September 17, 2014
Let’s Learn Parenting: Unhappy Meal, Part #3290825

Picture it!
The local McDonalds hamburger-style meat-product patty on bread-like slabs emporium!  Chemical cheez spread!  Shakes so thick you can rupture a blood vessel in your head trying to suck one through a straw.  Under the elevated train tracks, so you can enjoy the soft thwacks of pigeon parts raining down on the hoods of cars parked underneath.  The local hamburger stand, in quaint, Norman Rockwell style, I shall paint you in words. 
Where I was once solicited by a prostitute wearing metallic silver short-shorts…
Where I once saw an apathetic 16 year old girl abandon her post taking orders at the drive through window to fight off a wild-eyed, intoxicated homeless guy with a broom because he was trying to grab the change she was handing to the customers…
Where ketchup and napkins cost extra, and you have to ask for them…
Where you can (I am told) buy reasonably priced narcotics in the parking lot…
Where Sifu and I were approached by a disheveled man asking for food, who, upon discovering that the bag we handed him was full of hamburgers from that very McDonalds, emitted a string of obscenities appropriate only if we had handed him a bag filled with dead guinea pigs and excrement and then grudgingly ate the hamburgers…
The local McDonalds with its tall, glowing sign advertising the specials of the day, which reads:
I realize that children don’t earn a lot of money and are often restricted to a relatively small food budget, but 2:00 A.M. is too late for children to be driving around, eating McDonalds!  If your children are hungry in the middle of the night, teach them how to use the stove so they can cook themselves something healthy.
You have learned parenting.  Go in peace.

September 16, 2014
Astonishin​g Shit You Can Buy: Much, Much More!

According to the description, this is “more than a nut milk bag”.
I’m not going to make any jokes about nut milk.  Or nut bags.  Or Milk bags.  I’m too mature for that!  I am thirty-seven years old!  Shame on you!  I’m going to let those foolhardy childish observations go completely, 100% unmade.
I am going to say that this nut milk bag is perfect for making Greek yogurt if you are into that kind of thing
And I am going to say that I am unable to view this nut milk bag, which is so much more than just that, without hearing this song

It takes a special kind of nut sack to bring the Gibbs to the forefront of my mind for the fiftieth time today, and so in honor of this product, let’s take a walk down memory lane together, to a simpler time on Simian Idiot, when nuts were important because they helped us hate our fellow man.
Buy this nut milk bag for only ten bones or clams or whatever you call them, and enjoy using it to milk your nuts.  But don’t tell me too much about it.  I don’t want to know.

