Tuesday, January 27, 2009

World of Cox Episode 1: Calendar Boys (Part Two)


Slim and Chunky are at Dollar Experience, the cheapass, ghetto store next to Fantasy Gifts, looking for props for the calendar photo shoot.

SLIM: What the fuck are we going to do for the Rat? What do rats do other than hang out in the sewer and garbage cans and shit?

CHUNKY: We could just have Ratso coming out of a garbage can like the one bitch who’s always coming out of that fucking clam shell. Who the fuck is that, anyway?

SLIM: I’m not sure. But Ratso said he wanted to show off his legs. Did he mean his thighs or calves or what?

CHUNKY: Well, Saggy has pretty nice thighs, but I don’t know about Ratso. I’m trying to picture them.

Boobs Carlisle spots Slim and Chunky and walks over, bumping fists with both of them.

BOOBS: What are you guys doing in a ghetto shithole like this?

CHUNKY: My family buys all our shit here. Slim can probably afford K-Mart but we aren’t rich like that.

SLIM: I’m gonna call Ratso and ask about his thighs.

He walks a few feet away to make the call.

CHUNKY: So, how’s work?

BOOBS: Not so great lately. They hired some psychotic bitch named Takela who was putting holes in the free condoms backstage, the ones girls bring with them when they fuck johns after work.

CHUNKY: What the hell?

BOOBS: Yeah, so there’ve been a bunch of pregnancy scares and shit. I’ve done enough drugs so my uterus is shot to hell, thank Goddess. But it still sucked. Anyway, I gotta go check out and get downtown. Stop in for a lap dance if you ever win the lottery.

CHUNKY (dreamily): I will.

Slim walks back over to Chunky.

SLIM: He said he did want to show off his thighs, but apparently they can’t find twelve guys to do the calendar so he can take another sign. I guess Horse or Dog?

CHUNKY: Is there a bathroom here? I really need one.

SLIM: If not, you can use the employee one next door, or the jack-off booths in the back if they’re empty. I’ll look for whatever the fuck we can turn into fire for the Dragon picture.


Slim is hanging out with his parents in their living room.

SLIM: We got bananas and this fake plant for the monkey, a carrot for the horse. I’m not sure if he’s going to cover his dick with the carrot or just put it in his mouth or what.

WIFE: It seems like that would depend upon the camera angle and, of course, the size of the carrot and his unit.

SLIM: Yeah, I’ll guess we’ll see on the day.

RAYMOND: I’m telling you, you should really advertise my store on the calendar. And not just because we provided the body paint and edible glitter for the Tiger, but because we could really use more female customers who aren’t dykes.

SLIM: Dude, I already told you, it’s fine with me but I have to wait and ask my fucking friends.

RAYMOND: Just let me know.

SLIM: Obviously. Anyway, I need to go upstairs and research what lighting shows off pecs.

Slim heads upstairs.

WIFE: Sometimes I worry that Slim is spending too much time around men and lesbians. He really needs a strong, female influence in his life. Maybe we could find a nice girl and pay her to have sex with him and hang out with him.

RAYMOND: Except for that last part, you sound like Precious! Like feminazi daughter, like mother, I guess. Our boy is completely fine. He’s healthy, he’s working with high quality anal beads and Fleshlight Ices, he has this calendar. All healthy, manly activities.

WIFE: I know you’re right. It’s just that his babydaddy was always talking about how, if a man doesn’t hunt and shoot and sexually harass his coworkers, he might switch teams.

RAYMOND: You mean become a shit-stabber? That’s a bunch of hooey. That hunting and shooting shit is for people that live on farms and fuck goats, not gals. And the only coworker he has to harass is me! Should I ask him to grab my basket while we’re arranging ball harnesses tomorrow?

WIFE (laughing): I’m glad you can talk sense when I let my female irrationality take over. I am sorry, but you knew about my crippling emotional baggage when you asked for my hand.

RAYMOND: I sure did! Now, if only I can convince Slim to pose for that calendar . . .


Slim, Chunky, Saggy, and Ratso are in Saggy and Ratso’s basement, setting up equipment for the photo shoot.

RATSO: So for the dog one, Bulge said he didn’t want to pose with a real dog because he was afraid it would bite his dick or some shit.

CHUNKY: Dude, have you seen Bulge’s dick?

RATSO: We all have.

CHUNKY: If I were a dog, I might bite that shit.

SLIM: I think you’d be too busy licking your own balls.

CHUNKY: Oh yeah. That’d be awesome.

SAGGY: Hella.

