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Roller Derby Enrollment Skyrockets; Tea-Partiers Blame ObamaCare

12 Nov

Before Mary Rocco became “Marilyn MonRoll,” she spent quiet evenings watching Breaking Bad reruns with her boyfriend or chatting with her up-cycling group at local coffee houses. But when Mary saw a hand-written flier for a local roller derby league, the mousy, almost full-time administrative assistant thought it was time to lace up her wheels. “I hadn’t worn them since I dressed up as Rollergirl for Halloween. I wasn’t even sure if I could zip them past my ankles anymore.” Not only could she zip them, but in little time, she found herself zipping around a waxed roller rink with girls who looked like this:

Image

The Boner Crushers recruited SvetLama a.k.a “Roller Serb” from a Ukranian dodgeball league in 2003, when women acting like men was at an all-time high with the hit HBO series Sex and the City.

Mary is one of a thousand of unfeminine women across America who are having bottom surgeries and joining roller-derby leagues. When asked about her inspiration, Mary said, “That Juno girl gave up her baby and then joined a roller derby team. I found it inspiring.”

Mary’s teammate PeTUNA Clark, a gym teacher by day and a defensive jammer by rink, said that she’s been wanting to join roller derby for years, and now can thanks to her new ObamaCare health insurance plan. “Roller Derby is too dangerous of a sport to do without health insurance. Unfortunately, Phy ED teachers are going down all across the country. Not only are our benefits and hours being stripped away, so are our gender identities.” Clark cites ObamaCare as the reason she is able to join a league of women who are so successful at making both men and women equally uncomfortable.

Clark says that before derby, she got most of her pleasure from teaching a basketball unit to freshman girls because there was a lot of "bouncing up and down and jumping around." Here she is posing in her locker room.

Clark says that before derby, she got most of her pleasure from teaching basketball to freshman girls because there was a lot of “bouncing up and down and jumping around.” Here she is posing in her locker room.

And Clark isn’t alone. Her teammates HairThere Delilah, Barron Erin, and Dolly Pardoner have been waiting until they’re insured to join roller derby. U of Texas-Austin Gender Studies grad student and roller derby participant TestosteRhonda, states that roller derby enrollment has been up “a whole lot” since the rollout of ObamaCare this past October. She estimates an increase of “like 200%” since the sport was established in the “1970s or so.”

Rollerderby is a sport that was inspired by the 1979 cult- hit film The Warriors in which the music band the Village People turn in their police outfits for roller-skates and switchblades and comment on racial tension and HIV in New York City. Early pioneers in the sport include Billie Jean King, Cheryl Miller, and Greg Louganis. It was rumored that Donald Trump unsuccessfully organized The High Rollers, a group of wealthy CEOs interested in roller derby. The team disbanded after LEZZIE (The League of Embittered GirlZ Zipping around In Eye-makeup ) ruled that players with a history of more than one heart attack or two metal knee replacements were too much of a liability to the league. The High Rollers disbanded, only to form the GOP.

Trump declined to comment on his roller derby failure, but was rumored to adorn the rink names "The Whig Party" and "Never Tuopee it Forward."

Trump declined to comment on his roller derby failure, but was rumored to adorn the rink names “The Whig Party” and “Never Tuopee it Forward.”

But as roller derby teams pop up all over the heftier states, not everyone is enthused with the sport’s increasing popularity. Long-time member of the Young Tea Party Patriots, Rick Roll, says that the sport not only threatens traditional gender roles, but also the status quo, “Young women are finding pleasure outside of the domestic and work sphere. This is dangerous to maintaining gender and economic inequality. I blame Obama Care.” Earlier this fall, TMZ reported that Roll’s ex-girlfriend left him, shunned her upper class roots, adorned the rink name “Percy Slayer,” and  joined The Maple Sizzurps, a straight-edge roller derby team based out of Vermont. TMZ aired footage of the couple arguing over how much time Slayer was spending at practice instead of with Rick Roll. TMZ insiders recorded a brunch date between Roll and boyhood friend, Mark Zuckerberg, which during Roll whined to Zuckerberg: “Before ObamaCare, the only thing that I had to offer to women was a health insurance policy. Now what do I have to offer to them?!”

After the health care law passed, Lil' Wayne publicly endorsed Vermont derby team The Sizzurps. Roll immediately defriended him on Facebook.

After the health care law passed, Lil’ Wayne publicly endorsed Vermont derby team The Sizzurps. Roll immediately defriended him on Facebook.

But tea party men aren’t the only ones threatened by women’s increasing desire to act like men. Stay-at-home mom, Freda Felcher, shares Roll’s sentiment, “Call me conventional, but wouldn’t these women rather be at home with their families, scrolling Pinterest and making cake pops?” Last week, Felcher organized a group of “domestic engineers” to protest outside of popular Joliet derby rink “Rink Wormz.” Officials were called to the scene when derby girl PM Essence spiked Felcher’s pumpkin latte to the ground. Bystanders reported that Felcher shouted at Essence, “I paid four dollars for that!”

