Too Much Mastication Will Kill You! (or, Will This Razor Chafe My Palms?)

Since my pants were filched by the titans of finance, the luxury of free time has been available in heaps (or “shitloads,” to use the beaten man's vernacular). The endless ass scratching, a kind of secret handshake among the unemployed, reveals my hapless status. And while hours are trashed in self-deprecating pollution – Tostitos feedbag gently nestled beneath the chin – they might also brim with aimless web surfing, laundry, or creative reveries with neighborhood women. Thankfully, narcissism works in fits and starts, thwarting a permanent lapse into feral licebag territory. In other words, I’m usually coherent as opposed to rag-clad, and would rarely be seen, say, shaking my fist at traffic while cursing the fragile labor market. Likewise, I’ve been fairly spry after reclaiming rectal control in the wake of an HR-led emasculation (see "Apocalypse Now" from March 19). Yes, the initial pain is severe, but like everything else in the jobless slum, it converges to a dull pang. Several months later, one can even sit with minimal discomfort.

Delousing weekly – generally with a quick spritz of Ortho Home Defense – I prepare for intense mastication at my mother’s house. Although palms remain hairless, stomach bloats from the inexhaustible cornucopia of chow (pastrami into kiwis into chocolate death cake, to name one such jaunt through the gastronomic gauntlet); akin to stapling one’s mouth against a food conveyor set on hyperdrive. Of course, these gluttonous eating orgies are appreciated as a mid-week pause from crotch-scratching coma. And at this point, any diversion that keeps my hands out of my pants is a welcome plus.

Predictably, mom will recap neighborhood gossip, opine on my dwindling ego, and avow misinformed distrust of the internet, all before coffee and Entenmann’s. If my laundry was tumbling in the basement, these visits might parallel the rudderless magic of college, sans jackhammer hangover. Yet there I am, a leeching ignoramus, obtaining geopolitical headlines from my mother because notions of keeping informed – the core of an international business career – have become impossibly tedious. These days, you’re more likely to find me hanging in a closet with a rope slung around my genitals than perusing the Wall Street Journal. Yes, I’m the deadbeat charity case stockpiling leftovers from the maternal refrigerator, two steps from assuming residence in the garage with a weight bench and mullet. Well, maybe three steps from the mullet. But in all seriousness, I am almost off the grid. Blissfully ignorant, enormously happy, but off the fucking grid.

Like a drunken romp through 7-Eleven, doggie bag contents on any given week might include pineapples, taco meat, soup, oranges, and (only once) Goya sardines in mustard sauce(?!), bizarrely chosen yet lovingly packed for the favorite son. While the boxed fish stunk horribly – a gift more suited for beggars or church homeless drops – believe me, I’m not complaining. Something needs to offset the troughs of Frito Lay products on which I graze like a famished horse. And since I’m expecting a job offer shortly, I’ve only got a few weeks to burn 200 pounds, hack eight inches off my hair, and replace a spoonful of lost teeth. Those Catholic priests were right. Overly-indulgent mastication will kill you. And I don’t want to go blind.

Bom Chicka Wah Wah: A Guide To Sleep, Sex, And Roof Damage

I sleep like a rock. Through thunderstorms, meteor showers, and airplane collisions, I sleep. When burglars pistol-whip overnight guests and nuclear reactors explode into dust, regular appointments with the Sandman remain unbroken. After all, what kind of fool wants his forty winks interrupted with the stress of a radioactive holocaust (or a smoldering jet engine crashing through the kitchen ceiling) at three in the morning? I’m lucky to aim correctly into the toilet bowl at that hour. Tangling with hazmat suits and fire extinguishers require, at very least, a bold cup of French Roast coffee to fully uncross my eyes. If forced to navigate a blazing fuselage before measuring out water and grinds for the Krups machine, it’s going to be one hellacious morning for everyone in my circle of trust, including surviving passengers slumped over the table hoping for breakfast. And while I fry an exceptional omelet, uninvited guests can be an irksome breed. In any case, prior to my career as an unpaid blogger (before writing ideas danced like sugarplums through all hours of the night), mind entered dreamland when head met pillow. No sheep. No bonbons. No Ambien.

