Let's go back to the basics. Remember those elementary school journal entries you used to have to write?
"Alright, class," your teacher with the red scrunchie begins.
You're nine years old, so you've already stopped paying attention when she said "Al." Now you're making a building out of pencil shavings, until you realize why thin slices of wood are not commonly used for construction. Your building is flat, but you don't care. You're already focused on a new project.
Now you're drawing a picture of two clouds. They're in love. You know they're in love because you've drawn them with a pink gel pen, and pink means romance. You call your masterpiece "Puffy Love," and then you remember your teacher was saying something.
"First, next, then, last," she finishes.
"Boggles," you think, because you're nine and haven't been introduced to the wonders of profanity yet.
"Alright, class, begin writing."
"Eggo," you mutter around your breath as a substitute for the profound aforementioned "boggles," because you're a kid, and kids make up shit.
"First...next...then...last...okay, I got this," you think to yourself.
In honor of childhood, this is the construction of writing I am going to use for my following story of how my writing class went tonight.
First, everyone thought I was a lesbian.
"Did you all participate in the 'Coming Out' affair last week?" my teacher asks us as we shuffle into the room in a punctual fashion.
"What?" I ask, setting down my bag and pushing my buttocks into my fucking awesome swivel-chair.
"It was a Gay Pride festival. Supporters were supposed to wear purple."
"UGH, why don't I ever know about this stuff?" I whine, swiveling around like the windshield wiper-blades of a car. (In college, this is acceptable when seated in a swivel-chair. However, a full 360-degree-turn would be seen as childish and distracting. Stick to my method. Remember these words. If you must swivel, then swivel you must. But do it like wiper-blades in a rain shower. Not like donuts in an abandoned parking lot.)
"Why, did you want to come out?" asks a fellow peer of mine, one whom I have never spoken to this entire semester.
"Yeah, I strongly support that. I would have been there had I known."
"Oh?"
"Wait...I mean I wanted to "come out," not come...out..."
"It's okay, no one is judging you here," he says, throwing his hands in the air like he's about to surrender.
"This is ridiculous. Defending my sexuality in the middle of class," I retort, slinking into my seat and crossing my arms.
"It's fine, I support gays," he says reassuringly.
My teacher clears her throat and switches the topic. Before I can even retaliate. And I wasn't even going to, BECAUSE WHY IS THIS EVEN A DISCUSSION RIGHT NOW? "I am straight" is not something I planned to alert my class of when I began this semester. Can you imagine? Someone in class shouting,
"I am a heterosexual!"
Wow! Good for you! While we're on the topic of useless information, I have a vagina! Did you need to know that? Are you planning to do anything with it? Do you realize that you are paying to be here, which means you basically just paid a college university to know what lies beyond Natasha Ferrier's zipper? I see no reason for this unless it's Vagina Awareness Month. Which by the way, DOESN'T EXIST.
So then I just sat there, wondering if everyone now believed me to be a lesbian. There's a plus side to that; boys would leave me alone, but there's also that downside of any female I spoke to would probably think I was hitting on her. And I couldn't really bring it up later, because that would seem obsessive. I thought of dropping subtle hints reeking of stereotypes, like maybe I could shout:
"I hate Xena."
or,
"Bruce Willis and Jodie Foster would make a great couple don't you think?"
But besides the fact that Xena the Warrior Princess is butch and Jodie Foster is actually a lesbian, I couldn't think of anything else to prove that I like men. Except maybe:
"Anyone around here got a penis? I really need one."
But after the whole gay-mix-up, they'd probably think I was referring to strap-ons, and not actual danglies. See? The whole thing was just one, big predicament. Pre-DICK-ament. Damn, I'm clever.
Next, some guy passed out on my desk.
The one who now thought I liked V-to-V friction based on his earlier inquiry suddenly swiveled over to my desk and paused beside me. Then he looked over. And began to stare.
I don't like to give in to "the stare." Usually, if I think someone is staring at me, I try my hardest to act like I have no idea what is going on, while also pretending that I have seen something truly remarkable lying on the floor below. Do you know why I do this? Because I always get caught staring. I zone out, don't even realize I've begun staring at someone, and then they look at me like I'm a weirdo, and it hits me that I've been gazing at them and possibly drooling due to the "zoning out" bit. OR - I'll look over at someone for one fucking glance, and they happen to look over one millisecond after my glance, and then they assume I've been looking at them this whole time. Fucking. Bullshit.
"I can smell it from here."
"What?!" I finally look over at him.
"Your Red Bull. I love that smell."
"OHHH...my Red Bull, yes, yes..."
You might wanna mention what the hell you're talking about the next time you turn to a girl and say, "I can smell it from here." Good god man.
"JAGER-BOMBS!"
"Bill, shush," my teacher says to him, since he has taken the liberty to literally shout this in class.
"Yep, you caught me. I'm getting drunk in class," I say, dryly.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Alright, I know I can be funny at times, but I'm gonna have to be the first to admit here that making a joke that I'm getting drunk is NOT worth a full-fledged fit of gigglies. Or whatever it is men do. Chuckle? Who cares. Moving on.
He then takes out his pack of cigarettes and puts one in his mouth. He sits there. Cig-in-mouth. But does not light it. Suddenly, his eyelids seem to become very heavy, and his head starts to bob up and down. This guy. Is dozing off. Just like that. One minute he's laughing way too loud, and then BAM! Snoozing. His entire body begins to sway with his head, and not to the left - toward the board - but to the right, toward me. Bobbing...bobbing...leaning....leaning...
