Puke, I Am Your Father

Prior to the past two weeks, it had actually been some time since I'd (pardon the vernacular) blown chucks. But having to endure the recent inhospitality of a stomach virus, I find that memory did not serve me well. There are certain do's and don'ts with the art of throwing up. How does one throw up well? Here are a couple of reminders to help make the most of such an ignominious event.

1. Pause to pray - Piety works when you've incurred the porcelain god's wrath. It's best to lie prostrate, light some incense and play some Enya to soothe yourself in your blubbery contrition.

2. Pinch the nose - What's not fun? Puking. What's really not fun? Having to prolong the experience because you gave your nasal cavity a new coat of paint. I've heard that there are rare mythological creatures who don't projectile vomit from every facial orifice, but I have higher hopes of meeting a unicorn in person.

3. Disrobe if possible - Nothing could strip you of more dignity than having to wear an unwelcome pity badge. Stock your workstation with a handy Tide pen, which incidentally, is not a handy writing utensil.

4. Double whammy - Given that your problems have escalated to the throw up / throw down combo, alternative means of collection may be necessary. Take a Saturday to peruse local garage sales for 70's Tupperware. Should they be necessary, your finds will be the perfect objects of disdain.

5. Stage an exorcism - Who needs split pea soup when you've got the real deal? Keeping a micro-cassette recorder around will help legitimize your metaphysical experience, and odds are your friends won't be able to distinguish your puke-speak from liturgical Latin.

6. Everyone's an artist - Purchasing a few canvases may just turn those chunks into bucks. Think SpinArt meets Jackson Pollock. "I call this piece, Gastrointestinal Abstraction. To your left, Technicolor Yawning."

7. Share the love - JK Rowling and Warner Brothers cinema have made it easy for us to share the joys of puking with others. A few vomit-flavored Bertie Bott's Beans surreptitiously placed in your friend's Jelly Belly dispenser will ensure an untimely spectacle for all to behold. But hey, it's far less malicious than ipecac in the maple syrup.

Concerning Celebrities, CDs, and Arts Degrees

So my friend Jacqueline inspired me to do an "Interview Me" blog, if nothing else because my next post is only half-baked. After doing so, I think it's worth perpetuating, so comment me if you want to be interviewed!

1) Describe to those not cool enough to be "in the know" why it is that I call you Chicken Fetus.

You know, for someone who has a genuine appreciation for nicknames and who routinely doles them out on the unsuspecting… chicken fetus has been the one moniker that I will never live down. Flash back 10 ½ years ago (which reminds me of the immanence of a reunion sometime in the next 12 months), and yours truly was entering his senior year at Rotten Lawton High. To put it in context, Savage Garden, K-Ci and Jojo, and Chumbawamba were playing on the radio ad infinitum, and I had follicles on my noggin. Now, this being a time when teenage defiance and self-expression found its form in hair color, I thought it best to set the tone of my senior year by bleaching the bejeezus out of my hair. And I actually thought it looked cool or original. In actuality, I was a wife beater short of a Slim Shady clone. So even though I didn’t think the change was that drastic, my arrival to the first day of summer band proved that my Eminemorphosis was too much to take. Thankfully, I’ve always had friends that were honest enough to not let me get away with anything, but still, I was a bit jarred when my friend Justin Montgomery dropped the bomb:

Dude, what’s with the hair? You look… like a chicken fetus.

And with that one grand, emasculating coup de grâce, I walked into my high school halls with my tail effectively tucked. In retrospect, I believe my cosmetic blunder ironically sealed my balding fate. If I had any wisdom at that age, I would have seen that my already thinning hair was a sinking ship and in no condition to be fried to an otherwordly shade of piss. Better to nurture it with Selsun Blue or the foul-smelling Neutrogena T/Gel shampoo for a few years. This slice of humble pie was far from tasty. But I guess it garnered a few shared laughs at my expense.

2) What degree did you get in college, do you use it now, and do you ever regret not getting a degree in something else?