September 15, 2014
Mastermind​s of Marketing! Feast & Famine

It is said that no matter what it is you do, there will always be someone better, faster, stronger, and just generally more at it than you.  Just as there will always be someone worse, slower, weaker and less.  It is rare that we ever find ourselves at the absolute top or bottom in our field, so we might as well just do what we enjoy, and do it to the best of our ability, and not compare ourselves too much to others, for this robs us of the beauty of life.
Unless we are the social media marketing department of various enormous corporations, in which case it can be said with little doubt that we are the MOST out of touch, the MOST tone deaf, the absolute and utter LEAST capable of relating to the real life needs and attitudes of human beings of earth. 
Every one of these ads, or “sponsored posts”, that you see on various social media outlets appears to have been written by a giant, sluglike alien from outer space who JUST YESTERDAY touched down on earth, strangled a tie around his thick, mucousy gilled neck, walked into an ad agency and took a job selling miscellaneous every day objects on the internet without doing so much as ten minutes of research on human behavioral patterns. 
You can literally hear him gurgling as you read these ads. “Gluuuuh, sandwiches, yes?  The humans like to eat these things, is it correct to say so?  And, uuuuuurgh, what about the TOILET PAPER.  They enjoy this, do they?  Put these things together and you has big success marketing ad with earth people, I think!”
So let’s explore this shit in an ongoing series entitled MASTERMINDS OF MARKETING.  Today we will celebrate Subway Sandwiches.  Subway:  Eat Shit!
Let’s start by observing how Subway’s trained alien has employed one of my worst marketing peeves:  The Not Clever Made Up Word.  Subway is a repeat offender in this department. 
I’m already pissed off with Lysol about this because no matter how hard they try, “Healthing” is never going to be more a more appropriate word than “cleaning”.  You can’t just take a pleasant noun and use it to replace an onerous verb.  “Glurghlll, the people, they like this ‘health’, I say. But their ‘cleaning’ not so much, yes, yes?  So, for most sales of bleach wipe, RHXLSSLOR think replace ‘clean’ with ‘health’, and people cannot tell and buy million bleach wipe!  Clean toilet every morning after quaff bean juice sweetened with chemical packet!  RHXLSSLOR will be salesalien of month!”  Fuck you, RHXLSSLOR.  Stop trying to make healthing happen.  It’s not going to happen. 
But, stupid fake language aside (“Subprise”?) we are now faced with willingly suspending our disbelief to inhabit an alien universe in which suddenly receiving unexpected Subway sandwiches is cause for celebration.  Have you ever had a Subway sandwich?  If you are on the verge of starvation, I will allow that a Subway sandwich constitutes a feast, but let us not forget that their ad campaign for years centered around the fact that a once very overweight man managed to wither down to a more reasonable size by SUBSISTING on their horrible aerated bread and molecule thin meat product slices.  
Nearly eleven thousand unique human entities viewed this ad and were moved to overcome their finger’s inertia to “like” this.  “Yes,” I imagine they said. “Subway sandwiches ARE cause for joy.  I and three friends could sit around a picnic table and look at each other and eat them.  I wish I had three friends who would willingly be with me.”
Then again, there is a lot to be said about body language.  Let’s observe these four hypothetical Subway consumers.
They are calmly sitting, faceless, emotionless, staring down at their untouched sandwiches.  Not one bite has been taken.
How long have they been sitting there?
The one cookie in the center of the table, gazing up like the eye of Sauron.  Four friends, four horrible sandwiches.  Two drinks.  One cookie.  What we’re looking at here is not a picnic. 
It is a standoff.
Well played, Subway marketing alien.  

