Tooth Fairy
October 16, 2010
I was six years old when I lost my first tooth.
I was sitting in my kindergarten class on a spring afternoon and the teacher, Mrs. Bodart (who we called Mrs. Bo-fart) was explaining the difference between left and right. I gently pressed my tongue against the loose tooth and it dropped down into my mouth. I screeched, raised my hand and demanded Mrs. Bo-fart’s attention. “Yes, Michael?” she asked with only the patience and grace afforded to kindergarten teachers. “My tooth just fell out.” I squealed. “Was it on your left or right side?” she queried, trying to tie my tooth to her lesson. I wiggled my tongue around the gaping hole in my mouth. “Right”, I said, assured that I was correct in my assessment. Mrs. Bo-fart helped me fish the tooth out of my mouth and we placed in gingerly in a piece of tissue paper. “You know what this means, don’t you?” she asked. “Tooth Fairy” I exuded, knowing what great fortune was about to come my way.
I skipped home that afternoon, sorting through the possibilities I had for the mountains of cash I was going to receive that night. You see, to a six year old, a few quarters are equal to the sum of Warren Buffet and Bill Gates’ entire estates combined. As I flipped through the JC Penney catalog I imagined what the Tooth Fairy looked like, how she sounded and if she left a trail of fairy dust wherever she flew. In my mind, she was a combination of Glinda, the Good Witch of the North and Frauline Maria. I envisioned her slipping through my bedroom window, gently picking up my pillow, so as to not disturb my slumber, replacing my tooth with a mound of coins, kissing me on the forehead and flitting out the same way she came in.
All day long, much to the surprise of my parents, I kept watching the clock, counting down the nano-seconds to my bedtime. As soon as the little hand hit the eight and big hand hit the six, I ran into my room, changed into my Batman Underoos, brushed my teeth, climbed the small ladder to my top bunk and hopped into bed. My younger brother, Stephen, followed after that and much to his chagrin, I forgoed my dad’s nightly story, forced my parents to open my bedroom window and slipped into r.e.m. sleep so the Tooth Fairy could come and deliver my booty.
I don’t know what time it was, but I woke up in the middle of the night to a very peculiar sound. I felt under my pillow and my tooth was still there. The Tooth Fairy had not yet arrived. At first I tried to ignore it, wanting to fall back into my slumber in anticipation of my destined visitor, but the noise kept getting louder and louder. I lay in bed for several minutes before I realized what it was. It was the sound of wings flapping against something and it was coming from the general vicinity of my opened window. I tensed up, remembering that when I demanded my window be open, I forgot to require that the screen be removed as well. I pictured the Tooth Fairy arriving at my house, not being able to get in and growing increasingly angry with me.
“Stephen”, I whispered as quietly as I could, not wanting to further agitate the fairy-turned-harpy outside my window. He either didn’t hear me or was scared stiff like me and remained silent. Being an uninformed six-year-old and not realizing the auditory limits of my whispers I quietly called out for my mom and dad, as well. But, like Stephen, my quiet request was not answered.
I don’t know how long I laid there in my bed, scared out of my mind that, instead of taking my tooth and leaving some money, the Tooth Fairy, angry with my impudence, was going to rip through that window screen, pry open my mouth and manually remove all of my remaining teeth. However long it was, I eventually reached my breaking point. I sat up straight in bed and screamed bloody murder at the top of my lungs. The room was dark and I couldn’t see, but I was convinced that the Tooth Fairy was just about ready to make her move and attack.
I screamed and screamed until my parents flew downstairs and into my room. They turned on the light, my mother coddling me and my dad taking care of, a now totally hysterical, Stephen. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” mom asked in that special tone mom’s have of making everything seem alright. “It’s the Tooth Fairy. She’s come to get me.” I managed to spit out through my tears. I tried to explain to mom, dad and Stephen that, because we hadn’t removed the window screen, we’d somehow upset the Tooth Fairy and she was hell bent on exacting some sort of revenge on me.
When I finished my rant, dad walked carefully to the window and discovered a small moth that had been stuck against the metal screen, anxiously flapping his wings trying to escape. Even though they had found the source of the noise, I was still convinced that I was on the Tooth Fairy’s hit list. I made them flush the tooth down the toilet and slept with my parents in their bed for a period of time that still embarrasses me to this day.
It’s been almost thirty years since that fateful night and I still can’t sleep with the windows open.
My advice to my six-year-old self: You should have taken some of my previous advice and grown a pair.