DONE. Head hits my desk. He lays there for a good three minutes, than WAHOO! He springs up. If this was a horror movie, I'd title it, Attack of the Human Slinky! Except this wasn't a horror movie. This was night class.
SMACK!
Slinky has now began smacking himself in the face. And no, not once.
SMACK!
...I'm beginning to wonder if I'm the only one seeing this...
SMACK!
...I'm beginning to wonder if I could just smack him, myself...
SMACK!
"Bill! Please. Control yourself," my teacher strains, remaining much calmer than I could have in that situation.
Slinky immediately turns to me ad starts talking again, loudly.
"Do I need to separate you two?" my teacher asks, interrupting her own lecture.
WHAT - THE FUCK. I'm not even doing anything. First, I'm a lesbian, and now I'm being accused of flirting with unconscious-pain-lover. "Separate us?" Am I in middle school? Did he yank my ponytail and start snickering as I whined, "Stawwwwwwwwpppppp!" No. But luckily, this made him swivel yonder, back to his own seat on the opposite side of the classroom. So really, I have my teacher to thank.
Then, Slinky takes me to a graveyard.
"Alright, class, let's take a ten-minute break."
FINALLY. I've had enough of this guy.
"Hey, you going outside for break?"
Shit. NEVERMIND THEN.
Slinky follows me outside and then plops right next to me as I take a seat on a bench. He strikes up a casual conversation about some girl he had hit on earlier (alright, so maybe that isn't "casual," but it's far more normal than taking a nap on my keyboard), and as I turn to respond and then glance away, he interrupts me.
"Look at me again."
"Uhhh..." I cautiously turn my head back toward him.
"You have. The most gorgeous eyes. I have ever seen."
God. Damnit.
"Thank you."
"They're green with little flecks of blue..."
"Yes. They are. That color."
I'm really bad with compliments from people WHO I DON'T FUCKING KNOW.
"And I can tell, you're not wearing any make-up."
"Nope. I don't usually wear make-up to class."
"Wow. Whoever your boyfriend is - and I assume you have a boyfriend - he is one lucky guy."
Alright, dude. You think I'm stupid. You think I don't know that "declaration" of yours was really a question in disguise? I'm not playing these games. We will sit. In silence. Until you cut. The bullshit.
"You are naturally gorgeous...and so smart...the things you say in class..."
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON. The things I say in class? You mean when I just unintentionally convinced everyone I'm a homosexual? Yeah, that was realllll smart of me.
Thankfully, he stops and starts staring into space. I immediately decide that this guy is on something. Really. This is was not a sober encounter on his part.
"Come here, I want to show you something," he suddenly leaps up and begins walking. Away from the building that our class is in. Away from campus. And toward a graveyard.
I do not get up. I'm unnaturally paranoid, and this realization makes itself evident when I find that I have subconsciously slid my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the pepper spray that I keep on my keys.
And then I get up. Because I'm retarded.
"It's just over here, I promise. We'll only be a few minutes late back to class..."
I begin to follow. Because I'm retarded.
"Wow, I can't believe you're actually following me."
Uh, way to make this ten times creepier, man.
"It's okay. If you attack me, I'm prepared to defend myself."
See? Unnaturally paranoid. And yes, I did actually say this. Without thinking about it first. Which is probably something I should work on. They tell you to "speak your mind" but they left out the part that sometimes when you do, you get attacked by a hoodlum.
"What?!" he laughs, obviously not taking me seriously. Thankfully, we stop just outside the graveyard and he shows me a sign. Then we head back to class.
Last, we all figure out he's wasted.
I just gave the ending away there, didn't I?
"I can't believe our professor told us to separate," Slinky reminds me, "We don't even know each other and it's like we're already great friends."
Keep in mind - I've been in class for over three months now, and this guy has never spoken a word to me. So why today? BECAUSE HE'S FUCKED UP ON SOMETHING. I'm telling you, he's wasted. Shit. I already told you that, didn't I? Just pretend like you don't know.
Slinky leaves class once, and finally someone says something.
"IS HE HIGH?"
He had been yelling out random things all night. When we were talking about how to write a newspaper column for our next assignment, this is what he said:
"When I was a newspaper boy, I used to throw the papers to bust out the street lights. One time, I got one!"
This man is thirty years old. By the way.
"I don't know," my teacher sighs. "I just don't know. I'm going to have to talk to him later."
He returns, and I did my best not to make eye contact with him, then immediately regretted it when I heard my teacher say,
"BILL. Button up your shirt."
What? It took me everything to not turn around. What had he been doing in the bathroom? Was his shirt all the way unbuttoned? It definitely wasn't just a couple, or my teacher would not have commanded him to fix it.
Ten minutes later, and he gets up and leaves again.
"You can smell it from here."
"Yeah, it reeks."
I turn around to find the two girls that sit beside him pointing to his gigantic, red water jug.
"He's definitely drinking. His breath is pure alcohol after he takes a sip from that thing."
Aha. So I was right. And that's it. That mere conclusion sums up my entire two-and-a-half-hour class this evening. Here lies the problem with the "first, then, next, last" method. There's something lacking. Is that really the last of it? Let's add something. Let's add...and yet.
And yet...they all still think I'm a lesbian.
"Natasha Ferrier is absolutely HILARIOUS." - Natasha Ferrier, self-quoter
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Do The Kittens Have Large Talons?