My wife, on the other hand, passes the overnight hours flipping like a wounded fish. And while it’s often more distraction than comfort, the white noise of the television buzzes endlessly, as visions of man/mosquito hybrids from the SciFi network loll her droopy lids into a shallow snooze (see “Shame” for more on this). But yesterday, presumably bored with dialogue-bereft paeans to insect mutation, she soaked up an Oscar-caliber offering on Skinemax; also dialogue-bereft, unless you count the coital groans of a woman and her psychologist as paramount to story arc. Skinemax – for those donning chastity belts – is the late-night programming block on the Cinemax movie network, viewed through scrambled lines by curious children in the 1980s, and in crystal clear quality by masturbating perverts, university drunks, and sexually adventurous couples in modern times. And, of course, by my wife, used exclusively as a sleep aide. Because nothing says “restful slumber” quite like softcore pornography.

Perhaps it’s the X/Y chromosome differential, but my wife, cute as she is, cannot comprehend the lack of plot in said films. While men are easily satisfied with a few reverse cowgirls and a piledriver money-shot, women actually want to know why the UPS driver made a second delivery, or the reason the plumber needed to lay pipe with an extra long hose, on Sunday no less. Early forays into skin flicks did attempt some measure of dramatic design, albeit flimsy, as evidenced in ‘The Green Door’ or ‘Deep Throat.’ However, by eschewing literate college grads in lieu of hirsute miscreants and three legged anomalies, the industry churns out thousands of plotless gonzos each year at massive cost savings. When a mattress, an office desk, and a rotating cache of uniforms can afford a group of sub-tier pelvic pumpers the luxury of San Fernando Valley villas, expensive props and fancy location shoots become superfluous. Put differentially, a man teasing the weasel will not enjoy fast-forwarding through ten minutes of middling hospital dialogue or, dare I say, a romance-choked dinner of chocolate fondue set to flamenco guitar. Wah pedal solos and immobile cantaloupe-sized silicone generally meet requirements. Cue wooly moustache for 1970s throwback effect. Repeat with acid washed jeans and blazer for 1980s nostalgia. If the viewer truly wants to operate his brain, there are plenty of CGI-congested popcorn flicks where truck explosions can be dissected six ways from Sunday.

In any case, I’ve got to get back to my kitchen, as I’m still patching the roof from the latest asteroid pelting. Adding insult to injury, a few lingering airline passengers are demanding lunch. Maybe I’ll throw in a porn to keep them occupied while I tie up loose ends with the police. Over a bold roasted coffee, of course. Until next time: sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite, and may the next nuclear disaster occur at least one town over from you.

Who's Gonna Drive You Home, Tonight

Picture yourself on the side of a congested highway, vehicles speeding inches from your foothold. Asphalt kicks up in clumps as cocaine-addled truckers stress-test the road with their endless convoy. Stretching for miles, a turbid haze in various shades of sepia muddles the urban vista. Adding insult to injury, your tire’s blown a flat yet the trunk carries no spare. And you – stubborn Luddite born of cost savings and technological rejection – lack a mobile device; placing yourself at the mercy of nearby exit ramps, derelict gas station pay phones, and hypodermic needles jabbing forth from their change return slots. In a harrowing commute turned hellacious journey, you, my friend, stand on the shoulder of a bustling artery amidst the choking exhaust of metropolitan rush hour. And your head is throbbing. And your legs are tired. And nobody is helping because nobody cares.

Without warning, the cocktail of chest pain, shortness of breath, and acute anxiety chokehold your sanity. You wheeze frantically while heaving your neck forward to catch air. Bodily functions yield rapidly as the hurt radiates from one symptom to another. Vision blurs, balance fades, mouth dries, stomach churns. Lumbering unsteadily, feelings of claustrophobia and panic percolate through the amplified clamor of traffic horns. In mere seconds, legs will finally fail, one first then the other, knee caps cracking awkwardly as head meets pavement in a surrendering final slam. While some may notice, none will stop. Instant heart attack.