September 12, 2014
Let’s Learn Science: Love Hurts

A few months ago, there was a recall on the beef used in Hot Pockets.
Putting aside the obviously questionable culinary standards of the average Hot Pockets eater, we must consider the following:  once it was determined that the beef in these nasty pastry meat pustules was not just unappealing, but actually unsafe, Hot Pockets continued to sell in my supermarket and they are STILL THERE TO THIS DAY. 
Consider the scandals that have brought down many a celebrity.  All Paul Rubens ever did was tug his weiner in a perfectly appropriate weiner-tugging venue, and yet even now, years later, the mention of his name brings about sexy, scandalized blushes.  Well maybe not literally, but still.  If you mention him, people think about jerking it.  Fact. 
To keep this on theme with the food element, Barilla pasta has been in the clearance section of my supermarket for ages, ever since President Pasta Barilla, the monarch of Italy, declared that he didn’t want gay people slurping his noodles.  They never recovered from that bad press, as it should be.  More power to Ronzoni, The Macaroni Gay People Proudly Devour, mother fuckers.
(This is what you get when you do a google image search for “Ronzoni Ranibow.  Close enough!)
Yet Hot Pockets were able to pull out of the swamp of scandal and move on, and they continue to offend the palates of thousands of people who don’t know any better day after day, with their strange ham chunks swimming in “cheese” sauce effluvium, enrobed in a crust of moistened newspaper shreddings.  It is as if people were willing to make the distinction and say, “Well, sure, THOSE SPECIFIC Hot Pockets might turn me into a diarrhea volcano, but these OTHER ONES won’t do anything worse than fill my organs with vaporized plastic molecules and whipped pig cock.”  What gives with this illogical thinking.  I do not understand.
There is a lid for every pot, as a crazy lonely person I used to know once said. In the context of her statement, this was meant to suggest that no matter how rude, ugly, and unappealing a human being (her) may be, someone (equally horrifying) out there is just right for them.  But we can expand this philosophy to cover other pairings as well.  There is a lid for every pot, and there is a substandard, unappetizing meal for every hunger. 
Someone, or in this case, many someones, KNEW that the makers of Hot Pockets, in addition to being sociopaths, were also willing to take a risk on selling sketchy beef, and they just didn’t care.  They had to get that vile meat pudding in a bread pouch into them, no matter the cost.  The flesh clump lust was strong, and the satisfaction was worth the suffering.
Let’s talk about cat dicks.
I will never be a “cat person”. 
I have gone over this and over this with my “cat person” friends, and whereas their hearts are warm and open and contain boundless waves of love and tolerance, I myself prefer not to have countertops flecked with poop morsels from between the toes of an animal that shits in a box in my house and then lovingly bats at my face while I sleep with its turd feet.  And while the lower six inches of my house are fair game for dog boogers, everything above that point is well out of the weinerdog’s reach, so I can lick virtually any fixture in my house with relatively strong confidence that I’m not eating her emissions.  I don’t do this though.
There is a gentleman named Tommy who lives in my neighborhood, who is prone to wearing threadbare undershirts as outershirts and what can only be described as “scrotehugger short shorts”.  He is tall and lanky, middle 50’s, with long, pasty legs that hang from the leg holes of his IMPOSSIBLY SHORT SHORTS, so that anyone with even a passing interest can scope a hearty eyeful of the hairs on his body that are possibly leg hairs but also possibly pubes.  Tommy parks his ancient car on the street and routinely fills it with garbage, and I’m not being judgmental about it - this stuff is literally trash.  He keeps it in his car so he can get to it when he’s out and about, I assume.  He doesn’t drive the car.  If he would get in the car, you wouldn’t be able to see his pubic mound quite so thoroughly as he goes to and fro.  Fucking Tommy.
He also loves cats.  And his cats all love each other.  A lot.
His house can no longer contain the volume of cats his existing cats have lovingly produced in tender moments in the middle of the god damned night, so they roam free throughout the streets of my peaceful burg, not doing anything about the rats and romancing each other, loudly, and vigorously.  They sure make a lot of racket when they screw. 
This is because cats have very sharp peens.  See also Goran Arnqvist, who does not have a sharp wang himself (I’m guessing) but famously studied this phenomenon in bugs. 
Now why would cats have spikes on their love muscles?  And given that they do, and how few of the cats out there in my neighborhood at least are virgins, why do they continue to get busy? 
In part it is to make more cats, because we sure do need that alright.
But in larger part, it is because cat love is like Hot Pockets.
They know they’re going to suffer for it.  They’ve been around the block before.  Literally, I could hear them when I lived in my old apartment around the block.  These cats are not novices in the way of amore.  They understand that there will be pain.
But they keep coming back for it.  Like a hungry man staring into the freezer at a snow-covered box of old Hot Pockets. 
He doesn’t know the serial numbers affected by the recall, and while on some level he cares just a bit, the primal need outweighs the logical brain’s frantic urgings:  “Do not put that thing in your mouth.”  In the end, the savory flavor always wins.
Hot Pockets.  Cat schlong.  Love hurts, friends.  Get to enjoy the pain or live a life devoid of the prospect of joy.
You have learned Science.  Go in peace.

September 10, 2014
Sweet Jane

Every so often - and it’s rare enough indeed - I find myself connecting with a human being, who, like me, is adrift in a universe full of fools and annoyances, but who, unlike those fools and annoyances, somehow, without ever having met me, causes me to create the world’s longest run on sentence. 
Which is not what I meant to say, exactly.  What I meant to say is that every so often I find myself connecting with someone who gets me, and even though this planet has held life, both intelligent and otherwise, for nearly dozens of years, until recent advances in technology, there would be no cause for my friend Wavie and I to run into each other in any earthly context.  We live in different states, we do not interact professionally, we do not move in the same physical social circles.  But because of the internet, I was fortunate enough to “meet” Wavie, and also because of the internet, I was fortunate enough for her to reach out the other day to very deliberately tell me,
"Just wanted you to know about this."
And this was what she linked me to:
That right there is a Mid Century 1950’s Ceramic Clown Candy Dish, and at $12.95 I am JUST BARELY able to keep myself from buying it.  God damn it I want this thing so much.
Now you all know how I feel about clown housewares.  Essentially I feel that they add a classy touch to any kind of décor, while also lending an air of cannibalistic horror to the ambiance.  Which can’t be bad.
But what I really love about this clown candy dish, which was absent in my recent study of a clown nightlight that I’m still not comfortable thinking about without a stiff drink first, is that you literally gorge on his sweet, candied entrails. 
You reach into the cavernous pit of his abdomen, scoop up a savage fistful of his succulent guts with your mighty claw, throw back your shark-like head and devour his innards.  All the while, he stares up at you with his frozen mask of horror and his Harpo Marx eyebrows and silently pleads with you, no, no, please do not chew my Mounds.  You are so large and I so small, please, please do not sink your teeth into my viscera.  My how the tables have turned, my terrifying little friend.  And all he can do is look at you like this:

Yes.  Yes.  Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.
Thank you Wavie.  Even if I don’t buy this thing (which I am struggling to restrain my finger from clicking the thing to do because I KNOW that a few months from now I’m going to be sitting alone in a darkened room, staring face to face with this thing and asking myself difficult questions about how susceptible I am), this entire thing has been very therapeutic.
In the sense that I now accept that i need therapy. 

September 9, 2014
Astonishin​g Shit You Can Buy: Hot Pads!

Weinerdog is getting on in years. 
At 15 years of age, she is officially in Methuselah territory as far as weinerdogs go.  I struggle every day to cope with the dueling emotions within me - the first is a vast and deep and bottomless ocean of appreciation and loyalty to my elderly, long-term friend, who has slept by my side in sickness and in health, and faithfully cleaned up every morsel of food I ever dropped on the floor, and lovingly soaked my shoes with urine expelled out of sheer joy at my return home from a lengthy trip out to the curb with the garbage bags.  The second is that I’m getting kind of tired of getting puked on while I’m sleeping in my bed, because Weinerdog is not fussy about what kind of food she steals, and sometimes that food is stuff she finds on the lawn, or in the garbage.
Let me back up a bit.  Although Weinerdog is ancient, she still has that zest for life that causes her to rocket out of her skinbag every time she sees me unwrap a cheese slice from the fridge.  But, she’s completely deaf, almost completely blind, largely incontinent, often arthritic, and also a little bit aggressive and hostile toward people she doesn’t know well.  When she’s not being super cute and lovable, she’s shitting all over my dining room or stealing garbage and then getting sick from it, or tripping me or waking me up or peeing on something or sneezing four inch snot rockets onto my bookshelves.  It’s not easy loving something.
But she was young once, and in her youth, she was subject to the curse all female mammals must bear.  Namely, she’d get her period all over the house, my bed, and my arm. 
It’s actually never been easy, loving her.
Those days are beyond her now - she is firmly in the menopause stage of life.  That is why I found it so amusing when Amazon, purveyor of all sorts of fine waste catching products, recommended that I might like to buy some maxi pads for her:
Even in her old age, there is no way she’d stand for me strapping her into a diaper, and this is the dog who once endured a pig costume for my amusement.  The product description says it’s also good for “minor” incontinence, but where incontinence is concerned, who is to say what is minor and what is not?  I consider ANY incontinence to be a fairly major event.  Luckily, these also contain “moist lock”.  Hooray for that.
In case you are wondering, and rightly so, how you are supposed to stick these things to your dog’s applicable area, you can buy a little diaper cover to go over it. 

SpongeBob never looked so appropriately horrified, as if he knows he is wrapped around a dog’s ass, soaking up period.  SpongeBlood ScarePants.   Take THAT, Swype. 
Hot Pads are currently 70% off on Amazon, so stock up now because you don’t want to be caught shorthanded when the flow starts, friends.  Here’s what former Big Boss of the Day James Brown has to say on this subject.  Good gaw.

September 8, 2014
Let’s Learn Parenting: And that’s the news of the week!