"Guess what! I'm getting a kitten!"
(This is me, being irrational but acting like I'm being rational.)
"Natasha."
(This is my sister, sighing my name as if she's about to respond with something rational.)
"What?"
(This is me, already knowing what she's going to say but pretending not to know.)
"How are you gonna take care of a kitten? You can't even take care of yourself."
(This is my sister doing exactly as I predicted previously.)
"Oh my GOD, just because I wear diapers does not mean I can't take care of myself. It means I can take care of myself and I can take care of diaper-disposal."
(This is me, making an immature joke about walking around in my feces because I already know she's going to win this argument.)
"You can't even afford to feed yourself. How are you going to feed a kitten?"
(Don't you just hate that? When people make sense? It's so pretentious.)
"Well, I already told the woman I'd pick up her kitten tomorrow so ha-HA!"
(This is me "making sense." Please note that making sense and "making sense" are two completely different things.)
No one seemed to agree with my brilliant plan of owning a pet. Amidst my discussions with people of Mission Meow, many words seemed to work their way into the debate. Words such as:
Irresponsible.
As in, "You're too irresponsible."
Shit.
As in, "The last time you had a kitten, you let it shit everywhere."
God damn shit.
As in, "You also never cleaned up its god damn shit."
And honky.
As in, "Look at that honky eatin' some damn noodles!"
I don't know how that last one got into the cat-conversation. Now that I think about it, I think that was a different conversation altogether. Actually, that may have never even been said until just now.
Regardless, I knew this time would be different from the last. One, I am 21-years-old now, which is basically 43, so I'm certainly at the maturity level to care for an animal. Two, I don't live with roommates who have shit for heads. I know they would not give away my kitten while I was away in class, without telling me, LIKE THE LAST MOTHER FUCKERS DID. And three, please refer to reasons one and two.
But, everyone was advising me not to. And I knew they were right. And I knew they were rational. And I knew I was wrong. I knew I wasn't ready. Maybe I would be in the future, but not now. I knew that patience is a virtue, and there will always be kittens out there for me to make my own. I knew...I should wait.
(This is me, being irrational but acting like I'm being rational.)
"Natasha."
(This is my sister, sighing my name as if she's about to respond with something rational.)
"What?"
(This is me, already knowing what she's going to say but pretending not to know.)
"How are you gonna take care of a kitten? You can't even take care of yourself."
(This is my sister doing exactly as I predicted previously.)
"Oh my GOD, just because I wear diapers does not mean I can't take care of myself. It means I can take care of myself and I can take care of diaper-disposal."
(This is me, making an immature joke about walking around in my feces because I already know she's going to win this argument.)
"You can't even afford to feed yourself. How are you going to feed a kitten?"
(Don't you just hate that? When people make sense? It's so pretentious.)
"Well, I already told the woman I'd pick up her kitten tomorrow so ha-HA!"
(This is me "making sense." Please note that making sense and "making sense" are two completely different things.)
No one seemed to agree with my brilliant plan of owning a pet. Amidst my discussions with people of Mission Meow, many words seemed to work their way into the debate. Words such as:
Irresponsible.
As in, "You're too irresponsible."
Shit.
As in, "The last time you had a kitten, you let it shit everywhere."
God damn shit.
As in, "You also never cleaned up its god damn shit."
And honky.
As in, "Look at that honky eatin' some damn noodles!"
I don't know how that last one got into the cat-conversation. Now that I think about it, I think that was a different conversation altogether. Actually, that may have never even been said until just now.
Regardless, I knew this time would be different from the last. One, I am 21-years-old now, which is basically 43, so I'm certainly at the maturity level to care for an animal. Two, I don't live with roommates who have shit for heads. I know they would not give away my kitten while I was away in class, without telling me, LIKE THE LAST MOTHER FUCKERS DID. And three, please refer to reasons one and two.
But, everyone was advising me not to. And I knew they were right. And I knew they were rational. And I knew I was wrong. I knew I wasn't ready. Maybe I would be in the future, but not now. I knew that patience is a virtue, and there will always be kittens out there for me to make my own. I knew...I should wait.
BUT I DID IT ANYWAY. Ha-HA! SUCK IT.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
We're Goin' With Eggplant
It's 12:19am, and I can't sleep. I've been able to come up with a few reasons this inability to render myself unconscious is occurring. I'm having trouble sleeping because either:
A. My mind is exploding with genius ideas and advanced epiphanies that are so complicated and brilliant that my mind is unable to shut itself off.
or:
B. I drank a 20oz Red Bull an hour ago.
If you guessed A, I'm extremely flattered, but not at all impressed with your ignorance - or convinced of your current sobriety, for that matter. You obviously are having trouble reading small print. Don't drive anywhere tonight.
If you guessed B, I'm extremely insulted, and not at all impressed with your dyslexia. Fcuk yuo.
I just reeled you in to a lose-lose situation, which seems to be the one I am in right now. Maybe I can't sleep because I'm sitting at my computer typing. Yet I'm sitting at my computer typing because I can't sleep. Alright, enough with the tongue-twisters disguised as abstract concepts. Let's get to the bottom of this.
I can't sleep because I have a lot on my mind.
1. This week's work schedule was posted today. I'm working 67 hours. My free time this week will consist of the minute it takes me to get out of bed.
2. George Carlin is dead. No one cared to tell me this back in 2008 when it actually occurred.
3. Why is there still talk about changing Cookie Monster to Veggie Monster? What the hell is wrong with Cookie Monster?
I'm going to focus on Number 3 for the remainder of my rambling.