Many roller derby girls feel that the game’s controversy is part of the sport’s allure. AnitaWaxJob said that she grew up playing “boring soccer,” in which the most exciting event of the season would be “the team lesbian wearing a thong under her uniform shorts.” Players cite several league policies that contribute to the sport’s controversy, including rules that ban players who don’t listen to the Misfits and who haven’t had at least one abnormal pap smear. During pre-season deliberations, the league’s lowest ranking team from Mendocino County (coincidentally also named “The High Rollers”) petitioned league commissioners to lessen the number of required team practices.

Mendocino's High Rollers' team captain Lady Dreadfull unsuccessfully petitioned LEZZIE to reduce the amount of required team practices. According to commissioners, Dreadfull was 25 minutes late to deliberations.

Mendocino’s High Rollers’ team captain Lady Dreadfull unsuccessfully petitioned LEZZIE to reduce the amount of required team practices. According to commissioners, Dreadfull was 25 minutes late to deliberations.

When asked how her boyfriend handles her grueling practice schedule, TwoInTheStink from Madison’s 3 time regional champion team The Slambers says “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Perhaps a more significant controversial aspect of the sport is the small legion of derby girls interested in racially diversifying the league. Ravin’ Samoan and Scar TissueLanda of Trenton, New Jersey’s derby team “Sistas with the Parts of Mistas” consider their participation in roller derby as advocating racial equality in the sport. TissueLanda says the sport was once dominated by “skinny white bitches with hipster glasses.” The two have been actively recruiting players at apparel stores Maurice’s and Dots across the country.

Scar TissueLanda's game face.

Scar TissueLanda’s game face.

Like it or not, Roller Derby participation has skyrocketed. And the jury is still out as to whether a wealthy black man is the reason why women across America are dressing up like gutter skanks and jammin’ one another.

Depression, Affluence, and Boredom: 10 Reasons Why January is the Bluest Month

15 Jan

My biggest beef with my ma, aside from cutting my curls into a mullet at age 5, is her expelling me in the month of January. As a kindergartener at Mount Carmel parish, I wondered why so many of my mulleted Italian counterparts had birthdays in January. When I premaritally lost my virginity at 12, I realized that it was because all of the smart Catholic ladies gave up sex for lent. And when the 40 days of bliss ended for women, it gave way to 40 seconds of bliss for the men. And so I and a slew of fellow Catholics were born in the middle of the world’s most god-awful month–during the bluest 31 days of the year. The bible says that January is the month of Janus, the Roman god of gates and doorways. Halfway through this bitter month, here’s why I’ve decided to shut the door on January:

Janus. The guy on the left is walking away from the curly-mulleted guy on the right.

Janus. The guy on the left is walking away from the curly-mulleted guy on the right.

1. There are lots of jiggly people jogging in plain sight. As a recovering bulimic and binge-drinker, I have a hard time keeping down solid food. All it takes for me to yak is a really bad fart and poor ventilation. Lots of people resolve to get healthy at the new year, and they do this by chasing each other around the block in track suits. In my neighborhood, the only difference in January is, they leave their guns at home.

"Crushed velvet tracksuit: check. Resolution to get fit: check. Gun: Nah, I can't sneak up on no one with all this swish."

“Crushed velvet track suit: check. Resolution to get fit: check. Gun: Nah, I can’t sneak up on no one with all this swish.”

2. Martin Luther King day. I like the idea of MLK day, but I’d prefer Malcolm X day. Partly because I’m pro-violence, but mostly because I’m anti-bible names. And whenever mid-January comes around, I’m always like, “Do I have to work on MLK day; do I have off?” I never know. As far as holidays, MLK day is the biggest peacefully protesting tease.

"I have a dream- to have a holiday named after me in which the racial composition of those staying home from work is actually diverse."

“I have a dream- to have a holiday named after me in which the racial composition of those staying home from work is actually diverse.”

3. The Super Bowl. See #1.

"While the rest of America can't, it's totally okay for us to be fat, to run around in tight pants, and to slap each other's asses because we're rich and they'll respect us for that."

“While the rest of America can’t, it’s totally okay for us to be fat, to run around in tight pants, and to slap each other’s asses because we’re rich and they’ll respect us for that.”

4. Lack of flavor. During January, America as a nation is coming down from a holiday sugar and caffeine high. The Starbuck’s drive-thru line was so long on Christmas Eve in a small Nebraska town, that a worker inside, overwhelmed with stress, erotically asphyxiated on cake pops. In response, the Barista Union (BU) declared January the month to be void of overwhelmingly delicious artificial flavors. The BU stated that since November has pumpkin, December has peppermint mocha, February has chocolate-covered strawberry, and March has shamrock, that January should have none as to avoid a total mass freakout. Starbucks Gold Club members across America have protested in favor of a new January flavor, including Post-Holiday Acid Reflux, Heartburn, and Salt and Slush.

The Nebraska Starbucks worker got 4 cake pops in before fellow employees found him slumped against the freezer door.

The Nebraska Starbucks worker got 4 cake pops in before fellow employees found him slumped against the freezer door.

5. Highest rate of divorce. Normally I would say that this is a good thing, but have you ever had a friend who got a divorce? Nothing will desensitize you faster to the sight of people crying in coffee shops. Half of the coffee shop charm is that 80% of the people inside are having dilemmas and/or are writing bad poetry. Women and gay men crying over 5 dollar mochas can’t be the best accompaniment to a heartburn latte when they’re occupying every table in January. What then– turn to the poetry jams for entertainment? Def not.

