The fog has not yet lifted on me, friends and enemies. I haven’t slept in about a month now. I find myself googling underwear, and forgetting why I did that.
Why was I googling “underwear” the other day? I think it had something to do with Jonathan Coulton.
It did! I was listening to “Over There” and he sings a bit about the price of underwear in Europe, and I was attempting to figure out if there was maybe some metric significance to the lyric in question, which is:
"The men don’t care, 'Cause they chew their underwear And the underwear they chew Costs a dollar ninety two. The men go around With their ding-dongs hanging down.”
That was too much for my sleep-deprived brain to handle, and so, on the express bus from the Bronx to Manhattan, in desperation, I googled “the underwear they chew”. And do you know what the results revealed?
Nothing whatsoever about Jonathan Coulton. The results were overwhelmingly in favor of information on why dogs eat panties.
My dog doesn’t eat my underwear, by the way. That’s not because she doesn’t like tucking into some tasty used thongs when the opportunity arises, but because I do not leave my dirty underwear laying around like apparently everybody on the internet does. When I take them off, I put them in the hamper. Then nobody eats them. The end.
But if my dog DID eat my underwear, I wouldn’t question it. I wouldn’t seek the advise of the great learned masses of the internet to explain this baffling phenomenon. I wouldn’t lose any sleep at night, staring up at the ceiling, scratching my head and moaning, “why?”
Dogs eat underwear because underwear smell like ass. And dogs love the smell of ass.
Have these anonymous googlers ever even SEEN a dog before? As soon as a dog meets another living being of any species, its first action is to bury its face nose deep into the most readily available ass it can snuff a deep whiff of. It’s like these people just fell onto earth from some blissful, dog-free planet where nobody’s bed ever gets shat upon, and nobody’s pudding ever gets stolen, and underwear can safely be draped over low-hanging architectural protrusions without fear of having the crotches torn out by ass-starved canines. It’s like these people are from another world, and a dog just swept into their life and ruined their underwear and for the life of them they just can’t come to terms with the betrayal.
Man, fuck everybody.
I never did find out if JoCo was trying to make a statement about the currency conversion as it pertains to the price of undergarments in Europe, because I got so disgusted by the world full of stupid strangers out there, meandering around with holes in their drawers, picking their noses and scratching their feet and turning to Yahoo Answers for every banal moronic whim that crosses their imbecile minds. I simply closed the browser, looked out the window, and pondered a landscaper in Central Park, using a leafblower over the walk paths.
He blew the leaves around and around, and a giant funnel cloud of them formed. Seemingly without reason, because he wasn’t cleaning up a single leaf, or accomplishing anything, but he seemed to be having fun. It was kind of beautiful, all those leaves moving. I imagined showing this to Little13, with her gorgeous little gray eyes taking in the sight of leaves swirling through the air, as if by magic, with no rational comprehension of what was causing them to stir.
When you are ignorant of everything, with a mind like a clean slate thirsty for knowledge or exhausted by sleep deprivation, even the blowing of leaves over pavement is a miracle, deserving of awe. And sometimes you stand back, your brain like a sponge, absorbing this miracle, taking it in and appreciating it in the abstract, because you are an empty void, an uncarved block, the ultimate zen white space etched over the sucking black hole of your consciousness.
And sometimes, you consult Yahoo Answers to explain why dogs eat old Chinese food out of the trash can. It’s up to you what you do with your one wild and precious life, Idiots.
While walking from the bus stop to w*rk this morning, a handsome young construction worker with a porno moustache said “Good morning” to me. I hope this doesn’t mean that I have to fuck him. According to the laws established in many movies I’ve watched in various motels, it’s basically imperative to have intercourse with guys who:
a. perform a vocation associated with one of the Village People, b. acknowledge you in the setting of that work environment, i.e., when the cable is out, or c. are afflicted with facial hair like the guy on the old Brawny paper towel package.
Pictured: You are obligated to fellate this man. Pick a size, indeed. THIRSTY O’S FOR BRAWNY MESSES. This paper product is rated X.
