I recently purchased a bottle of Sriracha hot sauce. This is not some arcane, little-known hot sauce. It’s the hot sauce of champions. It’s not necessarily the hottest, but it’s pretty hot, and it’s got a unique, enjoyable flavor. I like my food spicy. Lots of people know it and enjoy it. I didn’t think it was a big deal.
Little did I know that my husband, the worldly and well-travelled Sifu, had never, in all his many years, tasted the succulence of the Rooster.
I was at w*rk one day when the call came in. “What’s this stuff in the squirt bottle?”
“The red stuff with the rooster on it?”
“That’s cock sauce. It’s spicy. You can put it on anything.”
He took that advice to heart.
Weeks later, Sriracha is turning up in everything Sifu eats. He’s walking Little13 to the diner every morning to procure egg sandwiches, simply as a vehicle for his beloved Sriracha. He’s squeezing liberal squirts of it into soup. This weekend I made him mac & cheese, an old standby for when he is grouchy with hunger, but he was decidedly “meh” about it until I suggested he dump some Sriracha onto his fat/carb chemical slurry. At which point, his heart soared.
He’s really into Sriracha. My little late bloomer.
Sifu: I’m going to start a church.
Sifu: The Church of Sriracha.
BIOU: There probably already is one. You’re new to this bandwagon. That shit has a dedicated following.
Sifu: I don’t care. I like it. It sounds…eastern.
BIOU: That’s true, and with good reason.
Sifu: If I start the Church of Sriracha, people will think I’m an exotic mystic.
BIOU: You’re right about that. That’s probably exactly what they’ll think.
Sifu: But in fact, I’m just an asshole with a bottle of hot sauce.
The more I think about this, the more convinced I am that all religions are composed of nothing more than various assholes armed with a passionate belief in various bottles of hot sauce. It’s just that the bottles of hot sauce wear different names and faces. Some religions have a bottle of hot sauce that promises an eternity in paradise in exchange for a lifetime of servitude, humility, and austerity. Some people kneel before a bottle of hot sauce that demands blood sacrifice. Some bottles of hot sauce just want you to breed and make more people to worship that particular flavor of hot sauce, because that hot sauce is insecure and finds comfort in numbers.
But one thing they all have in common, is that all religions taste delicious on pizza. Even Hinduism. This is the great unifier of the people.
My intense streak at w*rk is going strong, and I wasn’t going to post anything today, because I wanted to save my mojo for later in the week when morale starts to get low and people need to know more about foreheads and whatever. Plus I had this really unsettling dream last night where I went back to college and had an uncomfortably intimate relationship with my dorm roommate, portrayed in this particular journey through subliminal hell by actress Kat Dennings, who is a person I did not know even HAD a name until I googled her just now. And to figure out her name I had to google Michael Cera. And to figure out HIS name I had to google Jesse Eisenberg. This whole fucking day has been one mild torment after another.
But then my friend Road Rage Kate sent me a link to a product so perfect, I skyrocketed up out of my desk chair as if someone had stuffed a wad of TNT up my butt and it’s not even Sunday so I knew that wasn’t a possibility.
After I finished cleaning ceiling crumbs out of my hair, so forceful was my ejaculation from the confines of my seat into the god damned stratosphere, I returned to earth and reviewed this image, and pondered its implications.
The Big Boss Egg Genie WILL allow you, or someone like you, to cook up to seven - SEVEN! - eggs at a time, to the desired consistency. When your eggs are finished cooking, an alarm will sound, and your inner Pavlovian dog will launch into fits of orgasmic glee at the prospect of consuming up to seven, effortless, steamed, poached ovum cooked the BIG BOSSWAY.
I know I’ve mocked novelty egg cookery devices the past. God forgive me, I was such a fucking moron then. I didn’t know. What once seemed like laziness and an unseemly reliance on highly specific, wasteful small appliances to complete the unnecessary task of cooking an egg onto a throat-puncturing wooden spike now seems like the first step in our species’ evolution to a beautiful future where UP TO SEVEN POACHED EGGS CAN BE IN MY FACE WITHIN MINUTES. Spearing them is optional. I can eat them right out of the stupid contraption.