SLIM: So we’ll get a stuffed dog or something like that. Which one should we do first?

CHUNKY: I’ll go first.

SLIM: Okay, Tiger first. Are you gonna go paint your stripes with the edible body paint? Here’s what you’re wearing.

He hands chunky a tiger-pattered loincloth.

RATSO: That is so fucking perfect! Your job is making this shit super-easy. Dude, we should totally put on some sexy music before we start. How about CCR?

SAGGY: Hella yes.

SLIM: Whatever. I’m going to set up my computer so the picture will look like it was taken in the jungle.

He sits down and starts working while Ratso opens a beer off another beer and loudly sings along to “Fortunate Son.” Saggy opens the second beer with his teeth and turns on the 360.

SLIM: This is fucking awesome. We can have him next to a giraffe, or by this river . . . I wonder what body position would look the best here. Will you check this out, Ratso?

Ratso continues singing but walks over to check out Slim’s computer.

SLIM: Should he be lying on his side, or maybe just lounging, like reclining? Like this?

Slim demonstrates the position; just then, Chunky comes out of the bathroom.

SLIM: Do you think you would look good lying like this?

CHUNKY: I thought the point of the loincloth was to show off some of my ass, and that pose wouldn’t do that at all.

SLIM: Dude, look at this background! It’s going to be fantastic. Also, where do you want me to rub this body glitter on you?

RATSO: Chunky, your ass does look pretty nice. Do you do pull-throughs?

CHUNKY: And squats. You gotta isolate, fuckers!

RATSO: Tamra is totally going to let you hit that after she sees this.

Slim rubs a blob of body glitter between his hands and begins slathering it on Chunky’s chest.

CHUNKY: You guys haven’t even mentioned my nipples yet.

RATSO: Oh, yeah. Dude, those are pretty fucked up.


Slim, Chunky, Ratso, and Saggy are eating at Chipotle.

RATSO: This piece of meat looks exactly like the face of that bitch you can fuck in GTA: San Andreas! Look at it!

CHUNKY: That is fucking uncanny.

RATSO: “Yes, I would like to eat you.”

He devours the meat chunk.

SLIM: So, the guy at Kinko’s said they’ll definitely be ready for Friday.

RATSO: Awesome! We can sell them at the Chinese New Year’s party. Oh yeah, Saggy, did you ask mom about getting us a keg of some chink beer?

SAGGY: Forgot.

RATSO: Dude, you have to fucking ask her tonight! She might pick up some American shit instead and the party would be fucking ruined. We’re gonna get food from the Great Wall.

CHUNKY: That place is kind of expensive.

RATSO: Yeah, for poor motherfuckers like your white trash ass.

SLIM: It was interesting finally meeting Bulge. I always wondered if maybe his nickname was really ironic, and now I know.

RATSO: Yeah, you fucking know all right. Bulge is a tight du, but he can be a little bit flaky sometimes. He hangs out with too many bitches.

CHUNKY: Did you remember to Photoshop my nipples?

SLIM: Yes, dude. Your fucking nipples are going to look normal. They’re going to scream out to Tamra, “Tweak me! Pinch me! Nibble at me bitch!”

The Hispanic family at the next table gives Slim a strange look.

CHUNKY: Okay. I trust you.

RATSO: Dudes, we are going to be fighting the bitches off us. They might even get desperate and try to go for Slim’s jock at the party. You can finally use the condom that’s been in your wallet since 2004.

SLIM: That isn’t a condom, you ignorant piece of shit. It’s a novelty bubble gum product. I don’t think I’d have a hard time getting condoms.

RATSO: But you’d have a HARD time using them. Literally!

SLIM: Dude, that makes no sense.

SAGGY: Hella true.

RATSO: So now everyone’s a motherfucking linguist? Shut up and eat your fajita burrito bowl. Are you gonna finish your extra thing of corn?


At the health club, Chunky is spotting Ratso, helping him with his pull-through technique, while Saggy is doing ab exercises with a hot pink rubber ball.

RATSO: Bulge won’t even do these because he thinks they look gay. What a fucking loser.

CHUNKY: Dude, you gotta clench harder. Focus, concentrate, and clench. Bulge’s ass is pretty flat.

RATSO: It’s very fucking flat.

CHUNKY: Nothing to grab onto.

RATSO: I know! What the fuck is he thinking?

Jogs Chingon, an alma mater of the boys’ high school, walks over wearing a pea-green tracksuit.

JOGS: Hey, aren’t you guys friends with Precious Cox’s younger brother?