Oh the undergrad. Bachelor of Arts. Emphasis in Music and Ethics. If you’re raising your eyebrows in a collective Huuhhh??, just know that this is the appropriate response. Like most liberal arts degrees, mine afforded me very little material application in life. And honestly, when would these two fields of interest ever converge in a vocation? Unless I was mapping out the moral depravity of vocal starlets for a living, I’m going to say they wouldn’t. While I rather enjoyed all of my undergrad studies, I have to concede that familiarizing myself with Renaissance areolas and ass cracks was nothing more than mental masturbation.

As to whether I regret not studying something else, I’ll unapologetically admit that I’d have preferred to have acquired a different skill set for the money that school costs. The world of academia is fickle, and there can be a huge disconnect between book smart and life smart. That is to say, I don’t think Medici family history ever came in handy when I needed to replace an alternator. Still, I can’t say that I would’ve changed anything. I’m no proponent of Chaos Theory, but I recognize that we are, as people, the summation of all of our previous choices and experiences. To try and go back and negate our missteps, I believe, would rob us of opportunities for growth and maturation.

3) What book has left the biggest impression on your life? What band/album/song has done the same? Why?

Wow. This one’s a toughie. Or is it toughy? As an aside, is toughie even a word? It sounds more like a failed infomercial product from Ronco. Toughie© – When the flooring gets tough, the tough get Toughie©! But I digress… No, the question is tough because I’m constantly cycling out my must-read and must-listen lists. So even though you asked for superlatives, I’ll give top 5’s and a brief justification for each.

Top 5 Books that you have to read, unless you suffer from some disabling impediment, in which case you should purchase the 26+CD audiobook

The Brothers Karamazov – Dostoevsky – I’m a sucker for classics. And this Russian literary wonder is chock full of family-churned drama. From Alyosha to The Grand Inquisitor to the trial, it’s all great, beginning to end.

Naked – David Sedaris – I rarely stumble across something that can literally make me laugh out loud. Before Naked, I never knew memoir could be so hilarious, even if it might be exaggerated. This is a must have if I’ve ever known one.

The Varieties of Scientific Experience – Carl Sagan – Thought-provoking, challenging, inspiring. Sagan reminded me that the mysteries of the universe should invoke awe and hope, not fear.

Lord of the Flies – William Golding – Maybe it’s because a new Lost season just started, but I’ve got islands on the brain. Contrary to Salinger’s school of thought, Golding makes a convincing case that, stripped of modern conveniences, brutality and corruption emerge from humanity’s primal state.

His Dark Materials Trilogy – Philip Pulman – Grossly misunderstood and misrepresented. Think for yourself. Read it and then form an opinion.

Top 5 CDs that you can’t live without, or at least without which you would live a languid existence

O – Damien Rice – One of the most amazing debuts ever. Except for the operatic closing of “Eskimo,” this is an emotionally raw handful of tracks.

The White Album – the Beatles – It’s difficult to pull a favorite out of the Beatles catalogue. I chose White because of its historical significance. Despite brimming over with creativity, you can feel the tension in the tracks as the Fab Four began to pull apart in different directions.

HAARP – Muse – Though I recommend all of Muse’s albums, I chose the live CD because it draws from all their material, and it showcases just how talented these guys are live. And the Prokofiev intro gave me chills.

Speak For Yourself – Imogen Heap – I mean have you not heard “Hide and Seek” by now? Seriously?

Diorama – Silverchair – After the melancholic opus Neon Ballroom, Daniel Johns emerges victorious after having battled his demons. It’s stunning, beautiful, and one of the few albums that I can listen to from start to finish.

4) Is there any aspect of your past that you wish you could have now?

Another time travel question. Without getting too sentimental, I’d most definitely spare a few loved ones some grief. I don’t personally think that there’s any circumstance that’s insurmountable. We only have the here and now, so I’m not the type of person to be haunted by the coulda woulda shoulda’s. But it would be nice to spend more time with the dearly departed.