For the past few years, there has been talk that Cookie Monster from Sesame Street (I find those last three words to be completely unnecessary, but I felt the need to specify which Cookie Monster I was speaking of, in case you knew another Cookie Monster. Which, by the way, would be really fucking weird.) will be replaced with Veggie Monster. They say that Veggie Monster would eat vegetables (again, an unnecessary statement) and he would be orange. Already, I'm a little pissed off.
Orange? Orange? FIRST OF ALL, if someone were to say, "Name a food that's orange," are you going to say carrot? No. When someone says, "Name a food that's orange," you're going to say, "ORANGE." And an orange is a what, boys and girls? IT'S A FRUIT. And Veggie Monster does not eat fruit, because then he would be called Fruity Monster, and if parents are going to find a reason to complain about Cookie Monster, they sure as hell are gonna find a reason to complain about a character named "Fruity Monster."
SECOND OF ALL, vegetables aren't mainly orange. They're mainly green. Why wouldn't Veggie Monster be green? Sense just isn't as common as it once was.
However, this transformation has not occurred. Instead, Cookie Monster has been acting healthier on the show, saying things such as, "Cookies are a sometimes snack" and that he also likes "fruits and eggplant."
FIRST OF ALL, eggplant? What? Fruits and eggplant? How did THAT one get written in the script?
"John, great script for this next show, but I have one problem."
"What, Dick?"
"Well, here on page 4, you have Cookie Monster saying he likes fruits and vegetables."
"Well, didn't you say we had to make him eat healthier?"
"Yeah...but...vegetables?"
"I mean...that's healthy...and something kids never want to eat..."
"Yeah yeah, I'm just not feelin' it, John."
"We could change it to carrots? Or broccoli?"
"Ehhhhhh....nah. I was thinking something more along the lines of "eggplant." "
"Eggplant?"
"Yeah yeah, eggplant. Fruits and eggplant."
"But what parent serves their kid eggpl---"
"Look, John, eggplants are good."
"Well sure they are, but..."
"We're goin' with eggplant."
"So you want me to change "fruits" to something more specific, too?"
"Ehhhhh...nah. Fruits and eggplant is good. Has a nice ring to it. May make a good song in a later episode. Yeah yeah. Fruits and eggplant."
SECOND OF ALL, when I started googling "cookie monster saying," the little bar dropped down showing me suggestions to finish my statement. My options were "cookie monster sayings," "cookie monster saying me love cookies," and "cookie monster saying what the hell is this crap." I don't believe I remember Cookie Monster ever asking that last one.
Now, don't think they may not remove Cookie Monster. Amidst my detailed research of the popular children's educational program, I came across a few interesting facts. It turns out they have taken characters off the show.
Take Don Music, for example. He loved music. He even played the piano. However, many parents started complaining when their children started imitating Don Music at home. They would play the piano, just like Don Music did, get frustrated, just like Don Music did, and then start violently banging their head against the piano - just like Don Music did. I can only imagine those newspaper headlines.
"8-YEAR OLD SELF-INFLICTS A MINOR CONCUSSION AFTER SESAME STREET EPISODE. PUPPETEERS PERMANENTLY REMOVE THEIR FISTS FROM INSIDE DON MUSIC"
So my final question is: Why Don Music? Why Cookie Monster? Are they the only characters on the show who are a bit controversial? What about all the others? Let's say I'm a concerned, uptight, anal parent, and I sit down to watch Sesame Street with my child. Cue the paranoia. Let the over-analyzing begin.
Big Bird - Big Bird? As in, giving someone "the bird?" As in saying "fuck you?" Or "fuck off?" So his real name is, "Big Fuck Off?" And why is it big? Why is his middle finger a big middle finger? Is it because he has big hands? Which means he has a big penis? My child is learning from a character who is BASICALLY named Big Penis?
Oscar the Grouch - Now, who is that green character, honey? And why is he in a trash can? He lives there? And why is he being mean to Big Bird? He's always mean? Well what does he have against Big Bird? He's mean to everybody? So he doesn't have a home and he's always in a bad mood? He's what? He's homeless and miserable? Except when he what? When he drinks? Junior! Where did you hear such things?! What? Daddy did NOT say that. Daddy isn't homeless.
The Count - Cannibal.
Snuffleupagus - Created on an acid trip.
Bert and Ernie - Too obvious.
Elmo - You want a what for Christmas? A Tickle-Me-WHAT?! Oh, oh, you said El-mo. Elmo, from Sesame Street? Oh, how great! So what does this Elmo toy do? Does he recite the alphabet? Does he sing happy sing-a-longs? He what? He asks you to tickle him? And then what? Right, right...but then what does he do? He giggles? He giggles and asks for more? Well, where do you tickle him? ANYWHERE?! Is that all this toy does?! He just asks you to touch him and gives you positive feedback when you touch him ANYWHERE?!
Well, I've officially gotten all my thoughts out. Maybe I can get some good sleep now and wake up to a healthy eggplant breakfast.
A. My mind is exploding with genius ideas and advanced epiphanies that are so complicated and brilliant that my mind is unable to shut itself off.
or:
B. I drank a 20oz Red Bull an hour ago.
If you guessed A, I'm extremely flattered, but not at all impressed with your ignorance - or convinced of your current sobriety, for that matter. You obviously are having trouble reading small print. Don't drive anywhere tonight.