"Everybody snap your fingers for poetry night, this week's feature is divorcees and heartburn mochas."

“Everybody snap your fingers for poetry night. This week’s feature is divorcees and heartburn mochas.”

6. Ice-related injuries. My sweet little sober dad recently slipped in a liquor-store parking lot and fell on top of his gallon jug of wine. Instead of agreeing to pay for any medical bills, the store graciously gave my dad a new jug. And now who’s paying for that free jug? You and me. Icy January parking lots= higher liquor prices.

Much harder to hold your liquor when slipping on ice.

Much harder to hold your liquor when slipping on ice.

7. It’s 4 a.m., I must be in limbo. January is like 4 a.m.- no one is up for work yet and no one is still out partying. The first 3 days of the month don’t even count. People are resolving to be new people and claiming that they “weren’t themselves” last week when they ate a whole cheese tray and told grandma that they were a lesbian. It’s mortal limbo- nothing counts and everyone is overwhelmed with apathy after their resolutions fail.

"I swear, once I cross this stick, I'll be a whole new, less douchey person."

“I swear, once I cross this stick, I’ll be a whole new, less douchey person.”

8. Inauguration Balls. Again, see #1; change “jogging” to “shuffling,” add the elderly and garish displays.

9. My Birthday: I don’t mind aging. It won’t surprise me when the only thing between my bewbs is my belly button- I’m halfway there. But my birthday reminds me of how ungrateful I can be. And this is Evan McNutt’s fault. For my 10th birthday, he walked to my house in a snow storm to deliver me a stuffed puppy in a corduroy box. No gift will ever be able to live up to that display of 10 year-old friendship. So now I’m stuck grimacing and saying things like, “Windshield wiper fluid and zebra-stripe galoshes- just what I wanted.”

"I traveled 2 miles in a corduroy box during a blizzard to say happy birthday and to set you up for a lifetime of disappointment."

“I traveled 2 miles in a corduroy box during a blizzard to say happy birthday and to set you up for a lifetime of disappointment.”

10. The Darkness. At the depths of my 16 year-old depression, I stared into the eyes of a pixel-y Brian Austin Green on my parents’ Dell computer in their basement. I planned to write the 90210 DJ and convince him that we were soul mates because of how similar our eyes were. January can get dark. Later in the year, I tend to look back on my behavior and thoughts that I had during January. And I think, wow, who was that lady shrouded in yellow wallpaper and prozac nation. How did I get so depressed?

My ma after she read my diary in January.

My ma after she read my diary in January.

The only part that I remember from Jack Kerouac’s On the Road (aside from thinking, “This is overrated”) is the scene in which Sal is watching a children’s baseball game. Envious of their happiness, Sal wishes he was anything but white, because it’s oftentimes paired with depression– what he thinks is a symptom of affluence and boredom. Wow, not only do I feel depressed, but now I  feel guilty as hell. Similarly, in Catcher in The Rye by J.D. Salinger (born and died in January so he gets it), Holden Caulfield thinks “Goddamn money. It always ends up making you blue as hell.” Notorious B.I.G. revived a similar sentiment in 1997 with “Mo Money Mo Problems.”

Clearly, Kerouac, Salinger, and B.I.G. didn't see Indecent Proposal.

Clearly, Kerouac, Salinger, and B.I.G. didn’t see Indecent Proposal.

Obviously, one of the few problems that mo’ money will cause is no longer having something to strive for. Even if it’s not for money, in January, we resolve to begin striving for better things and “new selves”–to be fitter, to be kinder, to become whatever we’re not. A month of deciding to change our behavior with the hope that we’ll be happier, less bored, or just different than we are now. January is about newness, specifically a new self. Like Gatsby’s green light, we badly want January to be a beacon of the hope, wealth, and just overall difference that the future may hold. Most of us can appreciate what we have; but the prospect of the unknown is just too alluring. So this January, two weeks late, I resolve to not be deceived by the allure of the unknown. Instead of turning to face the strange, I’ll open my arms to the familiar.

Me, not being deceived by the allure of the unknown.

Me, not being deceived by the allure of the unknown.

In the meantime, that was you last year- that was you who hoovered the gorgonzola and told grandma that your boyfriend’s name is “Linda.” And who cares? I say “Goddamn January and its concept of ‘not now, but later’–it’ll make you bluer than hell.” That poop colored crayon in the 120 box, it should be called “January.” I’m so over you.

January isn't blue. It's this color.

January isn’t blue. It’s this color.

T.G.I. (t.e.o.) G.: Thank God It’s the End of Growvember: What I’d Do If I Had a Prostate

30 Nov

Like the majority of Americans, I had no idea why men across the country were growing hideous mustaches this month. And when I found out, I had no idea what a prostate was or if I had one. After asking the neighbor kids to do some research for me, I discovered that the prostate is a little sac of magic jewels that sits between the rectum and bladder. I should’ve known this- when I was 8, I would tell people that I wanted to be a proctologist. How would anyone take me seriously if I didn’t know what the prostate was? And I also found out that, like the majority of wondrous things in this world, I was excluded from having one because I didn’t have a penis.