5) By my estimations, you will be 28 on Feb 19. (If I'm wrong, please forgive me!) Do you feel old? Why or why not?

28 it is. Or will be. Old is a state of mind, I suppose. I’m finding that the things I used to hate about adulthood I now like. Whereas I used to run from responsibility and the daily grind, I now find solace in whoring myself out to management. (*note: I initially wrote “whoring myself out to the man,” but this added unintentional meaning to a simple statement about my work ethic.) But for the sake of prolonging an answer, I’ll indulge in a bit of good ole fashioned complainery. Growing up I never had any issue with allergies. But on the other side of 25, my years are now highlighted with an annual visit from grossly disfiguring bouts of rhinitis and edema of the eyes. I’ve never considered myself a looker by any stretch, but there have been days when I looked more like the Cryptkeeper than Mr. Clean. So I’d like to thank the flora kingdom for airborne pollen. Thanks to them, I’ll always have a vocational plan B ringing bells atop Notre Dame de Paris.

And, a bonus just because I really want to know: 6) Do you really remember me or are you just being polite, because our friend Matt can't seem to remember who I am. Go on, be honest - I won't get offended :)

Unlike some nameless Mormon, I do remember who Jacqueline is. I believe we made it to summer band practices via my decrepit ’89 Chevrolet Celebrity, which was understandably a celebrity in no one’s book. But it got us from A to B, and transportation at that age is a hot commodity, even if the manner and means are subject to rust and primer spots and frequent break downs!

Now it's your turn if you would like me to interview you just leave a comment and I will email you the questions! Here's the directions:
1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. (I get to pick the questions).
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Where a Kid Can Be a Juvie

There was a day when nothing excited me more than the prospect of a visit to Chuck E. Cheese. The promise of video games, pizza, tokens, tickets and a performance by the animatronic band on stage every half hour was enough to send yours truly into pre-pubescent squeals. So I was genuinely excited this month when our family celebrated my nephew’s third birthday at the one establishment that I thought could assure raucous celebration. I should have known better when we pulled up to what was evidently a Denny’s in another life.

A few steps in and we were greeted not with the gleeful merriment of childhood innocence but rather a barrage of acrid smells and shrill toddler discord. Probably due to the threat of an amber alert, a menopausal gatekeeper tagged every child and adult with a UV stamp. I suggested that she brand my ass, but the look on her face suggested that she was weighing whether it was worth losing $8.00 an hour to take me down a couple of notches.

I immediately noticed that things had changed in the 20+ years it had been since my own birthday romp with Chuck. Sure, there was still the surplus of bells, chimes and LED lights to send the younglings into euphoric delirium. But for me, adulthood has given way to a heightened awareness of germs and communicable disease, and I was immediately self-congratulatory of the decision to bring along a bottle of hand sanitizer.

With dawning awareness that I may have uncovered a lesser known 10th circle of hell, I consoled myself with the fact that food would soon allow my accruing rage to subside. That is, until we were presented with the hot garbage that narrowly slid under the parent category of "pizza." Here again is another example of how age has disenfranchised me with childhood experience. There's a reason that children always want to eat fried foods. Their nascent taste buds have little tolerance for anything that doesn't come in nugget form. If it's not colorful, noisy, salty or sweet, then there's little chance they'll take more than two bites. So naturally I didn't expect any objection from the kids, no matter how unpalatable our rations might be.

I, on the other hand, could not mask my revulsion when presented with the room temp trainwreck of tomato sauce, cheese and bread. It tasted like nothing less than a dish towel that Chef Boyardee used to wipe his crevasse. That anything that rancid could pass as sustenance was a culinary offense I'll not soon forget. But the optimist in me affirmed that despite a crippled economy, there's always an opportunity for a new shitty food enterprise. Welcome to CaCa's Pizza! Try our baked crapolini and feces bread!