CHUNKY: Yeah, we’re bros. Aren’t you the du from that fashion show? With the hot sister?

JOGS: Yeah, I’m Jogs.

RATSO: Dude, no offense, but you don’t look like the kind of person who hangs out at the gym.

JOGS: Yeah, but actually I’ve lost fifteen pounds recently. This girl said she would date me if I stopped being so fat, and I’ve been real motivated.

CHUNKY: What kind of bitch is worth that much fucking trouble for? Sure, I juice my glutes, but that’s not just for girls and it’s not like losing the weight of an entire person.

JOGS: She’s a pretty special girl.

RATSO: I fucking hope she’s a porn star.

JOGS: Actually, she is a sex worker, but just a stripper. Are you guys old enough to go to the Vu?

CHUNKY: We got ID’s, and I’ve been there.

JOGS: Well, maybe you’ve had her gyrate on your crotch then.

CHUNKY: Lap dances are sort of out of my price range.

RATSO: I’d be up for that, if you . . .

CHUNKY: Stop joking and start clenching! (to Jogs) Precious has a friend who works there too, named Boobs.

JOGS: You’ve met her?

CHUNKY: Just for a minute.

JOGS: Well, I gotta go work off my own boobs in her name. It was nice seeing you.

RATSO: Wait a fucking second, fatass! I want to hear more about your hot sister and whether she would be up for the best fucking Chinese New Years party this side of Tokyo.


Monday, January 26, 2009

World of Cox Episode 1: Calendar Boys (Part One)


Slim Cox is having breakfast with his parents in their kitchen.

RAYMOND: It’s amazing, really. His description of the Vibro’s ability to stimulate the “P” spot is so vivid. I can’t believe how many people come into my shop looking for just some Magnums and lube, and leave with a 150-dollar prostate stimulator.

WIFE: That is so sweet. And I got some great news from Precious last night. Remember that center for underprivileged youth she’s working at?

SLIM: Children of Malt Liquor?

PRECIOUS: That sounds racist to me.

SLIM: That’s what it’s called, bitch!

WIFE: Oh! Well, then, I sit corrected. Anyhoo, Precious has choreographed a routine where the 7- to 9-year-old boys are going to perform an exact replica of a performance by Manpower Australia!

SLIM: With the same outfits? The red thongs or whatever shit they have now?

WIFE: Gee, I didn’t think to ask. Sometimes I really can be shockingly stupid, but you guys know that.

SLIM: Why the fuck is she making them do that gay shit, anyway?

WIFE: She said something about deconstructing the hegemonic conception of the sexualization of something or other. It didn’t make all that much sense to me.

RAYMOND: Well, that is nice! I’ve got to head out, though. We’re getting a shipment of Spandex bodywear that I need to tag and display. It can be a real bitch putting stuff like thongeralls on my mannequins!

SLIM: Using baby powder helps with that.

RAYMOND: Geez, you just know everything! And I bet you have some baby powder upstairs you can lend me.

SLIM: Dude, hello. I have balls.

RAYMOND: Do you ever!


Ratso and Saggy Rubinstein are in the boys’ locker room after gym class, sitting facing each other, topless.

RATSO: Dude, that creatine is really fucking working on your bitch tits. Can I touch them?

SAGGY: Hella yes.

Ratso tweaks his brother’s left pec surreptitiously.

RATSO: Dude, I need to start lifting. Who the fuck says January is too early to start juicing?

RATSO: Hella not me.

Slim and Chunky enter the locker room.

RATSO: Look at my brother’s tits! Dude, do you want to touch them?

CHUNKY: Fuck no.

SLIM: That’s pretty fucking gay.

RATSO: What the fuck is wrong with you? If it’s gay to fucking admire another man’s pecs, then pretty much everything in the world is gay.

SLIM: Fine, but I’m not going to touch that shit. And also, your brother needs to not fucking sag his boxers because I don’t want to see his pubes and what may or may not be a section of his dick.

RATSO: Dude, you’re the one looking there!

SLIM: Because it’s a fucking train wreck!

CHUNKY: Who cares?

RATSO: Dude, you’re the one that won’t even take off your shirt when we go swimming.

CHUNKY: I’ve told you that I have weird nipples. I don’t like showing my nipples to people.

RATSO: Why? Are they hairy? Mine are super hairy but I shave them every couple of weeks. See?

CHUNKY: Your boobs look fine.


Slim, Chunky, Saggy, and Ratso leave the locker room and walk down the hallway. Kristie, Saggy’s friend with benefits, approaches them. She is wearing Juicy Couture sweatpants, Uggs, and a puffy Abercrombie vest.