1. All women love getting thoroughly reamed in every orifice, at all times
2. Humans make absurd faces at their pinnacles of pleasure, and they become all like “AAAH. UHHH. YEAH.”
3. If a hairy-faced man talks to you, you have to let him.
And so here we find ourselves in my moment of awkwardness, this man and I. Standing on Fifth Avenue, being addressed by a stranger in a way that suggests I will have to make a stupid face later on.
I’m just so fucking TIRED, though. I don’t think twangy music should automatically start playing just because the guy got clever with his facial hair. Can we not, moustache guy?
Is it really any wonder the first-world human brain is ever tuned to the mental radio station broadcasting “all ass, all the time”? Even my vacuum cleaner boasts of “ball technology”, and I’ve caught it leering at me when I get out of the shower.
It’s a sexy world we live in, friends. It’s everywhere, like a sticky film.
"Dark Pump" bread, COME ON.
"Bone-In Ham". There were so many other ways they could have described it, but no. They had to go for the subliminal sell, which is SO TYPICAL of ham tycoons by now.
You know what? I take back what I said about the facial hair not being an automatic contract. Perhaps I was hasty. Maybe it is just a little bit mandatory. Under special circumstances, you know. Such as when Ian Anderson’s tour bus breaks down in front of my house, or when he wants me to be the pastry chef on his cruise ship.
And now if you’ll excuse me, my cable seems to be out.
Last week at around this time, Sifu and I were bleary eyed and confused, but generally cheerful as we sat on my couch, Little 13 bouncing away next to us, filled with the chipper vim of someone who has had just exactly as much sleep as she requires. We were drinking coffee, and watching the Thanksgiving parade.
I’m not a fan of parades. This is no secret. But under the circumstances, the circumstances being that the remote was all the way over there, it seemed like the right thing to do to sit there on my exhausted, sorry ass and stare into space while the parade beamed itself into my eyeballs. Together, we watched Al Roker looking horrific, like a strange, animated plastic bag, and we saw that breathy, vaguely pornographic looking girl from that show about the two vaguely pornographic girls that babysit together on that channel my child likes, as she clunkily lip synched her way through a song that was technically about Christmas, but also sort of about how she wanted to give you a sloppy blowie while you sip nog under the tree, and then, for some reason, we saw the Goo Goo Dolls, performing something or other.
That is when Sifu made a peculiar comment:
"Is this really the Goo Goo Dolls?"
Let’s pause a moment to examine the implication of his question. In Sifu’s mind, someone would pretend to be the Goo Goo Dolls, which is as ludicrous as someone intentionally attempting to look like Gary Busey. Namely, nobody would do that, so Sifu’s question was from outer space. And so of course I did not dignify it with an answer, but instead morphed directly into the lady from the Institute of Applied Linguistics website:
In other words, “You are working my last nerve with that question, move along sir.”
Taking into account that Sifu’s initial question was bogus, we moved into phase 2 of our discussion concerning the god damned Goo Goo Dolls, specifically, the part in which Sifu made the following timely remark:
"Wow. I can’t believe he’s still frosting his hair."
What I don’t know about the Goo Goo Dolls could fill an entire library full of books. I can’t name one single Goo Goo Dolls song, I don’t know the Goo Goo Dolls guy’s fucking name, and frankly, the Goo Goo Dolls is just about the silliest band name since my friend in college dated a girl who fronted for “Wendy and her Menstrual Cycles”. Lovely girl by the way. Cute.
But what I do know is that this guy:
has found a look that works for him. He gets up in the morning, looks in the mirror, and says, “yes. This hairstyle just feels like ME. Me, John Rzeznik, which is my name according to Wikipedia. I’m John Rzeznik, and I feel sexy, and I like myself.” That’s what he says. Don’t judge him.
Sometimes, shit just works. And it takes a Big Boss to recognize that.