I don’t know, maybe I’m changing. What will I become? Que sera, sera. I need this fucking thing in my house.
The naming of this product cannot be a coincidence, for, as I am a spiritual person, I do not believe in coincidences. There is no such thing. All paths divulge and rejoin and lead us ever-forward on humanity’s march toward the inevitable, the manifestation of our divinity, the great, glorious, glowing future where chickens will someday squat over our breakfast plates and heave and strain until perfectly cooked, steamed, poached, soft-boiled eggs, WITH toast soldiers, erupt from their backsides into a pool of melted butter. Don’t even get me started on what cows are going to do for us. I hope you like milkshakes (Juge).
The point is, if you rub a magic lamp, and some dumb tricky genie comes wafting out of the spout like a mystical, wish-granting fart, and he does not automatically dispense SEVEN perfectly cooked eggs into your gaping wordhole, don’t bother wishing for more wishes, because that motherfucker is an ambassador from Fraud City. All you need to make your wishes come true is $17.99 and a dream. And even the dream is optional, so please stay out of my life, Kat Dennings.
I have lots of big, epic, mind-blowing, thought-provoking, sexy, stimulating topics on deck for Simian Idiot, but you’re just going to have to take my word for it, because I am too busy to post. Also, I might have accidentally caused my co-w*rkers to think I am pregnant again.
It all started yesterday, when we were called into a mandatory staff meeting to fill us in on an upcoming move to a new temporary location, while our office is renovated to a state of the art facility, maybe even with soap dispensers that work!
The gist was, “while renovations are underway, we are going to be together in very snug quarters. With no desks. We’ll all sit together in a small windowless room, at folding tables. For two months.”
After we all finished high-fiving each other, the reality of two months confined with 29 of my closest, mandatory friends set in .
On our way out of the meeting, I whispered to a friend of mine, “I wonder what the chances are that I can get myself back on maternity leave by then.”
Everyone heard. I backpedaled. “Not that it COULD happen, because I am in no way pregnant enough to make it a possibility. By which I mean I am not pregnant at all.” Apprehensive glances at my abdomen. Uncertain looks (hey!) and unspoken wariness. “Not at all. I only meant that it would be a good time to be gone for a couple of months. Because of the move. But not because of a baby, of which I already have plenty. One! The one you already know about.” Raised eyebrows.
“I’m not having another baby. Probably ever, but definitely not now.”
They don’t believe me. :(
But the point of this lengthy, meaningless anecdote, is that I am way too busy with this big move to post lengthy, meaningless anecdotes. Not even about the lady this morning who gently caressed my butt on Madison Avenue, and when I turned around to cave her face in, looked at me with horror and shame. “I thought you were someone else,” she stammered. Who else? Who else’s butt would you lovingly stroke on a busy street corner?
What kind of world is going on out there?
Too busy to post about a comment I recently received on a very old post about Our Friend, The Blobfish, a post which is approximately two years old, in which a stranger helpfully points out that my science may not be up to snuff. My jaw dropped open and smashed on the floor when I got that comment. Nobody’s ever questioned my Science before. I may not be a marine biologist, Michelle, but I know a thing or two about a thing or two and if fish don’t fuck, how do you explain their constant post-coital glow? Well you know what they say, a stranger’s just a person who hasn’t called you a know-nothing on the internet yet. But when I make a new friend I feel as happy as a flounder in the throes of a four-month orgasm. Will you be my timely release of a colossal fish load, New Friend? Please say yes.
Too fucking busy indeed to be posting about that, or anything at all. So busy, in fact, that I shall have to leave you with a video. Because sometimes a song is all it takes to spread the word of cheer, and joy, and love, and the kind of lifestyle where people just naturally go out drinking with strippers every night.
I guess you probably shouldn’t watch this video, either.
Tomorrow’s another day, Idiots. Will we learn about Religion? Will we learn Scientastic facts? Or will the earth crash into the sun?