Through the rippling heat, two men appear, sweaty and alarmed. While your senses have numbed, the ensuing heroism-cum-buffoonery wakens you to the sensation of being clumsily dragged. Somehow, this inelegant mode of transport sends your mind into horrifying flashbacks of 'Deliverance,' sans banjos. Clothing is shredded to ribbons as it coarsely scrapes blacktop. After what feels like a mile but is likely a few yards, you are dropped, quite brutally, in a grassy patch within earshot of the highway but hundreds of miles from comfort. In this unassuming field you will experience fear unlike any conceivable nightmare. One of the men positions his car nearby – spinning the tires and splattering mud and earth – while the other holds you hard; arm across neck, knee into groin, gnashing his teeth and spitting vulgarly. You flail. Fade to black. You gasp. Back to black. You quietly consent to fate, wishing only not to die. Darkness smothers.

Time has passed, though whether minutes, hours, or years remain unclear. Oddly enough, your pants appear zipped and buttoned, a nice consolation among an otherwise gruesome kidnapping. And yet, something is terribly wrong. Jumper cables have been fastened to each nipple, positive and negative, in some perverse abortion of outdoor sadomasochism. Your heart pounds brutally, throbbing against rib and bone as your mouth hangs agape, drooling and coughing to catch air. Suddenly, a car engine roars, sending a violent electro-current coursing through your body, knocking your torso forward as if hit with a defibrillator blast. Upon falling backwards with a heavy thud the engine roars anew, throwing you head over heals in agonizing pain. Again and again and again your body is heaved and throttled until your eyes have bulged dry from their sockets and your nipples run bloodied and raw. You scream about hospitals, but your voice is shredded by the deafening growls of engines angry and fuming. You are alive. Stripped of your dignity. Bruised. Used. Humiliated. But you are alive.

* * * * *

“And that’s basically how it happened,” our substitute science teacher concluded, his cherubic face assuming its dead-on likeness of the obese yet jovial John Candy. This fool – holding down the fort while our regular instructor enjoyed maternity leave – had just relayed a perfectly asinine monologue on saving a man’s life with his automobile. Steeped in imbecilic hubris, and more suited for a chapter in ‘S&M: Breaking The Usual Routine,’ our lecture on the circulatory system had descended into a “citizen of the year” brag-fest over some poor bastard who allegedly had his heart revved and his colon blown via junk science. Thanks to the miracle of jumper cables, six-cylinder engines, and a pair of trusty, conductive nipples, a man allegedly walks the streets like Christ, risen from the dead after a tangle with the devil on Interstate 95. Impressive, no? After all, my physics teacher never regaled us with sundry tales of banging Stephen Hawking to unlock quantum gravity mysteries (that said, my physics teacher was a heterosexual man, and Mr. Hawking is nearly paralyzed, limiting his lechery).

The AMA was clearly asleep at the switch, as the heroics of our myocardial maestro were given nary a footnote in the journals of the day. Chalk it up to another of life’s cruel injustices. If funded by a university, our rotund friend could’ve been curing AIDS by now with old carburetor parts. But alas, he aimed for the mediocrity of substitute science education, smiting the coronary research field while indirectly killing 500,000 Americans per year with his callow neglect and desire for non-working summers. Then again, once you blow fifty miles through the point of no return (in a car that might just as easily be the second coming of Christine), few hospitals in the developed world will even let you don scrubs, much less operate a defibrillator. And there aren’t many casting calls for John Candy lookalikes, especially since, well, Candy’s dead.

Nipples, people. Nipples. One word: ouch!

Sleaze, Unease, And Extra Cheese

For the non-farm crowd, Mr. Cheese USA isn’t exactly a desired moniker. It’s certainly nothing you’d want on file with the post office or, for that matter, in a corporate directory regardless of one’s patriotism or passion for dairy. In fact, excluding Cracker Barrel junkies and deranged Packers fans, the negative connotations wafting from that label – nacho, cheddar, or otherwise – outweigh any eccentric pride.

Scarcely familiar with the man behind the stigma, one might assume he was an oily character, a corny jackass who shakes your hand with a mouse trap under his thumb. He might be a crooning deviant absorbed in an endless lip synch of the Tom Jones catalog, polluting velvety auditoriums and nursing homes for throngs of overweight AARP groupies; the definitive master of chest hair and cheap motel sex. Or perhaps he’s a flatulent repeat offender, bombing toilets with reckless abandon as if the lessons of Hiroshima were lost on his immense ego. Whatever the case, this is not a man you introduce to your friends, unless said friends are sexually depraved soccer moms or those with an anti-hygiene fetish, or prostitutes.