Me after my mom told me that I couldn't be a proctologist/Me after the neighbor kids told me that I didn't have a prostate.

Me after my mom told me that I couldn’t be a proctologist./Me after the neighbor kids told me that I didn’t have a prostate.

So sometime in between crying in bed and eating marzipan cookies on the couch, I thought of all the things that I’d do if I had a prostate. I’ve often wished that I had a penis and all of the magical things that come with it- a sense of entitlement, big hands, a mom who actually loves me, and the ability to pee laying down (my dad used to do this at soccer fields by pulling his foot-long out of his shorts’ crotch flaps). And once when I was 14 years-old, my evil friend (a ginger) convinced me that my long labia was a miniature penis. And I believed her for a week- it made sense: my quickness to develop muscle, my athleticism, my tendency to leave the toilet seat up (after barfing up dinner).

I just looked at my labia with a hand mirror and it's, aaaaarrrgggghhhh, disgusting!

I just looked at my labia with a hand mirror and it’s, aaaaarrrgggghhhh, disgusting!

But the hard fact of life is, no matter how oblivious I am to others’ feelings or how many times I explode chili in the microwave, I will never grow a wiener. But as we begin to celebrate the birth of a dude who walked on water and resurrected himself (his prostate was probably spotless), I can imagine what I’d do if I had a prostate. Or a penis. But, first, there’s a couple of things that I would definitely NOT do if I had this magic sac of marbles:

1. Grow a dumb fuc*king mustache: It’s really long nose hair. Gross. And it’s not funny or ironic anymore. Sure, Growvember is the only time that I‘m excused from having lip hair, but other people shouldn’t be. Plus, I have small lips, and a really big chin; think Leno with a ‘stache. Aaron Rodgers grew one and look what happened: his di*k temporarily disappeared and he led the Packers to a 10-38 loss to a team of cleanly-shaven black guys.

Oh shit, what's that? Oh yeah, it's just the temporary loss of my dexterity, my manhood, and my  pride.

“Oh shit, what’s that? Oh yeah, it’s just the temporary loss of my dexterity, my manhood, and my pride.”

2. Drunkenly reveal my wiener-size to a group of sober babes: A friend recently got frat boy wasted and revealed to a group of college girls that his wang is wider than it is long- a genuine chode, like a wheel of cheese. My 30 year-old frat boy friend’s revelation was so shocking, I had to take a week off of laying on the couch to wrap my hand mind around it. Even though I don’t like sex and am a total asexual eunuch, if I were to actually desire human contact, it wouldn’t be with someone who reveals half the magic. And even though I don’t really care about wiener size (or having sex with humans for that matter), this really grossed me out.

My duh-yic is, aaaarrrrggghhhhh, this big!

Okay, now what I would do if I had a hairy sac of jewels:

1. Break sh*t with my bare hands. My arms are so thin and frail, they make my ass look huge. I recently made a profile on a nannying website and I had to disclaim “cannot hold baby for longer than 10 minutes. No breastfed monsters, please.” I wish that just for one day I had the upper body strength of a man. There’s so many things that I could do with it– smash cans on my forehead, throw garbage bins into the alley, enter arm wrestling contests. I’d also scare the shit out of people with my temper tantrums. Without a prostate, when I stomp on the ground and weakly toss pumpkins at people’s heads, everyone just laughs and tells me that I’m cute. If I had this magical marble sac, I wouldn’t have to be on my period to scare people.

"Ima break this breast-fed monster with my bare hands."

“Ima break this breast-fed monster with my bare hands.”

2. Roofie Women: I have no idea what it’s  like to actually have to work for the human contact that I don’t want, so I’m sure that I wouldn’t have the patience for it. Some think that drugging women for sex is morally reprehensible, but so is using womanly titty charms to lead a guy into marriage and fatherhood. Men’s brains are 85% mushier than women’s; it’s not fair that we take advantage of these child-like nymphs like we do. I’ve even considered roofy-ing myself and have oftentimes left my drink unattended for long periods of time in seedy bars. Who knows- I might wake up midway through, fascinated, and think, Hey, it’s like a hairy wheel of cheese! This isn’t so bad!

"Oh no, don't roofie my Apple-tini. I'll just puke it up in an hour. Put it in my beer. It''l stay down that way."

“Oh no, don’t roofie my Apple-tini!…I’ll just puke it up in an hour. Put it in my beer. It’ll stay down that way.”

3. Never Shave My Genitals: I know that guys do this to create the illusion of a really long dong, but that seems like a lot of work for little payoff. I don’t know how many times that I clipped the labe or short-circuited Greg’s beard trimmer when taming the wild shrew. I look for every excuse possible to not shave my pubis: Growvember, too busy blogging, feminism. Having family jewels that extend beyond the bush (well more than an inch beyond) is the perfect reason to throw away the clippers.

"I'll pay you extra to de-clog the pool drains."

“I’ll pay you extra to de-clog the pool drains.” Score!

4. Shave My Head Bald: I’ve thought about doing this, but it’d only make my ass look even huger. If I had a prostate, it’d make sense.