SAGGY: Hey bitch.

KRISTIE: Have you heard what happened? This is seriously like the biggest tragedy since the fucking Holocaust!

CHUNKY: Is that the thing from that one movie with the guy from Batman Begins?

KRISTIE: That is so not important right now.

RATSO: So what the fuck happened?

KRISTIE: Tamra sprained her calf and now she can’t be in the section dance team tournament!

RATSO: How did she sprain it? Trying out some kinky new sexual position?

SLIM: We have a great product for that called the Liberator Wedge; it’s one of our top sellers. Often called the connoisseur's serving spoon of choice, the Wedge offers delivery at a divine incline for deeper penetration and G-spot navigation. The 27-degree angle excels every oral performance, eases any anal expedition and intensifies every single sensation. Always a favorite with the ladies!

RATSO: Dude, that sounds amazing!

KRISTIE: Aren’t you sad for Tamra though?

SLIM: This is the same bitch who bruised her sternum getting titty-fucked by . . . actually, was that you, Saggy?

SAGGY: No idea.

SLIM: Whatever. Until I hear how she hurt herself, I fucking reserve judgment.

KRISTIE: You are such a fucking asshole! God, I can’t believe you guys.

CHUNKY: Hey, I totally feel sad for her.

RATSO: Yeah right. You feel for her but that feeling isn’t called sadness.

CHUNKY: Whatever’s it’s called, let’s think of something to cheer her up.

KRISTIE: Saggy, you’re going to help with that, aren’t you?

SAGGY: Whatever.

RATSO: Dude, I’m in. Anything to help a bro get pussy. What about you, Slim?

SLIM: I think I’ll stick to the periphery on this one. But if you want to get her an Odyssey Tickler or a Slimline Waterdancer or something , you know where to go.


Ratso and Saggy are hanging out in their basement with Chunky, drinking Natty Ice. Ratso is playing Street Fighter II on the modded XBOX Classic; his fighter of choice is Chun Li.

RATSO: That is so fucking not the best Pink Floyd album! Dude, you are fundamentally retarded for even thinking that shit!

CHUNKY: I don’t get all your post-Barrett apologist bullshit, but I’m not gonna argue about it.

RATSO: Yes you are. You’re going to fucking argue until you admit that you’re a bitch that doesn’t know shit about the second-greatest band of all time.

Ratso’s phone rings and he answers it.

RATSO: Bulge! Dude, why the fuck aren’t you here yet? . . . Okay, just grab whatever bitches are around.

CHUNKY: Dude, Chun Li just got raped by that sumo fatass. I bet dude would rip her snatch a new asshole if they could actually fuck.

SAGGY: Truf.

RATSO: Hey, Chun Li reminds me that Chinese New Year is next weekend. We should totally have a party and invite some bitches and eat chink food and whatever beer they have there.


CHUNKY: Dude, I just got the perfect idea to cheer up Tamra!

He stares blankly into space for 30 seconds.

CHUNKY: Yeah! This is going to be totally awesome. And you guys will finally be able to see my nipples.

RATSO: Actually, when you passed out on New Year’s Eve . . .

CHUNKY: Are you fucking serious?

RATSO: Someday the truth will come out, my man. Someday.

Saggy angrily slams down his beer can, splashing foam on the floor.

RATSO: Mom is going to be so pissed if you don’t clean that up.


Slim is behind the counter at Fantasy Gifts while his father arranges a display of flavored body oils, foams, and sprays.

RAYMOND: We’ve sure had some strange ones today. I never thought I would see dwarves in bondage gear buy so many nipple clamps. Do those things have other uses?

SLIM: I’ll check online when we get home tonight.

The phone rings and Slim answers.

SLIM: Fantasy Gifts. . . . Dude, I’m working here.

He waits as the caller talks for some time.

SLIM: Okay, I can look for something, but there is no way in fuck that I am going to be photographed for that shit. Or photograph it. I’ll be the art director but that is it!

He hangs up.

RAYMOND: What was that?

SLIM: Some of my friends are going to pose for an erotic calendar based on the signs of the Chinese Zodiac.

RAYMOND: That sounds like a fantastic idea!

SLIM: Yeah, I’m going to find them props and help out.

RAYMOND: Are you going to be one of the models? When I was your age, I would impress girls with photographs of me pointing at my bare, ripped abs. And the special ones got a little bit more, if you know what I mean.

SLIM: T to the fucking M to the I! I’m about to throw up all over these vagina bottle openers!