If you guessed B, I'm extremely insulted, and not at all impressed with your dyslexia. Fcuk yuo.
I just reeled you in to a lose-lose situation, which seems to be the one I am in right now. Maybe I can't sleep because I'm sitting at my computer typing. Yet I'm sitting at my computer typing because I can't sleep. Alright, enough with the tongue-twisters disguised as abstract concepts. Let's get to the bottom of this.
I can't sleep because I have a lot on my mind.
1. This week's work schedule was posted today. I'm working 67 hours. My free time this week will consist of the minute it takes me to get out of bed.
2. George Carlin is dead. No one cared to tell me this back in 2008 when it actually occurred.
3. Why is there still talk about changing Cookie Monster to Veggie Monster? What the hell is wrong with Cookie Monster?
I'm going to focus on Number 3 for the remainder of my rambling.
For the past few years, there has been talk that Cookie Monster from Sesame Street (I find those last three words to be completely unnecessary, but I felt the need to specify which Cookie Monster I was speaking of, in case you knew another Cookie Monster. Which, by the way, would be really fucking weird.) will be replaced with Veggie Monster. They say that Veggie Monster would eat vegetables (again, an unnecessary statement) and he would be orange. Already, I'm a little pissed off.
Orange? Orange? FIRST OF ALL, if someone were to say, "Name a food that's orange," are you going to say carrot? No. When someone says, "Name a food that's orange," you're going to say, "ORANGE." And an orange is a what, boys and girls? IT'S A FRUIT. And Veggie Monster does not eat fruit, because then he would be called Fruity Monster, and if parents are going to find a reason to complain about Cookie Monster, they sure as hell are gonna find a reason to complain about a character named "Fruity Monster."
SECOND OF ALL, vegetables aren't mainly orange. They're mainly green. Why wouldn't Veggie Monster be green? Sense just isn't as common as it once was.
However, this transformation has not occurred. Instead, Cookie Monster has been acting healthier on the show, saying things such as, "Cookies are a sometimes snack" and that he also likes "fruits and eggplant."
FIRST OF ALL, eggplant? What? Fruits and eggplant? How did THAT one get written in the script?
"John, great script for this next show, but I have one problem."
"What, Dick?"
"Well, here on page 4, you have Cookie Monster saying he likes fruits and vegetables."
"Well, didn't you say we had to make him eat healthier?"
"Yeah...but...vegetables?"
"I mean...that's healthy...and something kids never want to eat..."
"Yeah yeah, I'm just not feelin' it, John."
"We could change it to carrots? Or broccoli?"
"Ehhhhhh....nah. I was thinking something more along the lines of "eggplant." "
"Eggplant?"
"Yeah yeah, eggplant. Fruits and eggplant."
"But what parent serves their kid eggpl---"
"Look, John, eggplants are good."
"Well sure they are, but..."
"We're goin' with eggplant."
"So you want me to change "fruits" to something more specific, too?"
"Ehhhhh...nah. Fruits and eggplant is good. Has a nice ring to it. May make a good song in a later episode. Yeah yeah. Fruits and eggplant."
SECOND OF ALL, when I started googling "cookie monster saying," the little bar dropped down showing me suggestions to finish my statement. My options were "cookie monster sayings," "cookie monster saying me love cookies," and "cookie monster saying what the hell is this crap." I don't believe I remember Cookie Monster ever asking that last one.
Now, don't think they may not remove Cookie Monster. Amidst my detailed research of the popular children's educational program, I came across a few interesting facts. It turns out they have taken characters off the show.
Take Don Music, for example. He loved music. He even played the piano. However, many parents started complaining when their children started imitating Don Music at home. They would play the piano, just like Don Music did, get frustrated, just like Don Music did, and then start violently banging their head against the piano - just like Don Music did. I can only imagine those newspaper headlines.
"8-YEAR OLD SELF-INFLICTS A MINOR CONCUSSION AFTER SESAME STREET EPISODE. PUPPETEERS PERMANENTLY REMOVE THEIR FISTS FROM INSIDE DON MUSIC"
So my final question is: Why Don Music? Why Cookie Monster? Are they the only characters on the show who are a bit controversial? What about all the others? Let's say I'm a concerned, uptight, anal parent, and I sit down to watch Sesame Street with my child. Cue the paranoia. Let the over-analyzing begin.
Big Bird - Big Bird? As in, giving someone "the bird?" As in saying "fuck you?" Or "fuck off?" So his real name is, "Big Fuck Off?" And why is it big? Why is his middle finger a big middle finger? Is it because he has big hands? Which means he has a big penis? My child is learning from a character who is BASICALLY named Big Penis?
Oscar the Grouch - Now, who is that green character, honey? And why is he in a trash can? He lives there? And why is he being mean to Big Bird? He's always mean? Well what does he have against Big Bird? He's mean to everybody? So he doesn't have a home and he's always in a bad mood? He's what? He's homeless and miserable? Except when he what? When he drinks? Junior! Where did you hear such things?! What? Daddy did NOT say that. Daddy isn't homeless.
The Count - Cannibal.
Snuffleupagus - Created on an acid trip.
Bert and Ernie - Too obvious.
Elmo - You want a what for Christmas? A Tickle-Me-WHAT?! Oh, oh, you said El-mo. Elmo, from Sesame Street? Oh, how great! So what does this Elmo toy do? Does he recite the alphabet? Does he sing happy sing-a-longs? He what? He asks you to tickle him? And then what? Right, right...but then what does he do? He giggles? He giggles and asks for more? Well, where do you tickle him? ANYWHERE?! Is that all this toy does?! He just asks you to touch him and gives you positive feedback when you touch him ANYWHERE?!