In the spring of 1987, this writer held the designation of Mr. Cheese USA (not proudly, mind you), flaunting a title neither desired nor required, but nonetheless deserved. And while I wasn’t stuffing my crotch with tube socks like an elephantine chastity killer, or attending class with a cheese wheel squirreled in my backpack, my locker’s objectionable scent had saturated the hallway with an intense funk. After all, if you jam enough lunch bags into a barely ventilated cabinet, crush them intermittently with school books, and blend haphazardly for one semester, your curious parfait of loose leaf and lunchmeat won’t play nice in the warm weather. And no, this behavior did not score points with the female contingent, allowing me none of the pubescent luxuries of unclasping training bras while tasting the marvels of Wet N Wild lip gloss. Rather, I was horribly shamed, assuming the slackened posture of a beaten boy-fool; closet full of fromage in lieu of skeletons.

Packed dutifully each morning by mom, the schoolyard staples of juice box, sandwich, and snack were a dietary regiment of which deviation was considered impossible, at least within the two square miles comprising my hometown, and thus, my entire world. That said, while two thirds of that brown bag banquet were digestible enough, the prospect of noshing on unrefrigerated cheese roiled my stomach. As it is, I won’t ingest anything a day past expiration, and maintain a compulsive fear of food left to thaw on countertops, socializing amicably with Listeria and E coli. More often than not, I’m junking perfectly good groceries; essentially parading around some famished third world backwater with an oversized FUCK YOU sign, beating my chest while flipping off every kid with a distended belly. Sally Struthers can plead until she’s blue in the face, but errant habits die hard.

After a winter of mushroom incubation, my flogging commenced on clean-up day. For a certain outspoken teacher, spelunking in my locker played out like the second (equally flawed) unearthing of Al Capone’s vault, assuming good ol' Al valued mold and Trapper Keeper notebooks. Each individual lunch bag, in various states of fungal distress, was commented upon as I stood in a dead-eyed daze. And while this wasn’t some town square hanging wherein every student had joined a ring around our corner of wayward hell – screaming in unison for my crucifixion – enough of a nearby crowd was pretending not to notice this metaphoric spanking.

It’s awkward enough deflecting rhetorical questions like “Doesn’t your mother work hard to buy these cold cuts?” or “What do you think your parents would say if they knew you were disposing of perfectly good food?”, but fielding inquisitive onslaughts with no viable answers is like entering enemy fire, naked and weaponless. Of course, there were answers, but certainly not ones which I’d ever divulge. Namely, cafeteria aides lived for the extraction of lunchmeat from trash bins. Howling in tremendous constipated pain, their vocal disgust roared forth: “Whose lunch is this? Whose GREAT bologna sandwich was THROWN OUT today after only THREE BITES?” I may have been a pack rat, but I was forced into the business by obsessive-compulsive women doubling as aspirant (or very hungry) garbage pickers. If uneaten lunch equated to verbal thrashing, then hidden lunch equated to gastronomic genius, so long as the weather remained cool.

Post-disinfection, my locker received a green sticker (to denote potential “Superfund” status), while fellow students obtained blue, red, and yellow (the happy colors of the mentally adjusted). As a special bonus, my designation as Mr. Cheese USA – born from the pungent odor of lunches long forgotten – was assigned, readying me for a career in lounge crooning or sexual exploitation or, as a matter of appropriate course, the unctuous underbelly of financial sales and trading; where the client’s interests are always served, albeit with a little extra cheese.

Of Human Bondage (To Human Toilets)

“I need to tell you something, and I know this might sound a bit disturbing (pause) but it’s very possible that the prior owner of this condo replaced her old toilet with a refurbished one.”
–realtor, phone conversation prior to closing, 2003

Although common sense was never assumed to be widespread, common courtesy, its more easily learned cousin, requires little in the way of intelligence. When applied to the real estate market, if a sensible person were to knowingly list their house with a broken toilet, they might arrange for a replacement (or at very least, a reduction in price) as a condition of sale. And no, in a quest for that porcelain proxy, trolling white trash yard sales or ghetto fabulous scrap heaps – those venues of toothless impropriety – is never an acceptable solution. Said differently, risking one’s life while eluding dangerous simpletons (whether rabid junkyard managers or rabid armies of redneck inbreds), does not trump a Home Depot visit, despite perceived cash savings.