My laptop is still acting kind of weird.  It’s no longer doing that thing where it won’t scroll, but it’s giving me a seriously hard time with certain things, and the main one is that Tumblr is acting up so that I can’t post certain photos, even though I can’t tell how they differ from photos that I can post.  It’s all getting very annoying.  The “Drafts” folder has 16 things in it that I can’t share with you.  I’m starting to get kind of angsty about it.  But I’m not going to let this keep me down! 

In any event, we all have our problems, but none of us so much as parents in California who, in addition to facing such past and present parenting horrors as earthquakes, random things bursting into flames, smog, palm trees, bridges, beaches, and Richard Ramirez, now have this one fucking random cobra snake to contend with.
The search is on, warns this headline, but honestly, is anybody really looking?  Snakes can get into all sorts of places.  Unless the California Snake Patrol is checking under every toilet lid on the west coast, chances are they are not gonna find that snake.
As a resident of the beautiful Bronx, I feel that I am in a unique position to offer some reassurance on the subject of escaped snakes.  Let’s cast our memories back to 2011, when the Bronx Zoo misplaced an Egyptian Cobra as though it were as simple an error as when Thomas mislaid His Lordship’s evening shirts.  This controversial snake situation left the entire eastern seaboard trembling in terror, and people didn’t leave their houses for weeks.  Just kidding.  Life went on as normal until they “found” “the” “snake”, and not some totally different snake strawman, prosecuted for a cleverer snake’s crimes. 
Once “The” “Snake” was located, the entire Bronx lined up to punch it in its stupid escaping face.  Just kidding again.  The Bronx does not condone snake abuse.  Not since the now defunct Globe Theater for Adult Films closed down many a decade ago has a snake been mercilessly pummeled in my home borough.  Count on that.
But California parents are presumably more progressive in terms of safety, with straps to keep their bookshelves from falling off the walls and smashing their children to paste when the earth rumbles, and helmets to keep their children from bumping their heads when they jump up out of their tanning beds.  So these safety minded parents are now warning their children to keep away from dark holes, according to this article.
Allow me to play devil’s advocate here for a moment as I inquire how California parents had been handling their children around dark holes BEFORE the DEADLY COBRA got loose?  “Go play near that dark hole, Epiphany,” they said, pausing to flick their long, naturally golden cornsilk hair out of their gluten free eyes.  “You too, Juniper.  Get in that black hole at once, so you can creatively explore and Montessori learn all about the textural dimensions of dark holes.  Grab little Eucharist and Galileo and get in that dark hole and learn!”
NO, California parents.  Children should NEVER get into dark holes, even when there are probably no snakes in them!  Many dark holes STILL contain Richard Ramirez!
If you want your children to learn in a mind-expanding and holistic way, you need to let them open up a Great Dane to find out what surprises lurk within.  I can’t believe I have to even tell you this.
You have learned parenting.  Go in peace. 

September 2, 2014
Poem for Dogs on Drugs

My laptop started doing this peculiar thing yesterday, the likes of which I’ve never seen.

To put it in layman’s terms, which are the only terms I contain, no matter how much text is in a given window, I can only scroll down to see about…120% of my screen.  

So if I have a big wall of text, like the kind of shit I paste into these blog posts, I can only post a fraction of it before my computer starts using its better judgment and taking control of the situation for me.  It is as if technology has stepped in to say, “Hey Rev., last week you wrote two lengthy posts about the time a doctor encouraged you to fart, and about another time when you had a mid-coital tantrum over a fictitious stripper named after a tropical fruit.  Perhaps you’d better sit this next post out until you’ve had time to think it over.”

Well I don’t need no god damned Jiminy Cricket artificial conscience, I’m doing just fine on my own!  Or at least I will be, once I manage to thwart this latest hurdle.  

In the meantime, until such time as I am able to figure out what the fuck is going on, I will have to write my posts on the fly.  No spellcheck, baby, sexy!  No proofreading.  Flying by the seat of my pants.  You see, normally, I write all this shit out and then paste it into Tumblr, because Tumblr has a hilarious habit of shutting itself down after I’ve composed something magnificent in it.  But I can’t do that now.  So I’ll have to make it up as I go.  And that means only one thing:  Poetry.