Well, I've officially gotten all my thoughts out. Maybe I can get some good sleep now and wake up to a healthy eggplant breakfast.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Bigfoot Ain't Got Nothin' On Me
The older you get, the more difficult it is to get away with things. This is a sad fact. Another sad fact is that Maurice Sendak passed away this week, and another is that there is only one person in the entire world who has been able to get away with a giant red afro. Props to Annie.
I'm not here to give you sad facts. I'm here to tell you that as years are added to your existence, the number of escape routes is subtracted. I'm here to tell you that I miss middle school.
Yes, middle school. Yes, I went from talking about death to musical homeless children to seventh grade in a matter of seconds. You know that thing called structure? That thing called organization? Relevance? Yeah, you won't find that here. If you want that, go read the dictionary.
Middle school is the last time I can remember where I could truly get away with anything. NO, I'm not going to backtrack all the way to the days of being a drooling baby. That's just too obvious. Everyone gets away with anything when they're a slobbering one-sixth of a human being. And if you are not one of these people, if you are one of the few who got plopped down in The Naughty Highchair every time you shit your shit-holder, then I'm truly sorry. That means you got punished three times a day for the first 3 years of your life. That means you got ridiculed 1,095 times before you even learned to keep your saliva in your mouth. Not to mention the giant rash I'm sure you acquired from being in a seated position for the majority of your life. I feel for you. I can't even handle the two bug bites I currently bear that are located in the crevice of my left buttcheek and my upper thigh. Do you know what that's like? To be forced to endure an itchy crevice in a spot you can't publicly scratch? Because no, I'm not going to walk around clenching the bottom of my ass. I'd have to bend over a little bit sideways and a little bit backwards, first of all, then I'd have to inch my fingernails in between the cheek and the leg, second of all, then I'd have to clench my hand in and out repeatedly, third of all. I refuse to do that. And I refuse to continue talking about it.
Ah, middle school. When I think back to middle school, I don't think back to 5th and 6th grade. Those were the days of furry shirts and being told I needed to start shaving my legs, because my knees were apparently very hairy. One of my teachers actually started calling me "Hairy" whenever he saw me, because my friend informed him of my Bigfootesque knees. Even after I gave in and started shaving, he still called me Hairy. I don't care. Really. I don't. Nope, don't care. I'm talking about it 10 years later BECAUSE I don't care. Bigfoot ain't got nothin' on me.
There are three things I miss most about middle school: things that my friends and I could get away with it, things that I know for a fact I could NOT get away with now.
In middle school, you could get away with...
1. Pushing People Into Other People
I'm not being figurative here. I'm not talking about "pushing the envelope" or "if push comes to shove" - I'm talking about "pushing the person next to you" and "pushing and shoving are the same damn thing." I don't know how it began, but I know that it provided days and days of entertainment. I don't care if our world becomes ruled by robots and 3D life-size Tamagotchis - people getting slightly injured will always be funny. It's pretty self-explanatory, but in case it isn't, I'll self-explain it.
You're walking down the hall with a friend. You're heading to class; you're going east. Someone passes the two of you. This person is carrying books in both hands, and they just happen to be heading west. You're on the outside of your friend. You see this as a perfect opportunity. Without hesitation, without contemplation or notification, you ram your left shoulder into your friend hard enough to send your innocent and inattentive amigo directly into the person walking past the two of you. BAM! The two collide. The other person, the one who doesn't go around searching for chances to ram their buddies into other people, drops all of their things, or says "OW!" or starts crying, or gives you a dirty look, or exclaims, "I'M TELLING!" Any one of these reactions is THE reaction you were going for. You find this just hilarious that you just upset a clueless pedestrian, and even hurt them a little. Did they deserve it? Probably not. But that's part of the humor. Your friend starts cracking up, as well. "You really got me that time!" they say, knowingly dedicating the rest of their school day to getting you back. And you eagerly await it.
Of course it started with pushing each other into boys we liked. Then that became boring (cute boys in middle school aren't really a plentiful bunch), so we decided to just start pushing each other into anyone who could walk (a much larger group to pick from), then even that became mundane (they all started to walk as far away from us as possible once they caught onto our antics), and so the last group left for us to target were our teachers. We soon discovered that teachers don't react in the same way as fellow classmates. Fellow classmates can't send you to the principal's office.
That one ended fast.
In middle school, you could get away with...
2. Shoving Pillows Under Your Shirts and Making Fun of Fat People
Well, I just kind of gave that one away, didn't I? I thought of titling it "being really, really mean" - but that's not really something I wish I could get away with now. I vividly remember one specific sleepover with a bunch of girls (obviously I didn't attend sleepovers with a bunch of boys), and a certain somebody got brought up. We did not like this girl because she used to pay boys to allow her to call them things like "honey buns" and "baby poo." I'm sure if this girl made a list like this of her own, that would be on it. It's certainly a habit you cannot get away with later in life. Or ever, for that matter. It wasn't a very successful tactic.
This girl was not fat. But since she was heavier than any of us, we came to the consensus that she was a gigantic heifer. (Please remember, we were in middle school.)