Congratulations, John Rzeznik, or “Johnny” Rzeznik as you are sometimes known according to Wikipedia. You’ve found a solid foothold in your personal style, and you are our Big Boss of the Day.
Welcome to the start of yet another Simian Idiot Gift Guide! Are you the wife of the man who has everything? Including a thick, healthy pelt of simian body rug the likes of which makes lesser men weep with envy? Better put a stop to that shit post haste!
Did I ever tell you about my ex-boyfriend whose sister made him wax his back for me?
He was from Ireland, as if that explains anything, and yeah, I guess he was a shaggy motherfucker, but I never had anything negative to say about that. I rather prefer a man with a manly body. Despite my ethnicity, I contain a shocking lack of body hair, and I prefer the company of men whose carcasses are not as smooth as my own. In fact, I married a yeti.
But this ex of mine was self-conscious about his rugged manscaping, and in a move that will always baffle me, confided this to his younger sister, who took off her green bowler hat, clicked her patent leather buckle shoes together, set down her pot of gold and said, “Ye need to wax yer potato lovin’ back, begorrah!”
Or so I assume.
He did so, and the next time I saw him, his once perfectly normal back was a splotchy, patchy, blistery looking terrain of horrors. You know what’s under a hairy man’s back hair? YOU DON’T WANT TO.
If only he’d had this:
The Sharper Image, a store which I THOUGHT was completely defunct, but still operates via catalog, is here to save the day with this delightful men’s back hair shaver.
Imagine the look of pure holiday joy when he sits down in front of the tree on Christmas morning, hot cocoa in hand, and tears into the gaily wrapped package which contains a gift that perfectly communicates, “You’re inadequate.”
"She had done a lot of bad things, even once tried suicide, Was lookin’ to do just one good deed before she died…”
I’ve done a lot of bad things. There is a trail of broken hearts in my wake, friends. I’ve eaten more than my fair share of silica gel packets. I’ve crossed on the green, AND in between.
It’s time for me to give something back to the world.
I was on the bus yesterday, listening to music, and this song came on the radio:
I’ve talked before about songs that are so gross and skeezy you almost can’t believe you’re hearing them. Well, this song utterly nauseated me, and that was BEFORE I saw the video. Holy shit, do not watch this video.
Jesus. This fucking video. All these hot, greasy people are having a sexy pool party while some creepy masturbator lurks in the shrubbery, dressed all in black, imagining coupling with one or all of them, repeatedly. Later, he infiltrates their orgy, skulking among them, shimmying and crooning, hiding behind the potted plants, surreptitiously licking their hair as they pass him, or so we can only imagine. This video is revolting.
Anyway, I felt conflicted about hating it, because while this horrible creep is singing his clammy, sticky fornication song on Planet Ass, the work of Simian Idiot ubergods HALL & OATES is sampled.
I am confuse.
I want you to know that just because something seems stupid and ridiculous and idiotic and goofy and purposeless and flaky and doofy and dumb and valueless, that does NOT fucking mean that it is!
Watch this video. Every last second of it. If you have any love for me whatsoever in your cold black heart, watch the shit out of this video right now.
It’s festive. Hall and Oates live together, they wear colorful shirts, they dance about, their friends come over…they’re having a great time, but it’s hard to take them seriously.
You should take them seriously. They are as serious as a heart attack.
So what if they did this video. So what if they compromised their artistic integrity for this. What have YOU ever done to make the world a better, doofier place? Anything at all?
You don’t get to marginalize Hall & Oates for making a lighthearted holiday romp and making children and simpletons around the globe happy for decades. I’m not going to let you marginalize Hall and Oates. You’re going to have to go through me first. Like in Wishmaster. Like literally, physically penetrating through me. Disgusting.
Let’s now juxtapose the poetry of Hall & Oates with some heady, meaningful works of art, crafted by people YOU take seriously.
Deep down you know, it’s soul alone, and soul really matters.
So here we go.
"I’ll tell you this. If you want to know what the reason is, I only smile when alive.”