While “pre-owned” might be a cute moniker to slap on an older Lexus, when applied to crappers the term references (at worst) vindictiveness, or (at best) mental retardation on behalf of the seller. After all, I’m fairly sure that Jim Bob didn’t institute a twelve point inspection before drop kicking his thunderbox to the curb after deeming it unworthy of his own ass. And if this unflushable atrocity was doomed to lie sideways amongst empty boxes of Meister Brau while neighborhood hooligans disgraced it in a series of post-midnight, performance art shows, then no amount of refurbishing would allow me to comfortably drop drawer in its dishonored presence. Even if an industry-sanctioned check did exist, the notion of some obese bowl czar kicking the proverbial tires – ottoman in tow – after gorging himself on a magnum of beans raises the comfort level nary a few notches. Nobody wants a construction-grade Port-o-Potty nailed crudely into their bedroom closet as a “seller’s compromise,” and nobody wants a past-prime john languishing sadly in their loo-to-be, regardless of how proud it made somebody’s daddy feel thirty years ago.
The slovenly loon who unloaded her ramshackle condo upon me and my wife was a few flushes short of sane (see “My Mortgage Can Beat Up Your Mortgage” from April 27). And while her two bathroom unit claimed only one working toilet, she assured her realtor of a replacement fixture. Lest you view me as spoiled, I wasn’t expecting a reclinable, cheek warming, bidet equipped Japanese model that might or might not brew coffee, toast bread, or auto fellate. Rather, a seat and a tank would suffice. After all, my trips to the pool are quick and efficient; no spa-like half hour escapades or magazine perusal necessary. What I received, however, was a bargain basement low-boy which had seen the derriere prints of many a man since the Carter presidency. On the plus side, I suppose I was lucky she hadn’t left me with an upper-decker, that defiantly hard to locate floater and the plumbing equivalent of a double middle finger flip.

Nevertheless, when a tiny perfume bottle dove squarely onto the tank – creating a hairline fracture-cum-chasm which snaked angularly and converted my bathroom into an Old Faithful mock-up – I was secretly elated. David, smaller than a church mouse, so quietly unassuming in his perfume holding perch above the towel rack, had finally toppled Goliath, the menacing juggernaut of unwiped asses and thoughtless prior owners. Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, I was free at last. And boy, was it liberating knowing that my shiny new throne was one butt crack away from installation.

Regarding disposal (for those not intimately involved with their commodes), there exists no way to physically transport an unboxed toilet from point A to point B without looking like a maladroit lummox; especially if point A is a second floor condo, and point B is the communal garbage shed, located at the bottom of a steep incline. That said, if one believed himself to be a conquering hero, freed from the yoke of used toilet bondage, he might happily laugh off unfunny jokes while alternately pulling, dragging, and lifting his potty en route to the dumpster; a leaky trail of backwater its final tears. Whether charitably gifted to some fleabag hostel or sealed with Bondo and refurbished anew, my nemesis had passed on ... possibly to the benefit of oversexed college travelers, or possibly to the chagrin of your new neighbors.

Or possibly, dear reader, to you. And that kind of unknown quantity almost makes diapers look good again.

Lost In Limbo: An Accelerated Romp Through Generations

The Vermont County Store – purveyor of AARP-approved house frocks and other oddities targeted toward countrified shut-ins – has been advertising a primordial typewriter with the bravado generally reserved for President’s Day auto commercials. According to the latest catalog, inadvertently delivered to these quarters by my normally astute (and hernia recovering) mailman, the Manual Olivetti Typewriter beckons “all thinking persons past the age of discretion.” Or, translated into the common vernacular, “all persons with fond memories of the Conestoga wagon and unsliced bread.” Already scarred by the cancellation of Lawrence Welk, and shaking in their pantaloons at the advent of digital television conversion, lengthy testimonials from the so-called Greatest Generation read like a disturbing romp through the Land of The Lost.

