Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Lovin' Those Jew Curls!

There are people who go to the gym to work out, and there are people who go to the gym to pick up guys. Have you seen them? They lurk. They are lurkers. They are lurking lurkers who lurk around from machine to machine, dressed in their color-coordinated "exercise" outfits that consist of hot pink sports bras and spandex. It's bad enough when the 300-pounders on the stair masters wear spandex...jiggling butts right in your face because each machine is right behind another...but teenage girls roaming from treadmill to treadmill, pretending to consider the question of "to run or not to run" when really they're thinking "to hit on that guy on the bench-press or to hit on that guy lifting weights." GET LOST. We're here to become buff, not bimbos. And what's even worse is that they make YOU look extra-bad because you're the one in the baggy t-shirt and eyebrows slicked with sweat. News flash: eyebrows slicked with sweat? Not a turn-on. The lurking sluts are the ones who wear their hair DOWN when they're lifting weights. Yeah, you've seen them. They're a rare breed, but they're always there. Walking. Watching. Winking. I'd MUCH rather have a bonofied booTAY in my face than a walking sports bra.

Power walking. Walking is not hard-core exercise, but it has recently been discovered that walking while AT THE SAME TIME pumping your arms melts the weight right off! That's right folks! You're walking, you're walking and nothing is happening, but lift one arm, then the other...and you move them, back and forth, back and forth, and BAM! You're burning millions upon millions of calories! Forget all that stupid running and weight lifting! Just pump those arms while AT THE SAME TIME walking and you will have the body of Pamela Anderson! (assets not included) Remember: walking alone is not enough. Pumping your arms is not enough. But walking while AT THE SAME TIME pumping your arms? MIRACLES!

Why is it that some people believe that if they fart on the elliptical no one will hear? Not only that, but no one will be able to smell it? IT'S NOT OKAY PEOPLE. I'm sick of being stuck behind the friendly farting fellow. Sure, he waves hi and smiles, but he's only smiling because he thinks that this is the only place he can get away with repetitive noises coming from his a-hole. I don't know if it's the machine...or what he ate for breakfast...but it doesn't matter. What matters is that we can all still hear it, and even if we don't hear it, we can smell it. For those who smell and run away, the friendly farting fellow has given them a little dose of extra cardio. But NO, it does NOT motivate us to keep on truckin,' it motivates us to scream, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!" and leave. (not that we'd ever have the courage to open our mouths at all) So if you're one of those who is able to break wind and jog while remaining guilt-free, I beg of you, hold it in. If you have to squeeze your buttocks together to do it, I don't care. Just keep your gluteus maximus and the products it disperses the hell away from me.

I've mastered the "keep-your-head-down-and-pretend-you're-fixing-the-bottom-of-your-shirt-so-you-don't-have-to-look-that-person-in-the-eye-and-hope-that-they-don't-notice-you-anyway" routine. Really, I'm an expert, and I owe it all to the gym. Remember those people who you used to know? The ones who, hey, maybe someday you'll run into, and when you do you're gonna make a lasting impression? Yeah. For some reason, it's THOSE people who I always run into at the GYM. And no, not before my work-out, AFTER my work-out. And guys look good working out. Their muscles are flexing, their hair is too short to drip with sweat, and they look manly. Girls who look manly are called one thing. Lesbians. So I've just ran three miles, my hair is dripping with sweat making me look like I have those little Jew-curls at the sides of my ears that only boys are supposed to have, my whole face is red, and for some reason swollen, and I run into Nick my first boyfriend, Chance my biggest middle school crush, and Thomas, who is ugly anyway so I don't really care about him. And they're not thinking, "Man, I sure made a mistake letting her go." They're thinking, lesbian.

I don't go into the men's locker room. Why? Because I'm not a man. But I happen to know a few who DO go into the men's locker room. Why? Because I know some men. And why do THEY go into the men's locker room? Because they're men. So I've heard a few bizarre stories about the men's locker room in my time...but one has always stuck with me...
So Elliot walks into the men's locker room. It appears to be empty. He starts changing when he hears a faint sound. Snip. Snip. Snip. Thinking it's just his imagination, he continues putting on his clothes, then hears it again. Snip. Snip. Snip. He finishes changing, but goes to look in the mirror before he leaves. Why? To check himself out, of course. Then he sees that the locker room is not empty after all. There's another man here, also in front of the mirror, standing awkwardly close to it in fact. Snip. Snip. Snip. The man backs away slowly, then notices Elliot standing there gawking. The man smiles and exclaims, "Three-way mirrors! Perfect for this sort of thing!" Elliot smiles at the naked man. "This way you can get every angle!" Elliot nods slowly at the naked man clenching the scissors in his right hand "Don't want to miss a spot!" Elliot gives a thumbs up to the naked man clenching the scissors in his right hand standing in the pile of wiry hair. "You should really try it! You can borrow my scissors, if you'd like!" Elliot doesn't know what to say, so he accidentally makes it more awkward than it was before. "What are you doing?" The man turns around, which alone answers Elliot's question in more of a way than words ever could. "TRIMMIN' MY PUBES!"