If there were looks of unbridled excitement on every child's face, it was offset by their collective parents' morose and sullen countenances, each in full recognition that this was certainly not part of the 10 year post-high school plan. Each fatigued face bore the battle scars of incessant requests for more tokens. And yet, I found out that everyone has a coping mechanism. Whilst playing ski ball, some all-star dad next to me deemed it appropriate to dominate the basketball shoot-out game. Bleeding tokens, he played game after game, trying his hardest to outdo himself by sinking the most baskets before the 30 second timer ran out. It could have smacked of something other than chagrin, if it didn't seem like he was fueled by the paralyzing regret of being passed up for all-state 15 years prior. Add to that the fact that neither the ball nor hoop were regulation size, and there were no offspring in his proximity through which he could live vicariously. Truth be told, his competetiveness has more than likely alienated his sons, and they've taken up decoupage.

The unspoken consensus among all attendees over 17 was that it didn't bode well to tarry here in Munchkinland, a fact cemented by the relatively recent increase in parent on parent brawling at said establishment.

Shameless Battle o' Brooding Hens
An Octagon short of a new Spike reality show
"I'll have the pepperoni and black-eye pizza. Hold the suplex."
Mama-Bear Melee
"Happy Birthday, Miss Demeanor..."
The first rule of Fight Club is that you DO NOT cut in line at the ticket redemption counter

And if the finger wagging hasn't become searingly obvious, sit back and observe human devolution at its finest.

Leggo my Prego

Even Chuck himself doesn't appear to be immune to the mass loss of moral fiber. I suppose he pushes product with Geoffrey the Toys 'R Us giraffe, and after a bump or two they're both ready to beat Lucky the Leprechaun senseless until he hands over his pot of gold. Well with any luck, Mr. Cheese can score a stint on Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew. His namesake's consumers, on the other hand, can only be assured an appearance on COPS and tenure at the local county jail.

Breakfast of Champions

Nothing can make me laugh harder (and simultaneously cringe) than a well thought out truth.com commercial. Their metropolitan antics coupled with raucous recitation of dubious statistics always incite sadistic glee on my part. But I’m reminded that I probably enjoy not so much the truth of truth.com as I do their megaphone style presentation of such startling facts as: Did you know that pregnant mothers who smoke cause complications for their babies in the womb? 6 out of 10 people who smoke die younger than they wanted to! Their horrific demonstrations have escalated to the height of artistic pretentiousness. Ice sculptures of pregnant mothers melting in the sun eventually fall to pieces and expose their unprotected unborn. Très tragique. The avant-garde demonstrations only cement the fact that there’s a future in activism for vocationally stymied students with liberal arts degrees. The truth.com exploits have reinforced the notion that you can scare someone into caring for themselves, when the truth alone isn’t sufficient. The crowds of asterisk-faced onlookers are more likely to acquiesce to cessation in the hopes that these hippies will stop interrupting traffic with their sidewalk sit-ins.

Though not a smoker, I’m not the best at maintaining this vessel of inner light. My latest foot in the grave is a complete and utter abandonment of morning nutrition. I don’t have anything against breakfast, but I grow weary of its enthusiasts. Anytime that I mention that I’m not a breakfast person in a relatively crowded setting, there’s always at least one helpful dietician who has to chime in that it’s the most important meal of the day. Thank you, ma’am, for your fervent elucidation on searing hot, obvious truth and your abiding endorsement of our nation’s dairy farmers. What’s that you say? Cigarettes are bad too? What do you mean MSG can encourage heart disease?

It’s not that I don’t like breakfast food. Quite the contrary. I’d like to thank IHOP, Perkin’s and Cracker Barrel for giving America all the fried eggs it can handle after 10:30 AM. But even the eggs of free range chickens aren’t immune from the disdain of breakfast train bandits. I’m sure that not even buying the nauseating milk carton full of de-shelled, magically cholesterol free “yechs” will assuage their wrath. Cereal is no longer fun or colorful and is hardly palatable these days, having entered the arena of equine cuisine. I’m convinced that Kashi should be sold not so much in a box as it should a feedbag. I maintain that people generally have to be tricked into willingly betraying their taste buds to eat healthy. The once incorruptible Quaker has had to be sexed up with artificial flavoring and coloring to make oatmeal even remotely appealing to children.