5. Reach really high things: Growing up, my dad never let me cut the grass. There was a lot of things that I couldn’t do because I didn’t have a prostate as a kid: clean the gutters, carve turkeys, use the snow-blower. If I had a prostate now, I would do this sh*t all day. I’d be a Mexican wielding a leaf-blower like a torch of gold, like an extension of my spicy churro. I’d take a power tool with me everywhere I went. Here’s your Apple-tini, now let me snake your drains. Here’s your Schlitz, now let me power-drill your mind. And, with a hammer in my belt-loop, my flannels would finally make sense.

"Now, you just go lie under that Oak tree. It's tool time baby...Don't mind these guys. There making us martinis."

“Now, you just go lie under that Oak tree. It’s tool time baby…Don’t mind these guys. They’re making us martinis.”

6. Collect Unemployment: I haven’t checked the books on this one, but I’m pretty sure that it’s exclusive to people with prostates. C’mon, ACLU and feminist Ryan Gosling, get on this shit.

7. Play high-stakes Poker: Poker has been explained to me over 25 times. And I have still no idea. Statistics suggest that men are much better than women at math and other god-awful topics that don’t require critical thinking and emotions. Statistics also suggest that men who suck at a lot of things are much more intrigued by gambling because of the chance of luck. If I had a prostate, I’d carry around a portable Poker set in a suitcase. And I’d walk on my tip-toes just to throw people off. People never think much of tip-toe walkers. I’d hustle people too and back it up with my bare knuckles, my pool stick, and my hairy genitals. If I had a prostate, I’d be bad-ass like Tom Selleck.

"You're gonna want to double down on the queen of spades and fold on the suicide king.   Whatever you do, throw down some more chips and don't ever call me again on my beach phone."

“You’re gonna want to double down on the queen of spades and fold on the suicide king. Whatever you do, throw down some more chips and don’t ever call me again on my beach phone.”

8. Know What’s Actually Going on Under My Hood: I’ve never actually opened my car hood. I don’t even know how to or know what’s under it. If I were to figure out how to unlatch it, I’d expect rainbows and unicorns to pop out. Once I drove for 20 minutes with my hood on fire and couldn’t stop raving about how good burning Autumn leaves smelled. I swear I wasn’t high. And I learned just this past summer that you can’t idle on the top of a hill in San Francisco. If I had a prostate, I would know how to operate and fix that thing dripping oil in the neighbor’s driveway. Until I get one, I’ll have to rely on my dad’s to send him powerful messages as to when to change the oil and refill the wiper fluid.

"So you're telling me that this thing doesn't run on birth control pills and and mixed tapes?!?! And how did I get on the passenger side!?!?"

“So you’re telling me that this thing doesn’t run on birth control pills and mixed tapes?!?! And how did I get on the passenger side!?!?”

9. Fart Without Shame: I do now, but I’m pretty sure that every time I do, a boner inverts somewhere around the world.

10. Play golf. Kidding with this one. It’s such a stupid fuc*king sport.

11. Be flamingly gay. Finally, if I had a prostate, I’d be flamingly gay. It’s been hip for like 10 years. And that’d be two people in the house who can reach really high things, who can cut the grass, and who can play Poker. Plus, if I was a flamingly gay person with a wiener, I’d get more prostate checks than straight guys do.

"Not only do we never have problems reaching things, we never have to work hard for ass." Team Prostate.

“Not only do we never have problems reaching things, we never have to work hard for ass.” Team Prostate.

What To Do When You Shart In Berkeley: A Road Tripper’s Guide to Bodily Fluids and Other Mishaps

17 Aug

August is National Road Trip Month. Actually, it’s not. But it’d be cool if it was. What August is, for me anyways, is the beginning of autumnal reflection. Yeah it’s a little premature to reflect on summer fun while it’s still summer, but I’m pretty sure that I was conceived from premature ejaculation. So it’s kinda in my blood- being premature that is, not the ejaculation. That’s on my stomach.

While on the subject of all things ejaculatory, the beau and I went on an orgasmic 3-week road trip this past June. Like all road trips, it didn’t go without mishaps. And a lot of these snafus dealt with bodily fluids. There’s something about eating fruit in cars that keeps me regular. I composed this “what to do list” for any future road-trippers or people who have frequent bodily fluid mishaps. Here’s what to do…

1. When you shart in Berkeley:

There’s this place called People’s Park. I guess that it was a hotbed for civil rights action in the 60s or some shit, but now it’s a garden of and for homeless shape-shifters. When we were there, this rad 60 year-old chic was circling it without any pants on. My hero. Walk here, the habitants don’t care if you have shit in your drawers. Because half of them do already. And they’ll probably offer you weed. Which always softens the blow of dookying in your pants. Or, if you’re like the beau, press your water bottle tightly to your ass so shit doesn’t run down your leg. Waddle shamelessly into UC-Berkeley’s book store bathroom, discard your unders, and use all of your girlfriend’s expensive individually-wrapped vadge wipes to clean your hinder. Both will work.

Apparently, being shirtless and eating seeds isn’t trashy enough for this guy. He has to shit his pants too.