RAYMOND (laughing): Someday you’ll meet a girl worth exploiting your beautiful young body for.


Monday, January 19, 2009

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

The 2005 MBA Review

I'm trying to come up with exciting new content to post here, potentially including a review of the Section 1AA dance team tournament coming up on February 7 at Zumbrota-Mazeppa High School. In the meantime, here is an old piece about going to Tennessee and shit.


It is early 2005. It is raining and Garth Brooks is on the radio, singing about his stunning success on the South Beach Diet. I’m not sure if it’s a song or a commercial, but I am sure that his smooth, silky voice is just what I need to find my own inner sunshine in a city of rain, in a world of pain. The windshield wipers wash a smile through the fog of tears. When the breakdown begins, I am so exhilarated I pump my fist in the air wildly until I violently punch the inside light. There is an intense cracking sound—hopefully plastic, not bone. I moan and wail. It’s a piercing scream that, on its own, would belong in one of them bad horror movies that these damn kids are always going to and then imitating by dressing up as dolls committing violent knifings in the girls’ locker room after midnight. But, combined with Garth’s honey-coated tenor, his divine twang, we become a duet more stunning than Ozzy Osborne and Lita Ford ever were.

The car in front of us suddenly pulls off to the side of the highway, forcing us to swerve to avoid running into a hijacked ice cream truck driven by some woman who apparently thought she couldn’t talk on her cell phone and drive at the same time, so instead of risking an accident, she decided on a much safer option. The image of a car accident in Nashville reminds me of the car accident in Nashville, which in turn reminds me of the long, silky ponytail I had when I was in junior high. The week before I started ninth grade, I cut off the tail and put it in a fine burlwood box lined with silk to keep safely in my safe. Every few months, I would take out the box and stroke the hair, remembering all the good times we had together. The two of us were inseparable, like a carrot and onions. But you learn to give up things, to make sacrifices. You could eat all five Goo-Goo Clusters or you could eat four and give the fifth to charity. It’s your decision.

Along with the rebel flag and the flaming guitar, the Goo-Goo is truly a powerful symbol of Nashville. It represents everything the city stands for: big, salty nuts; rich, fatty chocolate; and something wet and sticky. I mean white and sticky. In fact, if you go too long without a Goo-Goo, you will wake up in the night craving one. Your mouth will be watering so much that your pillow will soak up all the drool like a sponge and be useful in dishwashing, floor cleaning, and envelope sealing for several months. There is no substitute for the Goo-Goo. A foolish Yankee company tried to replicate them a few years ago. Their cheap, trashy imitation, which they called Tolerance Treats, were an even bigger flop than Glazed Chex. At least in this part of the world—I won’t speak for the French.

But when we checked into our hotel Friday afternoon, the special Refresher with the Goo-Goos was still about 27 hours away, so I forced myself to think about less delicious things: specifically, what to wear to the opening dinner. One of the best things about coaching debate is making fun of high school students for wearing those silly business suits as if they were real adults. Look at those kids acting all big and mighty and wearing those fancy clothes. Those kids don’t know nothing about nothing.

Tragically, MBA equalizes the oppression by making real adults (and young adults lord knows there are college students thinking they know how to coach debate what are they trying to turn the activity into too much punting for one thing and democracy as a value o god help us) dress up along with the kiddies. When I realized this archaic tradition was still going strong, I went out for some post-New Year’s panic shopping and a light lunch at Old China Buffet. I found some stunning vintage suits and ties, although unfortunately I couldn’t enjoy them immediately because the buffet had its revenge in the form of fourteen hours on the crapper. I emerged refreshed and rejuvenated, having read the last seven issues of US Weekly and four chapters of the new Michael Crichton novel. He good writer.

With my new clothes and suitcase, I felt like a new person as we checked into the Holiday Inn Select Vanderbilt. I knew it was a good sign when I heard Clint Black playing in the lobby and the clerk who checked us in was named Gavina Vagillus. Then, to make a good thing even more better, we turned on the TV and Jerry Springer was on. And then, if the world couldn’t be even more perfect, this episode was all about post-op transsexuals revealing their fantasy crushes on straight firemen. I knew it would be hotter than a 4-alarm fire! Jerry! Jerry! Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!

Suddenly the incessant chanting going on inside my head put me in a trance, and I spent the next 43 minutes on the ground quivering and moaning. A whirlwind of hallucinogenic images flashed through my head: Mr. Peanut’s monocle growing diaphanous wings and gracefully fluttering toward the solar anus in an Icarian move; a graceful eagle flying into the sunset suddenly hit by a cannonball headed straight north; a 12-foot humanoid shape composed entirely of pigs-in-a-blanket dancing the Macarena on the Bonneville Salt Flats.