Here is something. That fog I was in for months and months, that oppressive and smothering sadness, seems to have…evaporated.
I know what it was, even though I typically choose not to name it. Giving it the name it deserves invalidates what it felt like, because it marks it as imaginary, hormonal, a phase, instead of a very real burden. I know what it was, because it passed, pretty much all at once. I don’t want to think about it anymore, but like all painful things, I am compelled to hold onto it for just a little too long, because I like to think of myself as a shitty person who comes with negative baggage, even when I’m not.
Anyway, I’m fine now. So there’s that.
I don’t recall the circumstances under which I found myself searching Amazon for decorative balls. I was probably laughing about the social plight of some man I know when inspiration struck.
Anyway, if you’re in the market for a sack of useless balls, Amazon has got you covered. And how.
I cannot possibly provide a screenshot that effectively illustrates how prevalent these things are, because I do not have a computer monitor that is fifty feet tall. Suffice to say, people out there are decorating the holy living fuck out of their houses, offices, RVs…with balls.
There are glittery balls, marble balls, disco style balls, naturally weathered balls, wood balls, glass balls…pretty much any kind of ball you want. You can mix it up and get a few different styles if you’re an eclectic, bohemian ball enthusiast. Or you can stick to a monochromatic look if you’re a stoic, colorblind dullard. Let your imagination or lack thereof run wild.
Amazon seems to think they would make a great gift, I guess for that poor soul in your gift-giving circle whose life contains an insufficient ball supply.
“But what do they do?” you’re asking me. And this is a reasonable question.
Well, they’re affordable, for one thing. So there’s that.
And there’s a lot of them. Some of them come with a tray. You could use the tray for hors d’ouerves if you don’t mind probably getting poisoned to death by non-food-safe paints on your servewear. Live on the edge, ball freak. Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life.
You can mix them together for a striking display, or just leave individual balls laying around to stump your houseguests. You can throw them at the dog’s head. You can give them out to trick-or-treaters and admire them on November 1st when you’re cooling off after a four hour marathon of scraping eggs off your front door.
And you can put them in a bowl, and look at them, and dust them forever.
You can’t throw them, because they will shatter, but you can sit quietly and stare at your dish of useless balls. You can sit in your fucking chair and look at them. THAT’S what they do. Don’t ask questions. Buy the balls.
So many products are geared toward helping us achieve a sense of identity, because so many advertisers have made successful careers out of making us feel inadequate. Whatever traits and talents you were born with in life, whatever is good and pure in you, whatever inquisitiveness and genuine interest you may possess is invalidated by the presence of countless unseen others who are better, smarter, and just more than you are. You need to stand out. Buy this t-shirt. You need to make a mark. If you were a car, you could cover yourself with bumper stickers that would tell the world something about you, but you’re NOT a car. You’re not even as good as a car because cars get updated every year and you’re just stupid old boring old you. Last year’s model.
Or…you could be that person. You could be that person…who collects decorative balls. It could be YOUR THING. Fame. Glory. More pussy than you can shake a stick at for the GUY WHO OWNS THE BEST COLLECTION OF THIS.
When you’re dead, everyone who knew you will gather in a room and say, “Look at poor dead Julie, or whatever your name is. Her time on this earth was so brief. She burned like a glorious flame, and she collected those decorative balls,” they will say. “For some reason, she owned many of them.”
“What are we going to do with all those balls?” they will say. “Does anybody want those things?”
“I guess we can give them to Goodwill.”
That fog I was in for all those months has lifted, and this is what was underneath. I hope it is satisfactory, but actually, I don’t really care.
Just so you know, this is all Dogs on Drugs fault. All of it.
It all started about a week ago, when for reasons I am unable to explain, I was watching “Murder, She Wrote”.
I’ve never watched this show. Partly because I don’t THINK I’m part of the targeted demographic for Angela Lansbury vehicles, in that my life contains few to zero instances of support hose, and I’ve never purchased Doans Pills, and I don’t own a hemorrhoid donut. I did once see Peter Frampton in concert but that was an accident. He was the opening act. And he was phenomenal. Don’t you fucking judge me.