"I wouldn’t if I were you. I know what she can do. She’s deadly, man, and she can really rip your world apart.”
"My daddy tried to bore me with a sermon, But it’s plain to see that they can’t comfort me.”
"What I want you’ve got And it might be hard to handle Like the flame that burns the candle The candle feeds the flame, yeah, yeah”
As you can see, I have proven beyond all argument that Hall & Oates are among the greatest living artists of our day. And if you ever trivialize their work again, I will personally come to your house and punch you in the gooch.
I hope this has helped you. You have learned about art. Go in peace.
I’m feeling a theme coming together for this week’s posts. I hope you will bear with me as I work a few things out in my head.
Not to beat a dead horse, but I am exhausted. Little13 is on a weeks-long sleeping ban currently, and last night she broke her all-time record for middle-of-the-night wake-ups, coming in at a whopping THIRTEEN separate incidents between the hours of 10:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m. At one point, I found myself lying there in the darkness next to Sifu, staring at the ceiling, wondering if the burning in my eyes could actually ignite the top of my house and burn through the sky into the atmosphere, causing a planetary inferno not unlike the Big Bang. I asked Sifu what we were going to do about this, and he said, “I am going to go sleep in the car.”
He didn’t, though. He loves me enough to stay and suffer in shitty, agonizing misery with me. That’s what marriage is.
We do have good times together, though. And yesterday, before the horror of last night’s sleeplessly setting the sky on fire, we had a good time in the form of Sunday Dinner. It was a small gathering this week following the huge dago gorge-fest of Thanksgiving on Thursday. Just me, Sifu, his mother, my grandfather, and Little13.
Mid-way through dinner, SIfu excused himself to the restroom.
"I am going to be a while," said Sifu. His mother’s subsequent eye-roll caused almost as much damage to the ceiling as my burning pupils would later that night.
He did not lie. He was gone a while. But after a time, the bathroom door opened a crack, and Sifu was heard shouting, excitedly, from within.
"Rev. Back It On Up, come quick!" said my beloved. "I have to show you this!"
"Oh my god," said his mother.
"Who is that?" asked my grandfather.
Little13 danced in her chair.
"Get in here right away, this won’t wait!" roared Sifu.
"I’m not coming in there," said I.
"I can’t believe this," said my mother-in-law. "Why is he doing this, my god."
"GET IN HERE!", Sifu howled. "Emergency!"
"I won’t," I warned him. I was not going in there.
Of course, when I married this man, I swore in front of God and everybody that I would have his back in all things, and from the sound of it, my spiritual vow was hanging in the balance as I left him unsupported in the commode.
Against all my instincts and the shrieking of my internal danger alarm, I went in there.
"Oh my god," my mother in law repeated, helpfully.
In the bathroom, I found Sifu excitedly hopping from foot to foot.
"Look at this puddle of water on the sink," he said to me. "Doesn’t it look just like Bullwinkle’s head?"
When you have made a vow, like the one I made to Sifu on the altar a thousand billion years ago, long before he hugged me very hard in the dark and smashed a sleep-stealing, face-licking, chair dancing mutant into my womb, long before Sunday dinners, when the sleepless nights were still from over-enthusiastic partying and my kitchen cabinets did not contain quite so many pureed prunes, long before I looked like this, or felt like this, when you have made a vow like that, sometimes you find yourself immersed so deeply into a psychotic run-on sentence that there is literally no way out without destroying the concept.
The point is, he is the Bullwinkle head shaped puddle to my sky-burning 3:00 A.M. Rocky, and if I have to stare at the ceiling all night or go into a questionable bathroom situation to appease him, I’ll do it. It may not be the traditional definition of romance, but I gotta be me.
I’ve taken a bit of a break from Simian Idiot lately - not because I have nothing to say, far from it, but because the Tumblr interface has become such a royal pain in my ass that I cringe at the thought of dealing with it, so most of my brilliance goes unspoken, disappearing into the void like a fart in the wind. The world’s loss.