I woke up, my face basked in sunshine. That was truly the worst thing ever, although now I know the answer to the age-old question: fork or spoon?

One thing was decided long before my brown revelation: fork, spoon, spork, chopsticks, and salad tongs would all be useful in shoveling as much good ol’ Southern grub in my tummy as possible at the MBA dinner. When we arrived, I was immediately impressed and overwhelmed by the luxurious mise en scène in the Massey building. There were those extremely classy red chili pepper lights hanging from the ceiling, along with an enormous piñata shaped like Rosie O’Donnell. Her giant stomach was bulging with individually wrapped candies, and I knew they would be sweet and delicious.

We selected a table near the buffet, where gleaming sterling covers barely concealed the steamy aromas of down home dishes waiting to be noisily devoured with vigor and satisfaction. Every spot was adorned with a glass of water, a glass of sweet tea, a fresh carnation, and a chunk of pork in the shape of a bell. We learned that this salty, satisfying formation of pig fat is there to symbolize the rich history of the south. Apparently they used to serve pork jerky instead, but it was so chewy and addicting that the contestants forfeited their rounds to chew on meat.

As soon as we settled our semiformally-clothed asses in the pleather seats, the Lord announced that it was time to hit the buffet. Unfortunately, a certain extemp speaker from Ohio took that literally, and violently injured his right hand by slamming it into one of the chafing dishes. However, after he was carted away by the charming countrified medical personnel of MBA, our table was invited to experience the delicious dishes awaiting our hungry mouths. I was drooling like Kevin Spacey at an Aaron Carter concert. Aaron Carter is one of the most socially and politically important musical artists of our times. He good.

On a tangential but vital note, Aaron Carter’s recent near-death experience should make us all think twice before we leave soiled mattresses on the highway. I know it’s tempting, but please, next time use your soiled mattresses to build a fun maze for your children and their friends to play in. Think with your head instead of your nacho.

Speaking of butter, the spread at MBA was mighty impressive. I loaded up my plate with corn, squid and guava ceviche, roaster guinea pig bites, cheesy beef balls, and the other dainty and delicious offerings. Did I mention there was corn? Back at our table, conversation stopped as we all shoveled heap after heap of food down our gullets. It was like a party was in my mouth, and it never wanted to end.

Our dessert, aside from cheesecake and white pepper ice cream, was the opportunity to enjoy three hot, spicy LD rounds. Resolved: Strict separation of corn and corn cobs is deee-licious! You can’t go wrong with sweet, sweet corn. Incidentally, the debates I judged Friday night were explosive, brisk, and facile, much like a former Teacher of the Year nominee. Like that lovely, powerful woman, the debates taught me about life; they taught me how to eat free at Hardee’s every Sunday morning (I am a little bit spoiled and more than a little bit manipulative, y’all!); and most of all, they taught me about guns and ammunition.

That night, I could barely sleep because I was so excited about the three rounds of extemp I was judging on Saturday. I love extemp! There’s nothing cuter than high school students impersonating local newscasters. And those introductions—Wow! Those are really, really hilarious. I mean so funny you will pee in your power suit. Multiple times in an hour. You do the math. There really is nothing funnier than the current situation in India being compared to that Far Side cartoon of a man about to karate chop a brick in half and little does he know that a brick wall is about to fall on him! LOL! Imagine me saying that in my best investigative reporter voice, complete with robotic (and very non-erotic) gestures. Now that’s forensics at its most bestest!

If the extemp rounds on Saturday didn’t quite live up to my dream fantasy expectations, at least they taught me that the amount we donated to tsunami relief was enough, and that the EU needs to relax its immigration policies to make up for the sad, sad lack of babies being born fast enough in Europe. The European race(s) are about to go the way of the Dodo! Where is Prussian Blue when we need them?

The speech and debate rounds on Saturday were far overshadowed by what we knew was coming later in the day. No, I’m not talking about the square dancing marathon at the Gaylord Event Center. I’m talking about Miami. I’m talking about China. I’m talking, of course, about the Refresher. Oh, the Refresher—those three syllables make me drool like Rosie O’Donnell at a Subaru dealership. I knew there were Goo-Goos waiting to be put in my mouth, but I knew I had to wait. As they say, abstinence makes the heart go fonder. In fact, I think Clay Aiken says that. I love him!