My lack of interest in AM dining, I fear, is far less attributable to the decline in food choices. From 6 to 10 o’clock every morning, my level of consciousness is slightly above that of PVS patients. Beyond the chore of self-grooming, the additional task of heating a pan and cracking an egg is unthinkable. I’m just too lazy and I love sleep too much, which is probably why energy drinks will be the final nail in my coffin. I had originally thought Taurine was a gasoline additive, supported by the fact that it’s currently in 75% of beverages purchased at gas stations. And being that there’s a convenience store halfway between home and work, my breakfasts as of late have become quite a shameful display of malnutrition. There was a time when moon pies, trail mix and iced honey buns would have been inconceivable as road trip rations, let alone breakfast.

My disgraceful regiment would not be complete without the purchase of an additional energy shot at the register. Housed in travel shampoo bottles, these overly marketed whores promise 5-6 hours of energy by way of 8,333% recommended daily value of vitamin B12. Admittedly, my consumption of these marvels is not due to a personal energy crisis as much as it is a raw curiosity as to how someone can legally purchase liquid crack, ingest it and not die. If anything, I’d think that they’d bestow me with superhuman powers. But absent the ability to fly, I'll settle for their ability to jar me out of a coma and usher me into the drone of a productive 9 to 5.

The Short Fuse Chronicles - Pt. 2

There is a current blight on restaurant establishments. I’m not sure what’s so difficult about filling a cup, but I’ve encountered an endemic lack of drink lid etiquette. Or lidiquette. There’s a series of escalating offenses, which I’ll enumerate with all the arraigning heat I can muster.

• Third Degree LD (Lidiquette Deficiency) – Also known as Negligent Pantslaughter. It entails the offender carelessly filling the drink, letting soda drip all over the sides so that there is no safe way to hold the cup. Studies show that the messier the cup, the less inclined the offender is to offer napkins to clean up their mess. It almost always results in a beverage-to-clothing transfer, which makes yours truly look like he soiled himself. It also assures an afternoon of sticky handshakes.

• Second Degree LD – The Overfill. Do not mistake a food worker’s inattentiveness for generosity. The only reason you received 44+ ounces is because Maggie Methhead was recounting her weekend exploits at the county jail to her coworkers. Said transgressors should probably be barred from drawing their children a bath. Without fail, cups filled to the brim overflow onto the lid after the drinking straw is employed, creating an unwelcome, carbonated reservoir susceptible to spills. And who doesn’t love the oh-so-graceful lid slurp?

• First Degree LD – The ISL (Improperly Secured Lid). The ISL is the gravest of all drink trespasses and warrants criminal lidigation. Cue laugh track. In all seriousness, nothing can get me fired up faster than a false gesture of security. In true psych! fashion, the ISL reveals its injurious nature approximately 0.5 seconds after the drink hand-off. The truly priceless moment occurs just after the cup's contents soak your crotch. The worker stares at you with an expression saying Whaa happened? like it was entirely your fault.
  

There are 3 words that make me cringe like no other. You’ve all been there, sitting and enjoying a nice family dinner while watching Everybody Loves Raymond reruns, completely unaware of your immanent danger. And then you recognize a familiar whistling ditty and you think “No, not again. Not now!” Then those 3 words break into your home and pillage the innocence of your Cleaveresque family unit. Natural male enhancement. Record scratch. Is there anything more awkward? Nothing can kill a family time vibe like an ED prescription commercial. It’s hard enough for parents to explain to their kids where babies come from, let alone why Bob can’t keep from smiling. How many first dates meeting the parents have been ruined by the endless marketing for pecker pills? Fathers attempting to suppress the eagerness of their daughter’s date find their threats supplanted with a call for more libido. Is that really a pressing concern for humans in general? In rebuttal, I submit as Exhibit A the population of Calcutta. Do they have NME (I can’t bring myself to type it again) in India? The numbers speak otherwise. And the longstanding incumbent Viagra apparently just isn’t doing the trick anymore. It doesn’t matter if it’s Levitra, Cialis, Enzyte or Dr. Weinerstein’s Wang Bang Juice. The sheer volume of pills attests to their obvious inefficacy. If they did work, half of America would walk around with carpet rolls stowed away in their pants, because men don’t know when to stop feeding their locker room insecurities. And it’s fitting, I suppose, that priapism is a common side effect (if not the consequence of what I’m sure is frequent overdose). You want libido? You’ve got it… for 24 hours. Have fun and avoid all casual and professional settings, as well as loose fitting clothing.