But today, I am taking a break from cooking thanksgiving dinner, because first of all, mincing garlic is the most egregiously dull kitchen task known to man, and I was born to a clan of natural garlic eaters, so everything I will be serving today is to be soaked in the stuff, and I needed to step away for a few minutes. There’s also the fact that I’m operating on less than three hours of non-consecutive sleep, due to Little13’s record breaking night of horrors. Eight wake-ups between 11:45 p.m. and 4:30 a.m., all for such emergencies as the urgent need for .0003 ounces of water, or a shift in position .0001 inches to the left. Sifu and I are exhausted.
That’s not to say we have nothing to be thankful for today, of course. Those of us who are surrounded by family and friends on this special day have that to be grateful for, and those who are not can perhaps take some solace in the quiet.
But quiet can be overrated, and thus we have today’s Big Boss of the Day.
You may not be familiar with Barbara Gibb by name, but you should be, because this woman launched forth into the world from her blessed loins, the BROTHERS GIBB.
Stand the fuck back, y’all:
And also Andy.
The Bee Gees, of course, are Simian Idiot GODS. I was on the bus yesterday, and I’m not bragging here but I think I was probably the only person on that whole bus who was listening to the Bee Gees Greatest Hits. When I encountered this classic:
I just about lost my shit. Because there, on a bus full of exhausted, plump commuters, I was experiencing PURE AUDIO SEX. It was like the Gibbs themselves were reaching their tongues through my earbuds and licking the insides of my head. How deep is my love? It’s fuckin’ deep enough, motherfuckers.
And so today, I give thanks for the only woman on earth whose squirty ooze was potent enough to mould into these men, these fucking GIBBS, so that I could sit next to a 400 pound man reading a newspaper, my ass crammed into a quarter of my rightful seat, my face hovering dangerously close to the window which was glistening with the grease of a thousand strangers’ cheeks, and still feel like I was a missionary from Planet Erotic.
Congratulations, Barbara Gibb, you are the Big Boss of the Day, and of every day. Your progeny might not be Jesus, but they glow with His light, and even the son of God couldn’t pull off skin tight gold lame ass pants.
It’s Saturday morning. We’re having a good time, jumping watching this cartoon about a Chinese koala.
Koala invites his buddies to his house, to show them where he puts his fruit. Bear with me on this, because while that isn’t the kind of thing humans would do, koalas live by a different code.
He shows them his fruit shelves, and again, suspend your disbelief about dedicated shelves for specific fruit types, because while it may not seem logical to you, to ME, it’s a perfectly normal way to store produce.
Each shelf has a picture of fruit over it - apples, bananas, and pineapples. This is what the bears eat in China.
"Look!" says the Chinese koala, to his friend Tiger. "I put the apples on the shelf for apples!"
Tiger is impressed. “Can I try?”
At this point, I start to feel my OCD empathy bubbling up, because I know the shit is about to hit the fan. Koala, you are in for something now. Hesitantly, but with a tone of optimism, he hands the pineapple to Tiger. “Sure!”
And Tiger, that disharmonious agent of discord, puts the fucking thing right under the picture of bananas. “I did it!” he proudly declares.
The face Chinese koala makes is agonizing. You can almost hear him gritting his little cartoon teeth. He is DESPERATE to put that pineapple on the correct shelf, but he doesn’t want to offend his stupid friend. AWKWARD.
A bunch of other shit takes place after that, including the inconsiderate fucking Tiger tearing the koala’s favorite painting and then botching the repair job. Look. Shit happens. But time after time, the Koala forgives the Tiger, until he can’t take it anymore. And that is the theme of this episode. Forgiveness.
Of course they resolve their conflict, and everyone sings a song:
“When someone’s really sorry, Just say, IT’S OKAY, SO THEY DON’T FEEL BAD!”
It’s not a very complicated concept, and it wasn’t a very well composed song, but the message is loud and clear. Just repress your feelings so that bozo Tiger can shit all over your life, repeatedly, forever.