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Go-Go Gadget...TESTICLE!

"Did you know that Greg Sanders has a metal ball?"

"What? NO!"


"But how do you

"Everyone was talking about it in third period."

"What did they say?"

"Apparently he had to get surgery for it in fourth grade but they couldn't save it, so they replaced it with a metal one."

"Is it

"I don't know!"

"Because if it's just must get pretty heavy."

"Yeah, unless it's in some kind of, like, hammock thingy."

"I can't believe Greg Sanders has a metal ball..."

"Yeah, but DON'T TELL."

Benjamin Franklin once said, "Three can keep a secret...if two of them are dead." Natasha Ferrier once said, "Three can keep a secret...unless one of them has a metal ball."

"Did you know that Greg Sanders has a robotic testicle?"

"Yeah, and he keeps it in a special testicle hammock."

"I KNOW! Wait. Shhhh...Greg's coming."

"Hey guys, what's up?"

"Nothin' much...I, Robot."

"Yeah...Inspector Gadget."

"What are you guys talking about?"

"Nothing, nothing...metalballboy."

"Okay, WHO told you?"

"Told us what?"

"It's NOT TRUE!"

"What's not true?"


"There's nothing wrong with it...Bicentennial Man."

"I DON'T!"

"Yeah sure...Judy!"


"You know...the robot from The Jetsons? ...ugh nevermind."

"I don't know WHO started this rumor, but when I find out, I'm gonna---"

"Punch them in the face using your brass ball?"


okay...we're sorry..."

"Go-go gadget...TESTICLE!"

Lindsay Lohan once sang, "I'm tired of rumors starting." Hilary Duff once sang."Why not?"

"Did you know that Greg Sanders has a third nipple?"

"WHAT?! I thought he had a metal ball!"

"Greg Sanders has a
metal ball?"

"Greg Sanders has a
third nipple?"



"But how do you

"Everyone was talking about it fifth period."

"What did they say?"

"Apparently it's right below his left one. But DON'T TELL."

I think we all know where this is going.

"Did you know that Greg Sanders has a third nipple?"

"AND a metal ball!"

"Man that sucks."

"Yeah, like how does he go through the metal detector at the airport?"

"At least with a third nipple you never have to worry about your baby being hungry."

"He's a

"Oh. Right."

"Man that sucks."

"At least if someone kicks him in the balls, it would hurt
them instead of him."

"Yeah, and if he ever gets really, really poor, he can just sell his metal ball. He'd still have the other one."

"It's not made of

"I heard it was made of copper."

"Shhh...Greg's coming."

"Hey guys, what's up?"

"Just the usual...Honest Abe."

"Ugh, not the metal ball thing again. I TOLD YOU MY BALLS ARE AS NORMAL AS THEY COME!"

"But what about your nipples, are they as normal as they come?"

"Okay, WHO told you that?!"

"So it's true?"

"NO! I do NOT have a third nipple!"


"It's a


"It's a
growth that merely resembles a nipple. But technically, it's NOT a nipple."

"Can we see it?"

"Just for justification purposes."

"And I've never seen three nipples before. Well, I've seen three
separate nipples, obviously, but not three together, in a trio."

"I'll only show you if you stop calling it a third nipple. It's a



"There. You saw."

"Well Greg, by revealing yourself to us, you have proved us wrong about the third nipple. I mean...
the growth. We won't gossip about it anymore."


"Now about that metal ball..."

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Natasha Ferrier and the Mystery of...the VooDoo Doll

Everyone has had a teacher whom they absolutely despise. The teacher who makes you wanna scream. The teacher who makes you wanna hurl. The teacher who makes you wanna yell, "YOU SUCK!" in the middle of class. The teacher who makes you wanna yell, "TRUE DAT!" right after the kid who had the guts to yell, "YOU SUCK!" in the middle of class. The teacher who you can't even get away from once you leave school, because then you have nightmares featuring teach-who-must-not-be-named. The teacher who makes you wanna pour a vat-load of applesauce into her chair. The teacher who's butt jiggles like a vat-load of applesauce. The teacher who's so dumb, she actually believes that applesauce comes in 'vat-loads.' The teacher who you make a little voodoo doll out of and torture, desperately praying she's feeling every punch, poke, poop (the dog's of course...), and pinch. At least that's what I did.

"Man, I HATE Ms. Glover."

"Ha, more like Ms. Run For Cover."

"Okay that was lame."

"Yeah, but I still hate her."