So until I resolve my issues (“TECH SUPPORT!  LIFE EXTENSION!  SEND TILDA SWINTON AND TOM CRUISE!”) I will be taking requests for one poem per day.  Send your request to me at simianidiot at gmail dot com, or one of the other myriad ways you already know of reaching me, and every day I’ll pick some jackass and write an ode to them.

Today that jackass is Dogs on Drugs!  Let’s do this shit.

Hoofprints: A Poem for Dogs on Drugs

One night, I dreamed I was walking along the Atlantic City boardwalk with Dogs on Drugs
Many scenes from my life flashed by!

Such as the time I was seven years old, and Michelle across the street told me she hadn’t stolen my My Little Pony seahorse, but the next day she had the same one, and when I asked her if it was mine she said it was just a coincidence, but I saw the little scratch on the tail that I knew marked that bitch as guilty, so I stole it back.

Or the time my friend in high school
Accused me of flirting with her boyfriend
And I didn’t know how to tell her politely that her gross boyfriend was so unappealing to me that she was welcome to him until the end of time as far as I was concerned, so I told her bluntly, just like that, and she cried.

Or that time in college when my friend demanded that I “get her high”, so I rolled her an oregano joint and let her smoke it, and sat back and watched as she got completely stoned, from smoking cooking spices, and jumped up and down on my bed so aggressively that she broke my alarm clock, because she was “wasted”,

Or the time I accidentally dumped an entire quart of boiling hot clam chowder on my boss’s lap, and she sent me out to buy new pants for her, and while she was sitting there in her office with no pants on, our regional supervisor came into the office and asked if I knew where he could find her, and I said, “Yeah, she’s in her office, just go on in…”

During all these times there were two sets of footprints.

But when I was volunteering at the nursing home, or helping a friend with her sick parents, or helping another friend escape from her emotionally abusive boyfriend, or that time I saved a baby bird that had fallen out of a tree,

Or the many nights I sat up with sick children, or the times I was a shoulder to cry on for a friend in need, or the times I visited with the mentally ill, and listened to their grievances with as much patience as my flawed soul could muster,

Or the times I took on more than I could handle, to ease the burdens of someone I loved,

At that time, there was only one set of footprints.  And this troubled me.

So I said to Dogs on Drugs, “You promised me that if I walked with you, that in times of trouble I would never walk alone, and yet when I was selfless and giving, there was only one set of footprints in the sand.  Where were you then?”

And Dogs on Drugs said to me, “It was then that you were a fucking bummer to me.”


August 29, 2014
A Poem for Steve

Steve is the big winner of the Third Person to Ask for a Minimum of Five Lines Poem contest!

So let’s give it up for Steve.  Here we go.

Ode to Steve

You’d better believe in Steve
Because life is a trivia show
And when the category is “History of the Simpsons”
Steve is the one in the know

Your bets are all hinged on Steve
He’s your life and the air that you breathe
He’s the bees and the birds and spins tales in ten words
What some jerks take a thousand to weave

Cleave and receive dearest Steve
For if he should happen to leave
You’d grieve and bereave what you could not conceive
With your heart torn apart on your sleeve

What I’m saying today, In a sense
Is that my awe of Steve is immense
You may call me naive
But you can go shit in the ocean, basically, because Steve is as cool as shit.

Thank you.

August 29, 2014
Oh Coconuts

Not too long ago, I was telling Sifu about how I think of my maternal grandmother whenever I eat port wine cheddar.

She used to enjoy baseball games with Budweiser (bleck), Ritz crackers, and port wine cheese from a red plastic tub.  If she wanted to class it up a bit, she’d get those nut logs where the little nut crumbs are all soggy and chewy.  It’s an odd thing to make me think of her, since overall she was a pretty swanky lady but she had her preferences and for whatever reason, this is what imprinted on me.  Port wine nut logs, Ritz, shitty beer, and grandmotherly love.

Around Christmas eve a few years later, we went to a family party at my aunt’s house, and there on the table was a slab of port wine nut roll.  Sifu made a comment about grandma, and all eyes were on him.  ”How did you know about that?” someone asked.  ”BIOU told me.  It’s one of her fond memories of grandma.”  And to my surprise, it was one of many peoples’ fond memories of her, and the cheese present that evening was a quiet, cheesy tribute to her, and a totem for her absence.

