck in a few extra dollars or a couple of Hail Mary's to have the fake writing embossed? There's really nothing like the disappointment of thinking your lord and savior has sent you a personalized message through the US postal service only to realize that he has actually just cranked out about 1,000 of these on a cheap risograph.

Also , while we are on the subject of your bankroll, why on EARTH would you want this prayer mat you so kindly shipped to me without invitation back? Your accompanying letter says that you wish it to be sent to other families so that they may use it as well, but this seems to be poorly thought out. Firstly, the paper it is printed on is incredibly thin. As a woman of some size, I ripped that poor mat right down the center the moment my portly knees pressed down upon his holy face! No one wants a holey Jesus. Secondly, surely it must cost you more in postage to send these out than it costs to print them. Perhaps a better alternative would be to cross the non-believers off of your mailing list and cater to those who have bought magazines from the charming youths you send to our doors once a year? Then the poor starving children who need a miracle won't have to settle with a knelt-on, ripped up Jesus. Finally, I do believe the mat you sent me was defective. I followed your instructions and stared deeply into His eyes while prostrating myself in his name, but his eyes did not open as the message explicitly said they would. I know for a FACT that I am favored in His sight, so I can only conclude that said mat is defective. For these reasons, I will be giving it a proper Christian burial rather than passing it along. No one deserves a defective Jesus.

Sadly, I will not be sending you any seed donations. I find it rather puzzling that you ascribe a monetary value to "seed" as my husband spills his freely and regularly. Also, I have a suspicion that the containers needed to transport said seed safely back to you would not fit in the envelope for which you have provided paid postage. As I do not wish to infringe on any biological material shipping regulations, I am afraid my donation will have to wait until you are able to provide the proper receptacle. (Please note however, that I am enclosing my prayer requests and have selected that you pray for a sum of $200,000 to be deposited into my account AND a car. Is there any chance you might pray for a Mercedes? Or is that pushing my luck? It's up to you - I can settle for a new Toyota in a pinch.)

In closing, I must admit that I was profoundly disappointed by the enclosed prophecy. I have had better readings from New Orleans street psychics who were half blind with only 3 fingers and possibly fewer teeth. Perhaps you could hire one of these fine upstanding citizens to work alongside Jesus on your campaign. They could prophesize AND work the embossing machine! Surely this would greatly improve your campaign for our souls, and might even inspire me to send you a check!

Love always

PS: I find it rather amazing that I only have to type your name into Google to find 5,000+ warnings of fraud. Perhaps your image needs an overhaul - most fraud is committed online these days. Spamming is always a cheap alternative, and it doesn't even require embossing!

I think the FBI might be interested in knowing where God keeps his printing presses.

90% water, 10% fiber, 100% guarenteed to dampen your seat.

Some women can orgasm eating chocolate. Some while being tickled. Others need a bit more prodding, and the help of a certain mechanical device.

The woman behind me in the cafeteria today nearly creamed her shorts over the salad bar.
Have you ever had one of those moments where you were utterly convinced that you must be going about life wrong? That single split second where the thought "I've never looked at lettuce that way before....WHAT HAVE I BEEN DOING WITH MY LIFE?!?" flittled so very innocently through your head?

Hold on to that thought. As long as you can. Because the nasty realization that Stupid is contagious and you just caught the acute strain is about to hit. Hard.
Now, I can understand being excited for food. I give most food three thumbs up (which, in all honesty, is part of the reason I happened to be in the salad bar...but more on that later). We eat out for special occasions. People dedicate their lives to creating ambrosial delicacies for our pleasure in consumption.

I can guarantee you no one dedicated more than 2 seconds of their day dumping the lettuce, coated no doubt in "brown-retardant," into that bowl. Possibly they MAY have dedicated an extra two minutes to mix the mayo into the crab salad. But only maybe.

Two minutes, two seconds.

Certainly not enough to warrant the "OH MY GAWAD! This looks so WUNDAFUL!" that somehow wormed its way into my ears and began nonchalantly gnawing away at possibly vital parts of my brain. I still can't find my car keys....But who knows. I could be wrong. Maybe I really DON'T look at lettuce in the right way.

But how DO you look at lettuce in a different way? No one wakes up in the morning and thinks "Holy shit, I want lettuce, and I want it NOW." There's no lettuce flavored treats. Even vegetarians have found better sources of nourishment. Lettuce is a punishment, and has been for the existence of man.

Don't believe me? There are four known types of lettuce eaters in this world. First, there are those of us who are 50 pounds over weight and have been deluded by the diet industry to think that lettuce holds some magical power. Then, we have the starving students who can only afford the 99 cent head of lettuce on top of a weekend's binge drinking. And finally, we have the crazy health nuts, who, let's face it, are really into the masochism thing to begin with, but commendably choose to suffer in silence.

This woman constituted a prime specimen of the fourth type. The "I eat lettuce in public and feel the need to talk about it so everyone within earshot will know how devastatingly healthy I am and have to commend me on my restraint at not fainting at the site of a hamburger and oh my look TOMATOES!! UGH - EGGS?!? Don't they know how bad cholesterol is for you? I though this was a healthy option! Oh, I don't have to eat the egg? The egg is extra? Oh that's WUNDAFUL" type of lettuce eater. A vision of New York subtlety, her hair, makeup and clothes were naturally about 20 years too young for her, thin as a rail, her "health nut" status belied by the depth of crow's feet that only come of 30+ years of 32 menthols a day.

But she was happy. And who am I to deny someone their public orgasm, even at the cost of my own sanity?

I smiled quietly to myself as she drown her wonderfully healthy lunch in full cream dressing and went about my day.

Bacon is extra because there is no swine evil enough to be sacrificed up the bed of evil...and lettuce.