"Yeah she sucks."

"Really sucks."

"Man! She sucks!"

"Really really sucks."

"Yeah she's stupid."

"Really stupid."

"Man! She's stupid!"

"Really really---"

"Okay that's enough."

"I wish we could, like, put a curse on her."

"Yeah, or like, get a thingy where you stick the pins in it and stuff."

"I have one!"

"A thingy?"

"A voodoo doll!"


"Yes! Hold on...VOILA!"

"Wow...who is it supposed to be?"

"I don't know, I've never actually made it be a person. I just find it kind of creepy if I made it someone and then sat in my room by myself sticking pins and tacks in it to put that person in severe pain, all while laughing maniacally and feeling no guilt whatsoever."

"Good point."

"But that means we can make it Ms. Glover!"


"Okay, you...are...Ms...Glover....NOW!"

"Is that how you do it?"

"I mean, yeah."

"Now what do we do?"

"Whatever we want."




"Way to go...keep up the good---"


"Hang in're doin---"


"Spanish...way to use your resources..."


"Okay, I think we're running out of synonyms now."

"Really? Was tum-tum not intimidating?"

"No, you were doing great! It just loses the whole "scary-torture" effect when you're using the vocabulary of a toddler."


"But it was cool when you said the Spanish one!"


"Yeah, it made it seem more like a spell."

"Yeah, I was debating on whether to use that one or not."

"Nice. Soooo...what do we do now?"


"What was that?"

"The broom just fell. I'll get it...GASP!"

"What? What?"


"A product of...GASP!"

"Glover Industries."


We never knew what it was that made the broom suddenly tip over that cold October night. Was it the wind? A mouse? Could be. Or it could have been something else...something beyond our control...all I know is, after we had thrown the doll out of our sight and vowed never to do magic again for as long as we lived, something had not felt the same way we did. For the following morning, as I strolled into Room #341 and prepared myself for another one of Ms. Glover's painfully lulling lectures, I noticed that the woman standing at the front of the classroom was not Ms. Glover.

"Good morning, class. Ms. Glover will be out today due to a severe...STOMACH ACHE."


Saturday, December 15, 2007

Babysitters from Hell

The last time I babysat, a number of things happened that really just shouldn't of happened. First, the kids' mom decides she is going to stay home to "observe" me as I watched the little tykes. Way lay on the pressure there, lady. Next, the kid throws a glass candle holder at my forehead. Then, he pulls down his pants, grabs his little sister's hand, and starts screaming, "Touch my wee-wee! Touch my wee-wee!" At this, the mom decides it is an appropriate time to intervene, but instead of saying, "Stop committing incest." or "Flashing is illegal." she simply states, "Remember Johny, we don't call it a wee-wee, we call is a penis." as if saying the correct term for it makes it okay to whip it out without warning. Last, the boy takes out a book with a menorah on the cover, and his mother explains, "Oh yes, we're Jewish." to where I reply, "Oh! Do you know Betsy?" as if her being Jewish means she must know every OTHER Jew there is in the world. It was even worse when she politely answered, "Sorry, no." giving me the cue to say, "Oh, well she's my Jewish friend." GOOD. GOD. Could I BE more of an idiot? I think I can safely blame my brief absence in brains on the previous boinking of the candle holder or the R-rated full-frontal of a minor. It was at that moment I made the crucial decision to never babysit again, until I got paid. That's right, FIFTEEN BIG ONES, BABY! And it was at THAT moment I decided that if were to pursue this destiny, I would never be like the babysitters that I had as a child, because a lot of them just...sucked.

Nancy, the chef
"Nancy, I'm hungry."

"Well I'm making lunch right now."


"It's not for you, it's for me."

"Oh, well can I have some, please?"


"But I'm so hungry!"

"Did you eat breakfast?"


"Then you don't need any more food."

"But breakfast was a long time ago."

"You shouldn't be hungry."

"But all I had was a popsicle!"

"That should last you until tomorrow."

"But Mommy lets me eat more than one time a day."

"So? You've eaten for the day, you don't get anything else. Now go away so I can make my toasted ham and cheese melt and my french fries and my strawberry-banana smoothie."

Laura, the football fan
"Do you want to watch some T.V.?"


"What do you want to watch?"


"Oh, there's a football game on right now. Barney will come on after it, I'm sure."

"But this isn't the Barney channel."


"Okay...can I have a snack?"

"Sure, have some grapes."

"Thank you."



"It's okay, sweetie. The game is almost over. Then we can play a game."



Marge, the tattoo artist
"What's that on your ankle, Miss Marge?"

"It's a sea lion."

"What's that underneath it?"

"That says "Larry."

"Is Larry the sea lion's name?"