Blackbird Fly

Yesterday at work began like any other day, that is, until I overheard someone telling our manager that there was a “big, black bird” in the office. Being the nosy concerned person that I am, I had to investigate this development and personally assess the situation. There were two assumptions that I made upon hearing the bird news, (1) that the bird had flown into our lobby through the front door and was therefore a public concern, and (2) despite rumors of bulk, any blackbird would be easily herded back through the front door. After craning my neck through a few windows, birdzilla was nowhere to be found. It appeared that his reputation and nuisance were grossly exaggerated.

A bit deflated, I joined the coworker who voiced the complaint, only to find her staring at a gaping hole in our ceiling. Two ceiling tiles had been moved on account of a leak and there, perched on a cubicle wall two feet from my head, was the biggest ass pigeon (BAP) I’d ever seen in my life. For the record, BAP was not black but a very dark gray. But critiquing someone’s capacity to recount details took a back seat to the task set before us, that of depigeoning the office. You would think it not too difficult to persuade our guest that he had not happened upon a new, suitable habitat. But BAP was oblivious to that which was apparent to the prairie-dogging heads of every coworker tipped off by his arrival. He simply did not belong in cubicle world, a fact proven by everyone’s immediate and decisive revulsion.

As an aside, Wal-Mart could take a page out of our book. I’ve noticed that their cathedral-like ceilings have enabled avian squatters. I can coexist with nature like anyone else, but I highly doubt that your hourly mistings can effectively cleanse the produce of bird shit. Be it a sonic frequency emitter or a pre-recorded loop of birds of prey, a little action on your part can prevent citrus from becoming shitrus.

Thus, what ensued was a good half hour of chasing the big ass pigeon from one end of the office to the other, in the hopes that he would see the light of an opened door. The constant flutter of wings and the characteristic pigeon cooing preceded heads dropping and several Oh Jesus!! and Oh my gawd!!s. What began as mildly entertaining quickly devolved into an annoying and unproductive marathon of animal control. Here is a sampling of a few ineffective techniques:

1. Hands up in the air in mock surrender (given that there’s a 2-3 feet between fingertips and ceiling that he can fly over)


2. Hands up in the air holding a jacket / sweater / tarp to give the appearance of a larger, more threatening predator


3. Making the Tch tch tch (or however you transcribe the inhaling, pet-beckoning noise people make) You’re okay… Pretty bird… tch tch tch

After several rounds of this nonsense and an oddly sympathetic smack into window glass, it was evident that none of us were bird whisperers. All the hours I’ve logged watching Animal Planet yielded nothing of benefit for Operation Office Oust. Our best bet was to try and frighten this thing into freedom. So the delegation began, and coworkers took to their posts. I can’t say that there was a method to the madness, but for some reason jumping and frantic waving of the arms sent BAP in an opposite direction. Somewhere along the way I had time to snap a few low-res cell phone pics of the feathery fiasco, which I say is a testament to the duration of the humans/animal kingdom standoff and in no way indicts me of a lack of team spirit. Eventually, BAP saw the light through the glassy alcove on the west end of the building. His freedom immanent, he endured another unceremonious faceplant into the glass, a premature celebration perhaps, before yours truly shepherded him through the door, his flight path following a rather wobbly trajectory.