Imagine that.  You can never tell what it is about you that’s going to leave a mark on the people you love.


In a recent post, we delved a bit into the scandalous side of a seemingly innocent teevee character, and frankly it was more fun than it should have been to bastardize something so innocent and pure so you can bet we’ll be seeing more of that in the near future.  

I have plenty to work with, too, because we’re not too rigid about screen time in our house.  Little13 takes very little interest in watching it with any intensity, preferring to run about dismantling furniture and rocking out with her blocks out, but the teevee is usually on in the background, broadcasting its bullshit.  When she hears a song coming out of it, she’ll run to the living room, dance her ass off, and then run back to whatever she was doing before.  

When I was a kid, though, we had cousins who weren’t allowed to watch teevee at home, and they were weird.  Whenever they came to visit us during summer vacation, first of all they had never heard of anything.  So when my brother and I started singing the Toast-R-Cakes jingle:

they would stare at us with their dopey blank faces because people who grow up in wholesome, educational households that don’t allow teevee also tend not to be allowed to eat Toast-R-Cakes, and SECONDLY:

YOU JUST TRY prying those little addicts away from OUR teevee.  We’d want to go out and play and they’d be parked in front of our big television, eyes as big as Toast-R-Cakes, sucking down a whole childhood’s worth of cultural detritus so that when they finally went back to school they wouldn’t be like a pack of idiot space aliens who thought Lion-O was a fucking brand of toy train.  

Just kidding, they were homeschooled.  They’re cool as shit now but back then, Christ, what a bunch of wierdies.

So we don’t really pay too much attention to the teevee at home now, either to promote its use or to forbid it, relegating it to Chief Wiggum’s Forbidden Closet of Mystery status, which incidentally is a reference that those goofball no teevee kids will never understand until they’re old enough to run away from their psycho, head in the sand idealist parents and buy a teevee they can live in front of.

All this is a brief way of introducing you to the fact that I am familiar with a show called Jake and the Neverland Pirates, which is about a bunch of kid pirates who hang out with a couple of adult guys who are missing teeth, and spend time alone on a boat with them.  Totally ordinary stuff.  And when they wish to say an expletive, as pirates do, they say:  ”Oh coconuts!”



Many years ago, when Sifu and I were dating, which is what you call people who live together and have sexual intercourse but are not legally bound to share their stuff with each other, I experimented with a new brand of shampoo.

This particular product was imbued with tropical fragrances designed to give me the air of a nubile Hawaiian maiden and I had been using it for a few days without feeling particularly nubile until one evening when Sifu approached me seductively to report that it was time to get busy.  So we did.

It was in the midst of these intimate moments that Sifu whispered an odd thing into my face.  He seemed to go to a far-off place and mumbled, “Oh, coconut…”

I do not know that there was literally a needle scratch, but I do recall getting decidedly out of the mood at that precise moment when asking him, “Who the fuck is coconut?”

Sifu:  ”Your hair, dummy.  It smells like coconuts.”

BIOU:  ”Oh.”

Sifu:  ”What did you think?”

BIOU:  ”Some stripper.”

Sifu:  ”Coconut?  Coconut the stripper?”

BIOU:  ”Exotic dancer, whatever.”

I don’t recall if I was able to get back into the rhythm or if I just finished out of a sense of obligation to time already invested, but for a long time, whenever Sifu wanted to break my balls, he’d lean into my ear and moan, “Oh, coconut.”


So that is what I think about whenever Little13 is dancing to the pirate show.  I think about the time, long before she was even a gleam in my ovaries, when I instantly suspected her daddy of paying a stranger named after a fruit to shake her titties at him.

It’s not the kind of thing I’ll ever be able to explain to her, but fortunately, she’ll be able to read this blog after I’m dead.  It’ll be the thing I’m remembered for - the port wine nut log on her Christmas eve table, ever present in the back of her mind somewhere.

May you all have the happiest, sexiest, coconuttiest Labor Day ever, and I’ll see you Tuesday for whatever.

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