Thursday, February 14, 2008

The C Word

Inappropriate topics for Valentine's Day.
1. the C-word

The C word is:

There are many concepts that are inappropriate for the day that we celebrate love and lavish our goomattas and/or boytoys with gifts and finery. But the C word, by the sea, by the C-U-N-T is up there, even though if we're lucky, we get to see one today. My favorite personal utterance of the C word happened in Bryant Park during the HBO Summer Movie Festival. I was there with Sarah, on a blanket before the big movie screen, waiting for To Sir With Love to start playing. The park was full of little Sex in the City wanna-be girls sprawled out with bottles of wine and little healthy and organic snacks, and Whole Foods shopping bags littered the planet in their merriment. The wind was atwitter with their giddy anticipation at seeing Sidney Poitier tower above them in all his dignity, when Sarah started elbowing me and teasing me like the little devil she is. "I'm being a bitch. Say it," she taunted.

She knew I was surrounded by women who would rush to her defense and declare me Asshole non grata in the world of women were I to retort. Now, I'm perfectly comfortable with my assholitude. I cultivate it, like a vineyard of vitriol in my north forty.

"Tell me to stop being a bitch." She grinned, with that lovable evil grin she has.

I decided to up the ante, and said all too loudly, "Would you stop being such a CUNT?"

The cacophony of city traffic was silenced by the sound of a thousand women's heads whipping around to center in on the male voice in the middle of the park, who had gone beyond Asshole into Fucking Prick territory. For a brief moment their wine glasses stopped swirling and copies of Cosmo were put down as their eyes bored through me, and I felt like a fat little bird in a room full of angry cats. Angry female cats with PMS, who would tear my balls off and play hackeysack with them around Bryant Park.

Thankfully Sarah threw the proper gang sign and let me live. That is my Valentine's Day Cunt story.

2. number two

I don't normally talk about bowel movements, though it is a topic much discussed by males. The other day I ate some grapes that I probably should have washed better, since nowadays they come from Chile or Uganda and might be fertilized with human feces, or picked by some poor bastard with an itchy ass and no Purel to clean his hands with.
My stomach was burbling all day, making disturbing premonitions about a date with the porcelain throne. That evening I was at House of Brews (not House of Blues for Chinese people, but a beerpub on W 46th) celebrating Sarah's birthday. I limited myself to a ham & cheese sandwich, some fries and two mild beers so avoid taunting my lower intestine, but by the end of the evening I received notice that meltdown was imminent, and I should evacuate Chernobyl. I nonchalantly headed downstairs to the crapper which was blessedly empty, cleaned the seat as best as I could, and did my business. I won't go into sordid details but I was ill, and I knew it. I had found the WMDs, and they were in my ASS.
After the needed relief, I left the stall just as two drunk fratboys were coming in. As I washed my hands I heard sounds of retching, and they were looking at each other like the smell they encountered was from beyond this Earth and definitely from the sulfurous depths of Hades. I could only concur, and laugh like a hyena as I washed my hands. They could not escape the vileness, as they were in mid-stream.
There are times when you don't know whether to be proud or ashamed, and this was one of them.

3. Plumber's crack
There's a friend of ours with a plumber's crack problem. Her jammies don't go up high enough, and sometimes hanging out with her is like being in a Larry the Cable Guy movie. Lately she's been sick so she's been in her jammies a lot. I'm going to bring over a pair of suspenders the next time I visit, to save her dignity.
Roommates are like those distant cousins you had slumber parties with. Sometimes they are bouncy and obliviously bare their goodies, but the only things that can ever come from it are akin to being disowned by your disgusted family, and a life of paying child support for a love child with congenital birth defects.
So you just file it away to snicker about.

Therein ends my sermon on inappropriate topics for this day where lovers spend exorbitant amounts of money to show their sweetheart what they let them know every day. We're going to SushiSamba, then to the Rufus Wainwright concert where I will try very hard to not catch the g-a-y.

Whether you have a sweetheart or not, go out and call someone a C U Next Tuesday, ponder a particularly memorable BM, cover your plumber's crack, and have a Happy Valentine's Day!

Oh, and here's the International Symbol for Valentine's Day.

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