Returning to an industrious state of mind proved to be problematic. A hilarious sequence of events, yes, but germ paranoia quickly erupted. Is there poop on my desk? Is there poop on me? Several hand washings commenced, followed by full body baths in hand-sanitizer. Those weathering the stressors of their normal workday found themselves now preoccupied with CDC’s report on the immanence of Avian flu.

In retrospect, the morning’s antics had all the makings of a great video montage. Despite the misnomer, I found myself humming The Beatles’ Blackbird and trying to invent a witty revision to the lyrics. Striking out, I figured that the original song was funnier. McCartney’s rising-above-adversity subtext was all it took to transform the office hullabaloo into pigeon empowerment. Take these broken wings and learn to fly… All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.

Good Morning, Malady

Last week it was evident that my least favorite time of year was in full swing. Spring usually typifies growth, birth, life after death and renewal. You know, happy fun stuff. But after having to categorize my sneezes on the Fujita scale, enough was enough. Every year since my early 20s, I’ve accepted that I’ll have to endure two solid months of upper-respiratory hell. And yet, I always seem to get caught off guard by Mother Nature’s coup de main. It’s as if I wake up one morning mysteriously transported to the dankest, dustiest house imaginable.

So I suffer from hay fever, aka allergic rhinitis. It’s not the end of the world. Believe me, I’d rather take a temporary hit to liveliness than have to tolerate a chronically spastic colon. But still, the torment seems disproportionate when considering nature’s harassing agent: pollen. Recalling my 5th grade science class, what exactly is pollen again? The male gametes of plants. That’s right. What a comforting thought that for two months, I get the privilege of lining my sinuses with flora’s man-seed. It’s nice to know that even in nature males fail to exercise sexual discretion or restraint. Way to go, nature. Thanks for perpetuating stereotypes and retarding steps toward gender equality.

Daddy, when did you and Mommy decide to have a baby?

Well son, when a man reaches a certain age, he realizes that he loves someone. And the most responsible thing he can do is to encase his sperm in cellulose and disperse it to wherever the wind may blow. It just so happened that Mommy happened to be a few miles north, and even though we’d never met, we had something special the moment my pollen landed on her pistil. Yes, your germination was an act of indiscretion, but the important thing to remember is that Mommy and Daddy loved each other.

Apparently a perk of joining the pollen platoon is a cosmetic overhaul of your face. We’ll call it Extreme Makeover: Assface Edition. Benefactors will receive allergic shiners and edema of the eyes. Google it. It’s just as pleasant as it sounds. Both of which render yours truly as a younger but equally haggard sibling of Emperor Palpatine. As tempting as the dark side was, the Sith reneged on the promise of Force Lightning. I’m still bitter about it. Then there's the curious phenomenon of an itchy nasal cavity and throat, a sensation I'm sure I could only replicate by snorting a line of Pop Rocks. It's an impossible itch to scratch and after several unsuccessful and obnoxious snorts, I've seriously considered recruiting the Scrubbing Bubbles to do the job.

There seems to be no medical consensus on what prescription to use when your eyes adopt the texture of congealed pudding. Having moved several times, every doctor I’ve seen has prescribed something different. The least favorite of which were milky white eye drops, and they tasted disgusting. How do I know how they taste, you ask? Because I was unwillingly educated in how the lachrymal ducts drain into the sinus cavity. All those years of watching Ripley’s freaks shoot milk from their eyes finally made sense.

Whether Zyrtec, Claritin-D or even your first generation anti-histamines like Benedryl (aka elephant tranquilizers), allergy medication is damage control at best. But some insist that taking bee pollen or honey from local hives can eventually result in long-term tolerance to the nuisance. Really? Let’s see what happens when we apply that logic to rattlesnake venom. Such a suggestion also demonstrates the scholastic ineptitude of pollen enthusiasts. They’d have to explain why bees have suddenly traded their interest in brightly colored, fragrant plants for that in ragweed, trees and various grasses. That is to say, insect-pollinated plants are not the problem, so honey derived from which could not effectively “cure” you of your allergies.