Again, who started it? Who knows. What matters is that once one pillow was shoved up one shirt, it took two seconds for six different pillows to be shoved up six different shirts. Six girls, waddling around like sumo wrestlers, speaking in deep voices (which made absolutely no sense since we were making fun of a prepubescent female), rubbing our pillow-tummies and climbing up onto things like monkeys. Yes, we were climbing. One by one, we would mount ourselves up onto the back of a chair, or the back of a couch, and we would shout "I'M BETSYYYYY! BE MY HONEY BUNS!" and we'd leap off of the couch and land on our stomach, cushioned by the pillow. It really did not hold much reason at all, since "Betsy" was not known to climb up onto things and belly-flop onto the ground, but this mattered not. All we knew was we had pillows stuffed in our shirts, and the only logical thing to do was bounce around on them.
In middle school, you could get away with...
3. Not Wearing Shoes
I must admit, I never personally experienced this one. But just because I did not partake in it does not mean I did not witness it. One of my closest friends in middle school randomly started this habit of not wearing her shoes at school. She would arrive to school with them on, yes, but as soon as she stepped into that building, some ever-powerful being was telling her:
"Take off your shoes...just take 'em off...who needs shoes...the floor is so cold...it feels so good on your hot feet...socks are enough...who needs shoes when you have socks..."
One minute we'd be walking to class, and the next thing you knew, we were at a standstill.
"Hold on."
"No, we're gonna be late! Did you forget something?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"I forgot to take off my shoes."
"What?"
"I have to go put my shoes in my locker."
"Can't it wait?"
"No. I don't want to wear my shoes."
"But you didn't want to wear your shoes yesterday!"
"Yeah, but I'm not finished."
"Not finished with what?"
"Not finished not wearing my shoes."
After weeks of playing George of the Middle School, our principal began to notice that one of us had shoes that all-too-closely resembled socks...
"Stop please."
"Oh, hello Mr. Goose! We're just heading to class."
"Where are your shoes, Ms. Penny?"
"I took them off."
"And why did you do that?"
"I didn't want to wear them."
"Where are they?"
"In my locker."
"Go get your shoes, please, Ms. Penny, and I'll write you a tardy excuse."
As if a tardy excuse sufficed. Teachers don't take tardy excuses and not read them. This was yet another hilarious part of the whole situation: seeing our teacher's reaction after reading:
TARDY SLIP: Ms. Penny will be late to class because she was barefoot.
Even after countless tardy slips and lectures from the principal, she continued to never wear her shoes. Perhaps if this odd behavior had been ignored, she would have eventually started wearing them again. But since it got so much attention, entertaining our entire group of friends every single day, the behavior continued. Joel Goodsen ain't got nothin' on her.
At 21 years old, could I get away with this now? Could I walk around pushing humans into other humans on the street as hard as I could? No, I'd probably get shot. Could I stuff bedding into my clothes and yell at others in a deep voice? No, I'd probably get arrested. Could I go everywhere barefoot? No, I'd probably be handed money from strangers walking past me with them saying, "Spend it wisely, you poor thing." I could do those things then, but I can't do them now, even though I'm the exact same person. It's a sad fact, BUT - you know what I can do? I can write about it.
I'm not here to give you sad facts. I'm here to tell you that as years are added to your existence, the number of escape routes is subtracted. I'm here to tell you that I miss middle school.
Yes, middle school. Yes, I went from talking about death to musical homeless children to seventh grade in a matter of seconds. You know that thing called structure? That thing called organization? Relevance? Yeah, you won't find that here. If you want that, go read the dictionary.
Middle school is the last time I can remember where I could truly get away with anything. NO, I'm not going to backtrack all the way to the days of being a drooling baby. That's just too obvious. Everyone gets away with anything when they're a slobbering one-sixth of a human being. And if you are not one of these people, if you are one of the few who got plopped down in The Naughty Highchair every time you shit your shit-holder, then I'm truly sorry. That means you got punished three times a day for the first 3 years of your life. That means you got ridiculed 1,095 times before you even learned to keep your saliva in your mouth. Not to mention the giant rash I'm sure you acquired from being in a seated position for the majority of your life. I feel for you. I can't even handle the two bug bites I currently bear that are located in the crevice of my left buttcheek and my upper thigh. Do you know what that's like? To be forced to endure an itchy crevice in a spot you can't publicly scratch? Because no, I'm not going to walk around clenching the bottom of my ass. I'd have to bend over a little bit sideways and a little bit backwards, first of all, then I'd have to inch my fingernails in between the cheek and the leg, second of all, then I'd have to clench my hand in and out repeatedly, third of all. I refuse to do that. And I refuse to continue talking about it.
Ah, middle school. When I think back to middle school, I don't think back to 5th and 6th grade. Those were the days of furry shirts and being told I needed to start shaving my legs, because my knees were apparently very hairy. One of my teachers actually started calling me "Hairy" whenever he saw me, because my friend informed him of my Bigfootesque knees. Even after I gave in and started shaving, he still called me Hairy. I don't care. Really. I don't. Nope, don't care. I'm talking about it 10 years later BECAUSE I don't care. Bigfoot ain't got nothin' on me.
There are three things I miss most about middle school: things that my friends and I could get away with it, things that I know for a fact I could NOT get away with now.
In middle school, you could get away with...
1. Pushing People Into Other People
I'm not being figurative here. I'm not talking about "pushing the envelope" or "if push comes to shove" - I'm talking about "pushing the person next to you" and "pushing and shoving are the same damn thing." I don't know how it began, but I know that it provided days and days of entertainment. I don't care if our world becomes ruled by robots and 3D life-size Tamagotchis - people getting slightly injured will always be funny. It's pretty self-explanatory, but in case it isn't, I'll self-explain it.