2. When you get your period in your host’s bed in North Portland.

You know those tags on mattresses that you’re not suppose to rip off. Now’s the time to do it. Locate that enigmatic tag and rip the fu*ker off. Your host will be so mortified that you did this that she won’t notice or care about the head-sized blood stain on her mattress. Then leave within an hour to cover all bases. And buy more vadge wipes.

I had to get wasted at Rogue Brewery Farms in Independence, OR to forget about the period snafu.

3. When that same host (the one whose shower, bed, and house you’ve been sharing) complains about the wicked foot fungus that she picked up in Nicaragua that she can’t get rid off.

You shut your fu**ing mouth because she’s letting you stay for free. And introducing you to some really cool lesbians and crazy inventive food. And then you invest in Clotrimazole when you get home.

This lady knows more than two cool lesbians.

4. When the San Francisco rapid transit stalls for an hour and a half in a tunnel and shuts of all power because some douche outside of Oakland doesn’t know how to kill himself proper-style.

Start to panic. And then get mad at your significant other, the 3-week old baby, the elderly, the pre-conditioners, the Giants fans who are missing their game, and the gun-supporter from Texas for not panicking. WTF people, is there anything that panicking has not solved? You can trace “SOS” into the window’s thick condensation or dramatically seize on the floor. Either way, you’re going to want to avoid your fellow passengers’ dripping sweat because it’s f**king gross. And because you’re not going to make it to Little Italy in time for the EuroCup final between Spain and Italy, you’re going to want to walk into the first downtown bar that’s playing the last 15 minutes of the game. It doesn’t matter if it happens to be a f**king Spanish bar and you’re wearing an Italy shirt and your team’s losing 4-0. True f**king story.

When I finally got to Little Italy.

Italy fans, Little Italy, San Francisco. Still celebrating despite the loss. They look suspiciously Spaniard…

5. When there’s a traffic jam in the Badlands (yeah, WTF) and it’s hotter than sh*t. 

You walk around with open intoxicants. And shoot a rap video.

“It was all a dream, I used to read Word Up magazine.”

I don’t look nearly as cool with my open intoxicants. I guess I was doing an indie video.

6. When you don’t want to spend $120 for a hotel in Oacoma, South Dakota.

Sleep in your car. And then trace SOS in the window’s condensation during the middle of the night because you realize it’s impossible to sleep in a compact car. But you will continue to do this in Auburn, California; in Grants Pass, Oregon; and in Omaha, Nebraska because no one wants to pay to stay in these places.

Not bad for sleeping in a rented Nissan Sentra.

Clearly Greg doesn’t know how to look good sleeping in a car, like I do. At least there’s no shit in his pants this time.

7. When you don’t have enough money to go to the zoo.

You find someone who has a backyard petting zoo in Portland, Oregon. Duh

Billy Goat says: “Fu*k a zoo.”

8. When you buy fake scalped tickets to a Giants game.

You encourage your boyfriend to go beat the scalper’s ass. When your beau approaches him with “excuse me sir,” you scoff until the scalper very apologetically and sincerely refunds you fully and directs you to a legit pair. And then you thank Shiva that you don’t have a penis and the testosterone that comes with it because if you did, you’d be in jail for the majority of your life.

Scalped tix: $40, garlic fries: $7, the view: priceless.

9. When there’s forest fires.

Put them out with your urine.

Watering the Redwoods.

10. When you have B.O. from infrequently showering because you’re staying in a college dorm with a big uni-shower full of hair and STDs.

Go to the rose gardens. It’s like potpourri for the decaying body and soul.

Portland Rose Gardens. Better than patchouli.

11. When you go to an all-ages show at 924 Gilman and see two kinds of bodily fluids within 15 minutes.

Go across the street to Pyramid Brewery and wait for your partner to get his fill of loud music. Take it as a sign that the people who are in line behind you are from your home city that it’s time to head home. The West Coast is bomb, but the midwest is best. Represent.

Apparently, these guys don’t mind seeing a 15-year-old covered in puke. Ready for home.

The Year of the Snake: Roundabouts, U-Turns, and Khaki Sweatpants

16 Jun

“It’s embarrassment, displacement, it’s where I wander…

It’s the fear, the fake

It’s clear it can make

time stop and leave you stranded in the year of the snake.”

-Atmosphere, “Scapegoat” (1997)

My nephew just got his license. Look how happy he is.

A good aunt always distracts new drivers by demanding an impromptu photo shoot.

Ahhh 16. Not as good as 17, but good.

When I was 16, I was so depressed that for 9 months I didn’t utter a word to anyone besides the Taco Bell drive-thru lady. It was 2001, the year of the snake, time stopped, and I was stranded in teenage melancholy.

The only bandage to my wound was aimless driving. I’d skip school and drive to the nearby outlet mall. I learned how to hold a cigarette with my left hand and the wheel with my right. That you could get pretty far on gas fumes alone. The first emergency that I solved with my car was bringing my friend a bag full of overnight maxi pads at her caddy job. She found the tampons hidden at the bottom.

My whip at age 16.