Electron microscope renderings actually shed light on pollen's abrasive personality. Is it a ball with countless, pointy barbs that hook into the lining of your sinuses? Or is it a miniature version of the new breed of "toys" that now fill the crane vending machines at the local mall? Whatever the case, I find them both irritating to the core.

Breath Cancer Awareness

I now know that God hates me. This theological certainty was made manifest when I had to endure a 45 minute car ride with the 2008 winner of the Miss Worst Breath in the Cosmos pageant. For the sake of anonymity, we’ll call her Halle. Halle Tosis. And ladies and gentlemen, it was bad. I’m not talking about your basic run of the mill self-consciousness due to post-lunch breath. This brand of stank had its origins in the gut, which raised an eyebrow as to the true business end of a colonoscopy. And unfortunately, Halle’s degree of rankosity was matched only by her penchant for chattiness.

Equally horrifying was the fact that she was (or appeared to be) completely oblivious to my mortal peril. Completely unaware of a mouth so dirty that even Orbits couldn’t clean it up. I’m talking about breath that could contaminate formaldehyde. No, this was an evil that refused to be exorcised despite the aid of a young priest and an old priest. I had half a mind to send her unclean self to New York in the slim hopes that she would touch the pope’s garment.

The seemingly endless drive threw me into a state of paranoia. I continually glanced at the side view mirrors, half expecting to see a train of black SUVs that would whisk us away to some abandoned warehouse. After subsequent hours of waterboarding and ruinous questioning, they would still fail to see that I was unintentionally trafficking WMDs. Biological warfare notwithstanding, somehow I think we were more inclined to tip off the Ghost Hunters. And maybe it was just the way she looked at me, but I’m pretty sure she’s housing the Smoky Monster from LOST.

Despite the limited oxygen supply, I clearly surmised that this abomination was not something that the human body would just let happen. An olfactory fuss of this magnitude had to be actively pursued to create such a visceral revulsion in all five senses. So I present to you a proposed To-Do list for a day in the life of an ass-mouth:

• Wake up. Why waste your morning BM? Make a turd smoothie.
• Go to hair appointment. Get a perm. You hate it, so shave it off, set it on fire and consume the evidence.
• Turn compost pile. Keep hands germ free by using your mouth.
• Have a mid morning snack of Feces Pieces.
• Clean up local swamp by skimming pollutants off the surface with open mouth.
• Make out with Courtney Love.
• Indulge in your favorite chewy snack, zombie fetuses.
• Alleviate troublesome allergies with several breathing treatments of donkey farts.
• Return the favor by licking your pug’s open wounds.
• Head to Hunan’s for your favorite lunch, the pu pu platter.
• Avoid city fines by draining your stagnant backyard pond with a siphon.
• Remove hair clogs from sink with teeth.
• Tide yourself over with a gym sock sandwich.
• Conserve water by cleaning out public ashtrays with saliva.
• Celebrate Earth Day by consuming hot garbage from the dump.
• Transform taxidermy field by disemboweling roadkill with innovative “balloon blowing” technique.
• Get taste of Courtney Love out of your mouth with urinal cake.
• Prepare romantic dinner of seared beef butthole with cheesy smegma risotto, sautéed toenails and stinkbugs, boiled quarters, and a refreshing pitcher of iced sweat.
• Relax from a hard day’s work with a vodka and turpentine.
• Brush teeth with pigeon droppings, rinse with baby spit-up, and gargle with dog piss before turning in for the night.

But all is not lost, Halle. The addition of a lisp, while initially horrifying, could only result in a lucrative paint-stripping enterprise. We’ll call it AerASSol Conglomerate. And I hear that the Alien movie franchise is always looking to increase the realism of their acidic spit. While I’m thinking about it, I’m going to submit your name to HGTV as a guest expert on antiquing furniture, since you have what many have come to call “The Anti-Midas Touch.” You also have a potentially bright future in the field of sandblasting. The erosive quality of your simple "Hello"s has enough pressure to carve text into headstones. And let's face it, that'd be an ironic albeit small consolation to the world for all those you've sent to an early grave.