The point is, I was watching “Murder, She Wrote”, and it struck me that this sassy old dame was being kind of a colossal bitch to everybody in the show. And since I’d never seen it before, I wasn’t aware whether that was her thing, Miss Lansbury - being a total bitch to everybody and then solving the crime. I’d thought she was more of a sweet Miss Marple type, but here she was being a grade A C word. Did not expect.
I had no choice but to broadcast this fact. And within moments, as he is wont to do with his superpowers of perversion, Dogs on Drugs sent me the following video. Warning: contains a blatantly sexualized Angela Lansbury.
Make no mistake about it - Angela Lansbury creams herself in this video.
Have you watched it? All of it?
Even the tub scene?
Listen. I watched the video, too. Four or five times. Sifu walked in while I was halfway through my third round of this atrocity. As Lansbury’s gonads filled the screen, thinly sheathed in a tarp of pale pink chiffon, or whatever you call that fabric that everything in my grandmother’s closet was made out of, he entered the room. I made no effort to close the window, for I did not want him to suspect I was secretly chatting with Ludacris. Sometimes the truth is far worse than one’s worst imaginings, and this was one of those times. Better to be up front.
Sifu: “What are you looking at? Jesus! What is that?”
BIOU: “That is Angela Lansbury masturbating in a bathtub.”
BIOU: “I wouldn’t lie to you. That’s what I’m viewing here.”
Sifu: “You are so fucked up.”
BIOU: “Get out of here and let me finish.”
Sifu: “Really. You are so…”
BIOU: “I SAID GO.”
The whole thing with Angela Lansbury’s withered love crumpet writhing dryly across my monitor, and the shit with the lotion (god, the lotion) and all the rest of it got me thinking, long and hard. I’ll bet it’s got YOU thinking that way, too. Watch the video again.
But it got me thinking about something you’re probably NOT thinking about, and that is something that I wish I’d thought more about, 8 months ago when my life was still somewhat my own, before a tiny, perfect, beautiful person owned it more completely than anything has ever been owned before.
It got me thinking about self-care.
Not the kind Angela Lansbury provides herself in a tub, with the nozzle positioned just so. The legitimate kind. The kind you can do with children in the house. Fucking Angela Lansbury and her moisturizing cream, I can’t anymore.
You see now that I am the property of a tiny, perfect tyrant, taking care of myself has been bumped just slightly down the totem pole of ENDLESS SHIT I NEED TO DO TODAY AND TOMORROW AND EVERY DAY INTO INFINITY. I can’t avoid filing my taxes on time, but I can put off a pedicure indefinitely. I can’t not take my medicine, but I can delay a long shower. NOT THE KIND SHOWER ANGELA LANSBURY TAKES. The kind regular people take when they just want to feel extra clean. On the outside! The ordinary kind of shower that isn’t featured in an Angela Lansbury sex romp.
So that got me to googling around a little bit, and before I knew it, I was reading an e-book.
The book is called “2,001 Ways to Pamper Yourself”.
That’s a lot of ways.
I’ll bet Angela Lansbury doesn’t know that many ways. She only knows three or four ways. Lotion. Tub. Hands. Horror.
I wish I’d never seen that video.
Once I dove into the swirling cesspool of advice featured in “2,001 Ways to Pamper Yourself”, I could barely breathe. There was no escape.
I’d like to picture the author as some charming old Auntie, clacking out her wisdom onto an old typewriter, gaily festooning each cheerful blurb with a little piece of clip art to emphasize the importance of whimsy in this mixed up, crazy old world.
But all I can picture is Angela Lansbury.
And all I can hear is Barry White.
Let’s just fucking do this.
This advice seems oddly…specific.
If pampering myself requires this level of confining parameters, I’ll never end up in a tub with slow music playing. Plus, raking leaves is something I’d rather let someone else do. And the sky over the Bronx seldom reaches appropriately pampering levels of cobaltness, and the smoke filling the air is seldom from burning wood. Let’s move on.
You are tricky, advice book. What’s that move called, in self-help lingo? The old Go Fuck Yourself? Life’s Little Instruction Jerkoff.