Where are the Divinyls when we need them?

It felt like six o’clock would never come. I whiled away the minutes braiding my hair, playing solitaire, creating a handsome balsa wood structure, and writing erotic poetry about the Olsen twins. Yet the hours went by like days, and the minutes went by like a 500-pound man on a Segway. Finally, the tension made me snap totally and completely. I was making farting noises and laughing hysterically; then suddenly I screamed and fell to the ground. I felt like someone had shot me with that ray that makes it feel like your internal organs are trying to escape through your nostrils.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, my panic attack ended. I fixed my hair, strapped on my messenger bag, and headed to the next extemp round. The round went by in a quick flash and suddenly it was Refresher time! I literally sprinted to the cafeteria, a graceful and gazelle-like run interrupted when I tripped over a decorative stone, flew several feet in the air, and landed on something soft and mushy. My first though was, Is that shit?

Actually, that same question sprang to my mind the first time I saw a Goo-Goo cluster. They may look unappetizing, but they are truly the most delicious food item ever created. But the Refresher contains more than just Goo-Goo. Much more. Every debater got a souvenir swizzle stick, a gift certificate to Banana Republic, and a set of Swahili vocabulary flash cards. Vee stan gloop! But the real draw is the Goo-Goo, and as I wiped the last bit of encrusted marshmallow foam from my mouth, I felt a twinge of jouissance. And that made me want to be alone.

After the Refresher, there was yet another explosive event to look forward to, or actually two explosive events. Do two explosions = one implosion? I’m not sure, but the double party fantasy experience was awaiting us at 10 o’clock. We had two hours between the last round and party explosion, so we decided to take a tour of downtown Nashville. An obese biker woman in a sidecar flicked us off, which may be because we were blasting “Galang” at top volume and dancing violently.

We laughed and turned up the stereo even louder. There’s no bass better than the bass of a hot Chevy Malibu, that’s for sure. And you know that extremely intense bass frequencies can cause a very dirty physical reaction. But then again, we all use cars to drop people off—people and things. Speaking of things, the Nashville Hard Rock Café is potentially the ugliest building I have ever seen in my life, and I’ve been to Gary, Indiana, Pittsburgh, and Mamaroneck. It is uglier than Michael Moore in a Speedo. Now that ugly!

After our foray through downtown, an unimpressive Italian dinner, and several minutes spent in the bathroom, we were ready to partay down. The party had several unique draws: heavy appetizers, an open bar, a jazz trio whose average age was 81.3, and of course sparkling conversation with the bigwigs of the debate community. I’m talking big, big, big, big! I signed a pact not to reveal further details about what happened at the party, but just wait nine months.

Sunday morning, the after-effects of the party were evident: people wearing sunglasses, moaning in agony, begging for aspirin, and falling asleep while judging rounds. Now, you may think that a sleeping judge is a bad judge, but I’ll take a hung over, passed out debate judge over an extemp judge any day. But that’s probably because I’m an antisocialist.

Anyway, back to my story. The rounds were over, and all that was left was the announcement of the lucky competitors in the demo rounds. I would tell you all about the demo round, except I didn’t watch it. I spent the time reading pornographic literature and eating several slices of pizza with smoked gouda and artichoke hearts. But the round, I’m sure, was fantastic, if corny, just like the rest of our experience in Atlanta.

The Fiery Furnaces were wrong: the South is not only a home. It is an ideology, a contested site. It may not be America’s Heartland, but it certainly is America’s Bloated Stomachland. It is that special place where you can say, “What up, shorty?” and smile a gold-toothed smile and eat lots of grits. Grits, okra, and a golf cart filled with an enormous man with tiny feet and an enormous fupa.

And, hidden within the folds of that sweet, sweet fupa is the secret to MBA fantasy success: many, many more Goo-Goos. Eat them; enjoy them. You will transcend physical reality as your taste buds take you to a better place.

Like judging the current resolution, being in Nashville is always already a religious experience.

Saturday, January 3, 2009

Blogging Thru the 80's

When I first considered the conceptual arbitrariness that is simultaneously a boon and bane with regard to putting myself out there in the blogosphere, my mind began leaping across academic and cultural disciplines: island-hopping if you will (cf Jeff from this season of “Top Chef”). Why should I blog? Why should anyone blog? What’s the sound of one hand blogging? Fuck. These will never be answered, and in fact if you read blogs because you think you “get” writing, then you’re a fucking retard. The impossibility of virtual exchange via the interweb reaching a state with which confidence about the message, the medium, the Mexican—it’s all a clusterfuck. And so are you. Fuck.