I’d only leave my car to walk the two blocks to the Dairy Queen where I worked. I’d wear khaki-colored sweatpants instead of the required real khakis. I craved the music and movement that radio and car provided, and found safety in turning back when I  had gone too far. I got my sunroof sealed on 9/11. I liked the isolation and sense of detached observer to fleeting life that driving provided. And I never got lost because I never went too far.

A much chicer but equally malaised DQ employee.

If I could go back, I would tell my 16-year-old self that there would be an end to the melancholy. That even when everyone at a funeral is staring at you because you’re wearing sweat pants, time doesn’t stop. I would believe in the wondrousness of cyclicality, knowing that malaise is temporary and happiness is revisitable. I would understand that I liked driving and was saddened upon arrival because I was a dreamer. A dreamer who liked the idea of drifting, of being in-between, of formlessness because it let me fantasize about endless possibilities. A formlessness that characterizes adolescence, that can be both hopeful in its renewal and devastating in its displacement.

One kind of formlessness.

We’re embarking on a 3 week road trip. Greg’s sense of direction is about as good as my ability to tolerate blue hairs in PT Cruisers. We’re going to get lost as f*ck. And maybe arrested. I want to get a DUI in each state. I’m okay with this. Because I know that, eventually, we’ll find our way home. If we want. And considering the state of politics in Wisconsin, we might not.

Imagine my sign after the failed recall.

Next year is the year of the snake. It’s said to bring changes and instability, requiring careful planning. Thank god that that’s next year. We’re leaving Tuesday and haven’t planned anything besides the mode of transportation. But now I know how to navigate my vehicle better and, thanks to Obama’s jobs act, there’s more roundabouts to help me get back to where I started.

Ouroboros, or snake eating its tail, badass symbol of Cancer zodiac, similar to roundabouts, symbol of cyclicality

But I need your advice.

We’re going from Milwaukee to Portland to San Francisco. Thinking of stopping at the Badlands, Spokane, Berkeley. Any suggested sites, spots, events?

Our route. If you zoom in on the map, you can see me flipping off handicap drivers and Greg clutching the dashboard.

Shedding Skin and a Fear of the Bubonic Plague

16 May

Last week MSNBC did a segment on a new phobia, Nomophobia: the fear of being without your cell phone. I’m no stranger to phobias, especially ones related to viruses and my genitalia. I was in first grade when Magic Johnson went, shall we say, viral regarding his HIV diagnosis. I remember sitting on the floor a foot from the TV, as all chubby couch potato kids with ADHD do, gawking at the news broadcast and then slowly backing away when I realized that I could catch it through the TV. And then I saw a 30-minute HBO special on Ryan White, a young Indiana boy who famously contracted HIV via a blood transfusion. I was royally f**ked.

It was the early days of HIV and my 6-year-old chicken nugget nourished body might as well have been infected with the disease. At school, I sat in front of Dan Laurenzi, who I started to think was unusually thin, perhaps in a sickly way. Two weeks later, I was certain that he had full-blown AIDS. In first grade, we’d pass our workbooks to the person behind us for correcting. Dan “sarcoma” Laurenzi corrected mine. And so began my hand washing obsession. Each day after school, I’d run to the bathroom basement, as to hide my unusual behavior, and slathered on the Dial. And then one school night, I was lying in bed, having not finished my homework (coloring squirrels, I don’t know). And my mom, Jackie Louise, the cutthroat demanding tiger mom that she is, sat down next to me on my bed and, I diarrhea you not, set the workbook right on my blanket-covered belly. I diarrheaed the bed and my glo-worm pajamas. I lied and said that we just had to review some words, as to not have to actually touch the AIDS-infected workbook. After my mom slapped me goodnight, I embarked on a 6-year-old panic attack. I’m pretty sure that I just clenched all my muscles real tight, farting for five whole minutes (well, actually “poofing” as a 6 year old’s farts are rather weak). I couldn’t wash the blanket like I could wash my hands. WTF I said, “Double-you-tee-eff” I shouted. And so, as any rational first grader would do, I got on the floor and did leg lifts. The kind that I saw Kirstie Alley do during her aerobics class in Look Who’s Talking. The kind that you do wearing neon spandex in the ’80s. Maybe I thought that if I moved frantically, I’d stop worrying or that I’d poof or sweat out my new AIDS virus. Maybe I thought that thin people, like boob sweat and chaffed thighs, are immune to AIDS. Rather logical, right? And so began my obsession with Kirstie Alley leg lifts that morphed into a fear of dairy (cow piss) that evolved into a fear of all animal products and then anything that had calories. Four years later I saw Outbreak with Dustin Hoffman, reaffirming my fear of AIDS and Africans. Naturally. I had unsealed the well of phobias and this m**ther f**ker was deep as sh*t. And I’ve been swimming in it for 21 years now, standing at the bottom in what I’m sure is bubonic-filled water, waiting for some f**stick to save me.

I have to climb out. If not to save myself, to save these Outbreak-infected Africans.