Whether implicitly damning the invention of electricity (“my fingers had fallen victim to Author-Ritis and could not move fast enough to accommodate the electric typewriter”), or forced to arrest one’s hobby due to presumed technological distrust (“now that I have this wonderful new typewriter I may resume writing again”), nothing says “I drive an enormous Buick, eat cat food, and believe rock music is the spawn of Satan” quite like: “your typewriter survives storms and blackouts … the computer age is not for me.” Well, my dear, maybe this internet thing won’t catch on and we’ll all happily revert to ink wells, American cars, and outhouses. At very least, the nice folks in Weston, Vermont have cured a horrific case of Author-Ritis (although I’m sure there’s a suppository for that), and helped throngs of naïve octogenarians in deterring an amp service upgrade within their flower-print hovels.

Believe it or not, I actually respect the elderly. Before I’m painted as a heartless rogue who pushes occupied wheelchairs down steep hills (into traffic) or pilfers gallons of prune juice from under the noses of old women, know that I appreciate the dedication of our elder statesmen to this country. They loved it, molded it, and fought for it with a righteous mantra of sacrifice and heroism. Through the horrors of (then glorified) war, they wrestled with oppressive regimes in the hopes of preserving the same freedoms granted them upon entry into our harbors; never embarrassed to fly the flag of a nation which offered limitless opportunity where others tendered only prejudice and class immobility. Notwithstanding these valorous feats, this generation also built some of the most revolting architectural eyesores of modern times – constructed within the concrete-themed brutalist style – while razing some of the most beautiful, in an ignorant dismissal of historic merit in lieu of inexpensive solutions. Life in the Great Depression had soured a collective optimism, and this frugality of mindset extended forthright, for better or for worse.

Yet somewhere in the generational chasm between Big Band and Beatles, the brave legions of World War II veterans, and the wives that kept their homes in pristine form, got lost. Or perhaps they purposely opted to drop out, unwittingly dropping into long-standing stereotypes of clueless citizenry: dismissing much of the burgeoning pop culture scene, ignoring technological advances, fearing homosexuals, and preparing for death after age 65, needlepoint in hand, ass on rocker. Now sadly the butt of jokes after a lifetime of drudgery, witness the swan song of the last batch of Americans to drive 45mph in the center lane of an interstate, to mistake gas pedals for brakes en masse, dress in outmoded fashions, consider rock music “noise,” dye their hair blue, assume musty scents, or rage against the rebellion of youth. There will always exist gaps between parent and child, but none shall spread quite as embarrassingly wide.

And here I stand, a lowly member of the oft-forgotten Generation X; sandwiched between the Baby Boomers and their dope smoking, brain frying, hippiedom-cum-corporate model on the one hand, and the socially inept ADD cyborgs of the Millennial gang on the other. Numbering a paltry 46 million, X’ers rate a mere blip on the genealogical radar, spoon-fed the merits of Boomers our entire lives to the neglect of our own accomplishments. And yes, exposure of that generation’s erectile dysfunction conquest does cause a shudder down our collective spines, as do our declining inflation-adjusted incomes vis-à-vis our parents. But remember, we’re Generation X, and we don’t protest these proverbial tide changes, we just ridicule them. Truth be told, we’ve been a well behaved yet cynical niche of sorts, scoffing at our parent’s organized rebellion while sneering at the younger generation’s idealism and everyone-is-a-winner yet no-one-is-singularly-responsible upbringing. Painted as slackers, we’re actually quite shrewd, maintaining a healthy dollop of humor and self-deprecation, thus safely grounding our egos. In fact, our ability to think objectively and speak in complete sentences as opposed to instant messages could one day be an asset. Later rather than sooner, of course, once the media’s preoccupation with all things Boomer has finally drawn enough blood from that stone, and the world looks for a new group of leaders to replace the soon-to-be retired and full-time coital flower children. Naturally, that crown will pass fluidly to the Millenials.