"No, Larry was my husband until he came home drunk one night at 3 in the morning and held a gun to my head and told me he was gonna shoot me but then I kicked him in the groin and called the cops and they came and arrested the piece of crap and now he's in jail so I'm gonna get it removed once my other ex-husband decides to obey the law and pay child support."

"What's a groin?"

Lily, the one who refused to help me use the toilet
"Lily, will you help me use the toilet?"

"Eww, no."

Where are these girls now? If only I knew...for if I knew I'd tell them that to be a babysitter, you must set a positive example for the child, for she will look up to you and model herself after you, and that they are lucky that I turned out to be normal after they mistreated me and made me feel little and unimportant, for a babysitter is not only a sitter of babies, but a role model for growing children around the world. Or I'd just honk their nose and pull their underwear over their head.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Fashion PoPo

Picture an old wrinkly dwarf with a beard that drags across the floor collecting who knows what with a schnoz the size of your granny's panties. That was me that fine Tuesday morning. No, no, no, I do not mean I was Natasha the eighth dwarf with chesticles, I mean I was in a great mood that day. You know...dwarfs are all merry and singing "Hi-ho, hi-ho" even though they work in a filthy mine doomed to collapse one of these days causing Bashful to become Smashful and Grumpy to become Stumpy. Anyway, I was the one singing "Hi-ho" that day, because I had woken up in a pleasantly wonderful mood. I liked my hair, my make-up looked swell, and I was especially pleased with my outfit. Yes, nothing could go wrong today.

"Is it tacky day today?"

This was the first thing said to me that fine Tuesday morning.

"Hey! Love the costume!"

This was the second thing said to me that fine Tuesday morning.

"What are YOU supposed to be?"

This was the third thing said to me that fine. Tuesday. Morning.

"Hey, you're a Goth, right?"


"Why didn't anyone tell me it was Dress Like The Devil Day?"

Ahhh...those were the days. I will always miss the days we teeny-boppers could wear whatever we wanted, before the new dress code ever even existed. Before we all looked like clones of a middle-aged mom out for an afternoon of tennis. Before we didn't get sent to detention for forgetting to stuff our shirts down the front of our pants.

"Hey, what you guys in for?"

"Dealin' crack durin' lunch."

"Pimpin' prostitutes in P.E."

"Wearin' the wrong shade of khaki."

"Standard school attire" leads to conforming, which leads to communism, which leads to war, which leads to death, which leads to the end of the world. Why doesn't anyone see that? I'm talking about the END OF THE WORLD here, people. But that's not nearly as sad as the fact that I don't get asked if I worship Satan anymore. The guy who used to wear the leather trench coat no longer gets mistaken for a serial killer. And the girl with the bunny ears and cotton tail? No...people still think she's a slut.

The Missing Pants

When it comes to school bathrooms, there are two types of people: those who dare to take a dump, and those who don't. When you immediately detect the foul stench upon entering the bathroom, what do you think? Do you think, "Wow, that's gross." NO. You think, "Man, that person had a lot of balls." Because if you decide to empty your bowels during school, people are gonna know, and they're gonna talk. Why? Because people have no lives and the most interesting topic of conversation is of course, 'hey, who took a shit in the bathroom in the math hallway?' The utter embarrassment of it all not only includes the people who immediately vacate the stall next door, but the ones who walk into the stall screaming, "EEUUUHH! IT STANKS IN HERE!" And then comes the moment when you eventually must leave the stall you are in, and face the people who stayed a couple minutes longer just to see who exactly it was that was making those noises that come from one place and one place only. So I'd like to recognize the courageous ones who couldn't wait until they got home, who didn't mind stinking up an entire bathroom with one visit, who have done it once and will do it again. And again. And again. This one's for you, public-poopers. May the stench be with you.

"I feel awkward changing in front of all these people."

"Just change in the stall."

"Good idea."

At the time it had in fact seemed like a good idea, until...

"I'm sorry, I have to come in."

"I...what? Hey...!"

"I'm sorry. I have to lock the door."


Not only was I crammed into a stall, I was now crammed into a stall with a girl I did not even know. We were close. Awkwardly close. And she had locked the door. Two girls. One stall. This was definitely not right.

"Excuse me."

"Where are you going?"

"I need to get out."


"This stall ain't big enough for the both of us."

At the time, leaving the stall seemed like the perfectly logical thing to do, but once I had escaped, I immediately wished to turn back.


The girl washing her hands at the sink seemed to be missing something.


Her pants.


A considerably large girl standing in front of a considerably large mirror with a considerably small pair of underwear.


As if awkwardly saying the word 'pants' would make them appear on the girl. I realized she could see me staring through the reflection in the mirror. It probably looked like I was just starting at her butt. Her pantless butt.


The girl just smiled at me. Where exactly were her pants? I looked around. They were nowhere to be seen.






I wonder what goes on in the boy's bathroom...