Nevertheless, since blogging is arguably one of the few ways to prevent the impossibility of ethics, I decided to jump into this miasmic pool, this diaphanous web of pop cultural witticisms, grammatical structures intended to stress the intelligence of my writing as well as its ability to be read aloud smoothly and delightfully. I am here. Fuck. And I suppose, so are you, now. But if you think you’re my intellectual equal, you are fundamentally retarded.

Now, let’s talk about music, and specifically the music of the 1980’s. This was the decade when no wave turned new, when the seeds of grunge were developing like the breasts of an adolescent girl (cf yo mama). I was alive for just over one year of the 1980’s; however, still, I obviously have heard every worthwhile recording, from the dazzlingly obscure to the most crust-worn consensus rock opus, and will now inform you what’s the best and what’s the rest. Fuck. My taste is better than yours, of course, so if you disagree with any of this you are only proving me right, just as arguments against the standard of logic fundamentally self-implode by applying to the very body of logic they are trying to criticize. Isn’t that special (cf 1990’s SNL)?

1. Samantha Fox – S/T – 1987
Just when I thought I was sick of this former-topless model from England and her fluffy confections which sadly lacked a meaty undertone to grab onto, Stock, Hausen and Waterman stepped in and added their trademark production. They left the breasts intact but added pop radio-friendly electric beats, most memorably on the song “Naughty Girls (Need Love Too).” Words truly cannot express how good that song—and her boobs—were/are.

2. Skating for Cover – Rituals – 1983
There are bands that take delicious tracks with some appalling element and given them life, there are producers that feed off already good mean, and then there are bands like Skating for Cover that are so obscure, even your roommate’s pretentious boyfriend who has a tape label out of his dorm and thinks Xela is too mainstream hasn’t heard of them. Lack of accessible boobage photography knocks this gem down from an otherwise-deserving number wonderful.

3. Lita Ford – Lita – 1988
Lita Ford has some of those voices that, for whatever reason, just invokes whiskey-soaked nights slutting it up. Fuck. This album features drunk-rockin’ ditties and the best opening line ever, with which “Kiss Me Deadly” begins.

4. Poison – Look What the Cat Dragged In – 1984
This has been the album that I put on when I’m trying to apply insane amounts of makeup before a party, my spirits are dying down, and I seek an injection of fresh liquid liner-bangin’ hotness. These tracks are about bitches being tickled by the feathered hair of drunken coke addicts. You will pump your fist in the air when “Talk Dirty to Me” comes on, and when you put on “I Want Action,” you will get what you want.

5. Terence Trent D’Arby – Introducing the Hardline According to Terence Trent D’Arby – 1987
The ultimate father figure for so many girls and homosexuals during his time in the spotlight, Trent D’Abry left a lot of space between his sexy, drawn-out thighs, and his liquid croon would make anyone promise not to “kiss and tell” (cf “Wishing Well”). His erotic dancing inspired legions of guys to render themselves at least temporarily sterile after attempting to impress chicks with the split.

6. Old Skull – Get Outta School – 1989
Generally, I don’t think you should fuck with hardcore trios made up of nine-tear-old boys, especially when the tracks on their debut albums have names like “AIDS,” “Hot Dog Hell,” and “Who Lit the House.” In this case, well, damn. Fuck. They rock your shit off yet twinkle that classy feel that makes you forget you’re headbingin’ to a bunch of tender young boys.

7. Silicon Teens – Music for Parties – 1980
This album is allegedly by a trio of teen hipsters, but I could swear it was really the work of just one man: the man who made Depeche Mode Famous. This album has a high-concept, mesmerizing appeal: it features almost solely covers of Motown-era hits. And it’s really, really rare and shit. Fuck. I wish I had a copy of this on vinyl so badly.

8. Wall of Voodoo – Call of the West – 1982
I guess we’re scared of nerdalicious written long in the past. Or so I thought until I listened to this entire album and realized it would make hot proto-electro-disco-synth hits even today. I mean, it’s on IRS. They can turn shit buttons into Fuck Buttons.

9. Cher – Heart of Stone – 1989
Coming from her phenomenal Cher (1987) live set, the crazily-dressed bitch showed her ass to the entire navy in the most memorable music video until “Time to Pretend.” This banger of an album is dirty, very dirty; it’s about hard, pounding songs and “Just Like Jesse James” is truly a neglected classic.

10. My Bloody Valentine – Isn’t Anything – 1988
Duh. Fuck.