So now that we’ve traveled the unofficial timeline through unsanctioned history, let’s return from whence we started, at the congenial Vermont Country Store and their prehistoric wares, where grandma considers delving into the mattress to buy that Manual Olivetti Typewriter. If you’ve got your bifocals trained on that relic, then the Grim Reaper’s been keeping a close eye on you, my dear. Perhaps an order of Super Omega-3 fish oil pills (item #52478) would add an extra six months, enough time to hammer out the next great American novel, tapping away ferociously through downed power lines and fuse box shorts. Or hell, the seven inch rotating “massager” (item #51669) might even render you immortal, like The Highlander, for a mere $79.95 plus tax. And that’s plenty of additional time to suck up the remaining social security pool that I’ve been quietly funding, without so much as a pout, especially for you. Happy diddling.

Sniff More Stank To Smell More Roses

“That in digesting our common food, there is created or produced in the bowels of human creatures, a great quantity of wind. That the permitting this air to escape and mix with the atmosphere, is usually offensive to the company, from the fetid smell that accompanies it. That all well-bred people therefore, to avoid giving such offense, forcibly restrain the efforts of nature to discharge that wind.”
–Ben Franklin “Fart Proudly (or A Letter To A Royal Academy)”

When addressing matters of waste disposal amidst the nation’s vast lavatory network, The Bastard directs an approving fist pump to those lacking in human empathy. And while your fearless author can tally his lifetime public evacuations on one hand, his rule for anti-compassion dually extends into the private sanctum. Namely, while seated atop the porcelain throne within your own tiled fiefdoms – whether dropping kids off at the pool, bombing a small city, or launching a full-scale nuclear attack – reliance on the courtesy flush should be wiped (with a cushy two-ply) from your psyche. Likewise, the exhaust fan, prissy tool of the fragile and weak minded, must be physically destroyed whether by acute disabling or violent machismo; never to again freshen air in your claustrophobic rabbit holes. This much I expect.

To paraphrase the Urban Dictionary, a “courtesy flush” occurs when a spry Tooting Tom flicks his wrist against the toilet lever (sometimes in panic, but often in a state of zen calm) at the exact moment of aquatic impact. If perfectly timed, one’s deposit plummets into a swirling vortex of non-potable water; breaking the speed of sound for those with burrito-chafed asses. Said flush is also an egregious faux-pas. If you can’t be trusted to let your bouquet waft from room to room without committing seppuku, face buried in dishonor, then you can’t be trusted to relieve yourself in civilized quarters. In other words, sprout some hair on your chest and grow up. Or use the shed out back.

Stripping aside the ability to reason, homo sapiens are simply bipedal apes, sharing 95% of DNA with our knuckle dragging friends. And like other creatures, humans have been marking terrain since a prehistoric Hurk first set fire to his enemy’s mud hut and procreated with the residual females. Modern territoriality, however, is a passive-aggressive creed undertaken with property boundaries, taxes, and locks. But deep in the recesses of the brain, beyond the pansy cultural niceties ingrained at childhood, is a wolf intent on ruling his lair; enclosing himself within a circle of steaming piss to demarcate ownership and exude dominance over neighbors. Be not mistaken, the stink of one’s spoils should be celebrated threefold: as a warning to impetuous prowlers, a celebration of health, and a sexual battle cry drawing together the coital yearnings of both sexes. Like a writer at odds with phrasing, or a musician unsure of pitch, there can be nothing more vertiginous than a person embarrassed by their own stench. It's a natural odor. Why get your knickers in a twist when they’re already slung around your ankles?

If one is to thrive in the melting pot of America, one must stew in every ingredient of its malodorous cauldron. Our country was founded on idealism, on debate, and on democratic overhaul of a system which failed its colonists and fouled its citizens through nepotistic royalty. For the free exchange of ideas to continue, it is imperative that we unblock all senses and remain open to all stimuli. Should a man wish to argue an unfavorable opinion, his right to offend exists firmly in the constitutional alloy. Moreover, should a man wish to express himself on the high bowl of waste dumping, then let that man be heard in both grunts and aroma. Should he prepare his thesis via dutch oven, then allow that proposal to cook pungently at extreme temperatures. When we censure each other, we condemn the very pillars of opportunity which drew our impoverished kinfolk across oceans many generations ago.

That flush lever is an oppressive temptress. Empower yourself. Rip it off.