The same year that I saw Outbreak, I also saw Seven. Hey, Tiger Moms get busy. Tiger Mom fell asleep and I watched the whole thing standing up in the living room (I don’t know, it seemed too scary sitting down). For anyone who hasn’t seen Seven, 1.) You suck (2.) I’m going to ruin it for you. The “lust” murder went down like this: Kevin Spacey’s bat-shit ass forces by gunpoint some dude to wear a strap-on that is fashioned with a giant knife and to have sex with a prostitute. Yeah, it is especially creepy as the scene occurs in some seedy sex night club that I am sure is only frequented by gays and Europeans. My AIDS-phobia mind had now been raped by celluloid and David Fincher. Not only was I already so afraid that a hand would reach out of the toilet that I avoided pooping (on a toilet anyway), I now had a front butt that needed guarding. I was symbolically f**ked in the genital region before I had actually been f**ked. And so like any normal diva bitch, from that night on, I never fell asleep without my hand guarding my genitalia. This was easy as I already had taught myself to sleep on my back because lying on your side permanently distends your tummy. Duh. I did this for so long that I became unconscious to it until 6th grade when Tarah Scalzo slapped me in the face with my genital-covering hand.

We were playing doll house, like all 11 year olds do, and I left the room to piss squatting above the toilet. I came back into our play lair and Tarah informed me that she put my doll to bed because she was tired. I kneeled down in front of the pastel plastic tudor and saw my doll, the only one with curly hair, lying on her back in her plastic twin bed, with her little plastic doll hand covering her little plastic doll eunuch genitalia. I had been found out. I quickly explained myself. I thought it was a logical reaction to a serial murder sex scene. Although Tarah remained my friend, I knew that I had to stop guarding my genitals. 16 years later, I do the same thing, more or less. Sorry Tarah, but this is my new best friend:

I use it on everything, including my genitals. With good reason. I was certain that my first yeast infection was a genital wart outbreak. And anti-bacterial soap can kill viruses, duh. My germophobia has peaked. When I volunteered at a homeless shelter that had a bed bugs outbreak, my phobia costed me about an hour after I left. I’d line my car with garbage bags (new ones each time); I’d Lysol my body, clothes, shoes, and keys; I’d never wear a winter jacket into the shelter; and upon arriving at home, I washed everything with antibacterial soap, including my hair. Because bed bugs can be killed with soap, duh.

I’m clearly still in the well. But I’m no longer waiting for someone to save me. My hands crack and bleed. I won’t wear short sleeves despite the weather because I need my sleeve gloves. I don’t touch anything without a paper towel shield except for food. I considered wearing fashion gloves but this would look pretty dumb paired with jeans and t-shirts. The next step is sporting a 17th century hoop-skirt gown just so I don’t look so out of place wearing my gloves. Or ordering one of these:

I did have a brief sabbatical from my phobias during my late teens–early 20s. I thought it was funny to eat food off the floor or off of strangers’ plates in restaurants. My desire for attention and to make bitches laugh superseded my phobias. Well, germophobia and OCD is cliché now–an old punchline. Scrubbing my labe after every dung-dropping sucks.

I know, these fears are displaced. And that’s the scariest part. I’d rather be scared of Streptococcus pneumonia than of death. Because you can’t get a vaccine for death unless you’re a giant pussy. Or Magic Johnson.

I’m graduating this Sunday. And it’s Spring. A perfect time to shed some symbolic skin and also some fears. I have vowed (just like my vow to stop binge eating that has been semi-successful) to stop washing so much. My skin will thank me. The earth will thank me. And so will my genitals. And after all, that is what’s most important to me: a happy genitalia that is not scared of the world–not scared of the light. One that is bursting through its clothes and saying “Hello world, it’s me, Anna’s antibacterialed vadge and I’m no longer scared of you.” And then someone will tell it that mustaches are no longer funny. And it will agree. Because it is Spring. A time for renewal.

A pu$sy with a mustache.

Seeing Red Over Going Green

21 Apr

I’m totally down for the green movement. I think that every street should have a bike lane. That’d make it a lot easier to peg fixie-riders in the head with my empty plastic water bottles from my HEV (high emission vehicle).

I’m really banking on the world ending this December. I have run out of material for this world that’s a stage. Therefore, anyone who fights to prolong life on this planet has become pubic enemy # 1. This is just the short list:

1. Moms: I get that you want the world to be fabulous when your kids grow up. But seriously, when you bust out your reusable grocery bag in front of me at Pick N’ Save, I kind of want to follow you to your Forrester, entrap you, and tell you all about my HPV trials. In detail.

Call me when you start carrying the 2-year-old in those bags. Then we can talk. Over Manhattans. About how populating the earth is indeed *wink* saving it.

2. Liberals: When most crunchy liberals have their heads in their hinders getting high on their own self-righteous hybrid fumes, I say drill baby drill. I’m down with this lady:

Yes, that is a Toyota.

3. Vegans: Some say that the livestock sector is environmentally unsound. But going vegan can be anally unsound, resulting in BMs like this:

4. Animal Rights Activists: People say save the animals. Why- when all they want to do is snort lines and hang out in ShopKo:

5. College Students: Remember those commercials with plastic 6-pack rings washing ashore and choking geese. Stop kidding yourself. Birds do not like erotic asphyxiation.

6. Hippies: I’m pretty sure that the 1968 VW van that you’re driving to Portland is solely responsible for acid rain.

In honor of earth day, let’s rape and pillage. After all, we won’t be here in 100 years when the shit hits the solar-powered fans.