You're walking down the hall with a friend. You're heading to class; you're going east. Someone passes the two of you. This person is carrying books in both hands, and they just happen to be heading west. You're on the outside of your friend. You see this as a perfect opportunity. Without hesitation, without contemplation or notification, you ram your left shoulder into your friend hard enough to send your innocent and inattentive amigo directly into the person walking past the two of you. BAM! The two collide. The other person, the one who doesn't go around searching for chances to ram their buddies into other people, drops all of their things, or says "OW!" or starts crying, or gives you a dirty look, or exclaims, "I'M TELLING!" Any one of these reactions is THE reaction you were going for. You find this just hilarious that you just upset a clueless pedestrian, and even hurt them a little. Did they deserve it? Probably not. But that's part of the humor. Your friend starts cracking up, as well. "You really got me that time!" they say, knowingly dedicating the rest of their school day to getting you back. And you eagerly await it.
Of course it started with pushing each other into boys we liked. Then that became boring (cute boys in middle school aren't really a plentiful bunch), so we decided to just start pushing each other into anyone who could walk (a much larger group to pick from), then even that became mundane (they all started to walk as far away from us as possible once they caught onto our antics), and so the last group left for us to target were our teachers. We soon discovered that teachers don't react in the same way as fellow classmates. Fellow classmates can't send you to the principal's office.
That one ended fast.
In middle school, you could get away with...
2. Shoving Pillows Under Your Shirts and Making Fun of Fat People
Well, I just kind of gave that one away, didn't I? I thought of titling it "being really, really mean" - but that's not really something I wish I could get away with now. I vividly remember one specific sleepover with a bunch of girls (obviously I didn't attend sleepovers with a bunch of boys), and a certain somebody got brought up. We did not like this girl because she used to pay boys to allow her to call them things like "honey buns" and "baby poo." I'm sure if this girl made a list like this of her own, that would be on it. It's certainly a habit you cannot get away with later in life. Or ever, for that matter. It wasn't a very successful tactic.
This girl was not fat. But since she was heavier than any of us, we came to the consensus that she was a gigantic heifer. (Please remember, we were in middle school.)
Again, who started it? Who knows. What matters is that once one pillow was shoved up one shirt, it took two seconds for six different pillows to be shoved up six different shirts. Six girls, waddling around like sumo wrestlers, speaking in deep voices (which made absolutely no sense since we were making fun of a prepubescent female), rubbing our pillow-tummies and climbing up onto things like monkeys. Yes, we were climbing. One by one, we would mount ourselves up onto the back of a chair, or the back of a couch, and we would shout "I'M BETSYYYYY! BE MY HONEY BUNS!" and we'd leap off of the couch and land on our stomach, cushioned by the pillow. It really did not hold much reason at all, since "Betsy" was not known to climb up onto things and belly-flop onto the ground, but this mattered not. All we knew was we had pillows stuffed in our shirts, and the only logical thing to do was bounce around on them.
In middle school, you could get away with...
3. Not Wearing Shoes
I must admit, I never personally experienced this one. But just because I did not partake in it does not mean I did not witness it. One of my closest friends in middle school randomly started this habit of not wearing her shoes at school. She would arrive to school with them on, yes, but as soon as she stepped into that building, some ever-powerful being was telling her:
"Take off your shoes...just take 'em off...who needs shoes...the floor is so cold...it feels so good on your hot feet...socks are enough...who needs shoes when you have socks..."
One minute we'd be walking to class, and the next thing you knew, we were at a standstill.
"Hold on."
"No, we're gonna be late! Did you forget something?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"I forgot to take off my shoes."
"What?"
"I have to go put my shoes in my locker."
"Can't it wait?"
"No. I don't want to wear my shoes."
"But you didn't want to wear your shoes yesterday!"
"Yeah, but I'm not finished."
"Not finished with what?"
"Not finished not wearing my shoes."
After weeks of playing George of the Middle School, our principal began to notice that one of us had shoes that all-too-closely resembled socks...
"Stop please."
"Oh, hello Mr. Goose! We're just heading to class."
"Where are your shoes, Ms. Penny?"
"I took them off."
"And why did you do that?"
"I didn't want to wear them."
"Where are they?"
"In my locker."
"Go get your shoes, please, Ms. Penny, and I'll write you a tardy excuse."
As if a tardy excuse sufficed. Teachers don't take tardy excuses and not read them. This was yet another hilarious part of the whole situation: seeing our teacher's reaction after reading:
TARDY SLIP: Ms. Penny will be late to class because she was barefoot.
Even after countless tardy slips and lectures from the principal, she continued to never wear her shoes. Perhaps if this odd behavior had been ignored, she would have eventually started wearing them again. But since it got so much attention, entertaining our entire group of friends every single day, the behavior continued. Joel Goodsen ain't got nothin' on her.
At 21 years old, could I get away with this now? Could I walk around pushing humans into other humans on the street as hard as I could? No, I'd probably get shot. Could I stuff bedding into my clothes and yell at others in a deep voice? No, I'd probably get arrested. Could I go everywhere barefoot? No, I'd probably be handed money from strangers walking past me with them saying, "Spend it wisely, you poor thing." I could do those things then, but I can't do them now, even though I'm the exact same person. It's a sad fact, BUT - you know what I can do? I can write about it.
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