This is why I am not a script writer for children’s television.
You put the fruit on the wrong shelf in MY cartoon universe, you are going to be plucking Koala claws out of your eye sockets.
I read blogs so I can catch up on strangers’ nervous breakdowns, and enjoy them vicariously.
There is nothing quite so satisfying as watching someone you’ll never meet, having a mental meltdown many miles away. Actually that’s not true - many things are more satisfying, but I’m not allowed to enjoy any of those things.
1. Sleep has been elusive this week, as Little13 struggles with some developmental and digestive breakthroughs, resulting in 90 minute screamathons starting at 3:00 A.M. and ending just close enough to the blare of my alarm clock to render getting back to sleep a cruel and pointless joke.
2. My beetus is all over the place right now as I adjust my FOUR FUCKING DAILY INJECTIONS of WINsulin to accommodate my faulty carcass’s alien biology and its massively inconvenient inability to not be allergic to god damned sustenance. This means striking, short-term variations between shocking blood sugar highs followed by disastrous crashes, resulting in a peculiar relationship with food wherein I am alternately starving myself to death and urgently cramming cookies into my face in an effort to avoid passing out.
3. Too tired to bone.
I guess what I’m getting at is, God is cruel. God, who formed you and me in His own image presents each of us, when we are bodiless spirits floating freely in the primordial sludge, with a grab bag of maladies, imbalances, and issues, into which we reach our grasping, spiritual arms and scoop up, at random, a bunch of unsavory and unwanted garbage. “Hey! Here’s a crippling phobia of needles! And while you’re at it, let’s also have a disease where you need to get shots all the time! Peace be with you.” Shit.
Remember that thing about watching bloggers have breakdowns? This is mine. I’m doing it with as much elegance as I can muster.
I recently found myself at an electrolysis salon with a co-w*rker of mine, while she scheduled an appointment to have her crotch hairs lasered out. I swear I am not making this up.
That’s the kind of bananas world I’m living in right now, where I can end up face to face with full-brain awareness of my colleague’s pubes - their existence, her wish to be free of them, her future of smoothness - all while surrounded by the smell of burning hair. Life takes me on an awkward journey sometimes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way, because I revel in awkwardness. I wear it like a cape and crown.
I am approaching The Point.
You know how sometimes, things just build up and build up, until you find yourself shaking a fist at the sky, Basil Fawlty-style, and demanding that the creator of the universe appear bearing an explanation for why the unrelenting stormcloud of shit continues hovering over your life, raining an endless torrent of nonsense onto your head? When will enough be enough?
This morning, as I got ready for w*rk, my red-rimmed eyes glazed over from lack of sleep, my mind on a million things including my grandfather, who, after many years of being a total badass, injured his hand while adjusting the blinds in his living room just in time for my dad to go on vacation leaving me the one and only relative within fifty miles, to take care of him along with every other thing I have to do, my entire head throbbing like a UFC match was underway within the confines of my skull, I was surprised by the presence of a weinerdog in the kitchen. A weinerdog who should not have been in the kitchen, because she should have been in my bedroom, trapped on the bed which is far too high for her to jump off of.
I barged in on SIfu who was taking a shower.
BIOU: “Sifu, did you let this weinerdog off the bed?”
Sifu: “No I did not.”
BIOU: “That’s strange. She must have jumped down.”
Sifu: “Maybe she was running away from something. Does she look guilty?”
Sifu: “I hope she didn’t shit all over the bed.”
You know, breakdowns come and breakdowns go. What am I going to do about it, that’s what I’d like to know. Into every life a little shit must fall, but sometimes the straw that breaks the camels back is just that - a little shit, in JUST the wrong place.
I stripped the bed, boiled the mattress, burned the sheets, gave the dog the finger, and got dressed for w*rk, ready to face the day knowing that this was only the beginning, and confident in the knowledge that if anyone could have a minor nervous breakdown on the internet, it’s me. I’m the best at something, god damn it, and that’s more than some people can say.