Don’t pull that shit on me again.
Well, okay, that DOES sound indulgent…
I wasn’t worried about this until you mentioned it, but after #64 I am feeling kind of depleted in the field of self-stick notes…
SELF STICK NOTES ARE THE KEY TO DECADENCE.
This book goes on and on. There is so much good advice. 2,001 pieces of it, in fact, because it was so hard to stop after 1,001.
I’m going to feature this advice on a recurring basis, when I feel that we all need a little lift but maybe aren’t quite at the point where we’re ready to retire to the hot tub with our lotion and our “Murder, She Wrote” dvds.
I leave you with this:
Because the key to bliss is complete regression, and it’s the kind of happiness you can easily digest and excrete, while simultaneously looking like a total shambles.
This has been my magnum opus of the week. The tragic part is that nobody made it this far, because half of you got bored before I even got to the point of the post, and the other half committed suicide after the video.
And while we’re at it, it being the direct addressing of issues we are erroneously proclaiming to avoid, let us also not talk about my personal exercise avoidance techniques, and my established history of mocking, in a very juvenile and ineffective fashion, the efforts of those who would seek to help us get in touch with the healthy, active human who dwells within each of our meaty outer flesh sacks.
Let us simply watch the video, feel the rhythm, and embrace our inner prancery as it yearns to break free. Who CARES if people tease us as we prance our way to flat, angular crotch areas? Who really gives a flying fuck at the moon if people mock our coral dress workout blazer, which we got on sale at Talbots, as we dance forward down the roughly hewn garden path of fitness, toward the eager, open barn door of happiness, the reins of energy gripped firmly in our hands, the bit of confidence tearing into our mouths, forcing us ever so brutally into a perpetual grimace of glee?
Sincerity. It’s a quality we value here at Simian Idiot Exercise and Humiliation Labs, and you can’t fit into the tight white pants of acceptance without taking a few trips around the racetrack of disgrace.
Sincerity. She’s got it. I’m still working at it, myself.
Congratulations, horse exercise lady. You’re the Big Boss of the Day. May no-one ever hold you back on the path to self-actualization, dignified self-care, and killer tight buns forever.
I got hit with an uncommonly active first half of the w*rk week, and as such haven’t had time to write. But I’ll be back tomorrow with a Big Boss of the Day, and hopefully, if the end of my week is a little more manageable than the beginning was, a Friday post that I have been chomping at the bit to write. I found something so perfect on the internet, something so remarkably “me”, it’s like the person who created it was thinking of me from afar.
It’ll be a tough one to write because it involves lots of pictures. But I’ll try, I’ll try. We are all going to learn so much together, so take my hand, little ones. We are going to IMPROVE ourselves.
As a token of my fondness, here, have one of the most hilariously named cookies I ever found in the supermarket.
I saw these in the “weird foreign snacks” section of my local market and brought them home as part of this past Sunday dinner’s elaborate dessert spread.
Grandpa: “What are those?”
BIOU: “Those are chocolate starfish.”
Grandpa: “Let me try one of those chocolate starfish.”
BIOU: “Pucker up!”
Grandpa: “What? What are you talking about.”
BIOU: “Nothing! Just chow down on some chocolate starfish.”
Grandpa: “I don’t understand you.”
Nobody does, grandpa.
And in conclusion, because this post is evidence of my excellence in the field of being a two year old, a testimonial.
Sometimes, circumstances align to allow a person to receive encouragement from someone they truly admire and respect. Often this type of thing involves a trusted mentor, clapping one’s back with approval following the flawless execution of a valedictorian speech. Sometimes, one writes a dick-joke heavy blog post and a fellow Internet Humanoid likes it, and unleashes a tidal wave of praise.
“You have passed my grammar check.”
I don’t like to toot my own horn too much by posting feedback like that, but sometimes the extolment makes all the effort of posting butt puns and whatever the hell else I talk about on here worthwhile.
See you tomorrow for a Big Boss of the Day who might not be news to you, but you don’t come here for freshness.