My advice to the Tooth Fairy: Next time you arrive at someone’s house and you can’t get in through the window, take a clue from Santa Clause and fly down the chimney.
My advice to everyone else: Watch out what you tell your children. It may backfire on you.
Better for Us. Worse for Them.
October 9, 2010
With all the coverage lately in the media about bullying, young gay men killing themselves and the You Tube “It Gets Better” phenomenon, I can’t help but think back on my time in high school, remember the guys that bullied me, how my life indeed has gotten better and how their lives have become inversely depressing and miserable.
I grew up in a very small town in the middle of nowhere Ohio. Sure, everyone said it was a safe place to raise children, but they didn’t add the caveat that they had to be heterosexual, addicted to college football, eat nothing but greasy, fatty foods and have a penchant for fart jokes and xenophobia.
Enter me.
I started public high school having matriculated from a small private school of only 100 students. My first day I donned the most impressive outfit I could find, confident that my superior fashion sense and glowing smile would have me at the top of the social ladder in no time. My confidence didn’t last long. Before first period, I slipped into the restroom to check my hair. I walked in and there they were: Jeff, Nathan and Lanny, all wearing their matching junior varsity football jerseys. “The girl’s room is down the hall” Jeff said with a smirk that’s only reserved for the dickiest of dick heads. With that, they all walked out, making sure to nudge me with their shoulders as they did.
And so began the four darkest years of my life.
Sure, I had some good friends and did well in school, but every morning I’d wake up thinking “What’re they gonna do to me today?” And, even though they were complete moronic boneheads, they did seem to think up some creative ways of making me feel substandard. There were the typical things like pantsing me in the hallway, knocking books out of my hands and walking behind me and calling me faggot or any other of their colorful euphemisms. But, sometimes they took it even further.
During gym class one morning, the class was forced to play a game of dodge ball (this was back in the days when dodge ball was still an acceptable activity). As was typically the case, I was sitting out of the game. I’d convinced my mother and doctor that I suffered from some unnamed disease that made it impossible for me to exert physical effort between the weekday hours of 8am and 2:30 pm. Anyway, I was sitting on the sidelines, minding my own business when, from out of nowhere, three balls came whizzing at me, knocking me down and breaking my glasses. I stood up, knowing that the gym teacher (who bore a creepy resemblance to Vanilla Ice) would, at the very least, put Jeff, Nathan and Lanny in detention, but like that first day of school, I was wrong. Not only were my three tormentors laughing, but the asshole gym teacher claimed he didn’t see anything and, therefore, couldn’t assign any blame to the situation.
The rest of high school passed by in a blur with the three amigos taking every chance to tell me what an inexcusable faggot I was and seizing any opportunity to make me feel less than. So, I studied hard, telling myself that one day I’d get out of that town, do something with my life and one day have the last laugh.
It’s been seventeen years and, thanks to Facebook and some sly internet sleuthing I was able to look up my three tormentors and see where they are today.
Jeff actually lives here in Atlanta. Well, not actually Atlanta, but a pitiful suburb that’s full of other small-minded assholes like him. I found his address and decided to give him a drive by. Pulling up to his piece of shit house, all I could see was a roof that was badly in need of repair, two cheesy cars with custom spoilers and personalized license plates (for my full feelings on personalized license plates, click here) and an unkempt yard full of weeds and dog droppings. Upon some more investigation, I found that he’s out of work and, according to a tiny piece of info that I dragged out of an old friend that knows his family, a complete disappointment to both his parents.
I couldn’t find that much information on Nathan. I guess he’s trying to keep a low profile after his arrest for counterfeiting fifty dollar bills in the late 1990′s. That’s right. The guywho used to treat me like I wasn’t worthy of breathing the same air as he, was caught trying to pass a fake fifty at a McDonald’s drive thru somewhere in the Southwest. Pathetic, I know. But it gets better. Through my friend Amanda, who was by far the one person who really got me through high school, I learned that he’s is living in Arizona with his boyfriend and writing a book about growing up closeted in the Midwest. I mean, how funny is that?
After high school Lanny joined the Army, was dishonorable discharged and, last I saw, was working in the deli department of the local grocery store in our home town.
So, even though I had it rough for four years in high school, it looks like the boomerang of karmic retribution has smacked my three tormentors right in the face. And I can’t stop laughing about it.
My advice to Jeff, Nathan and Lanny: Actually, I have no advice for you. You are victims of your own circumstances and deserve everything miserable thing that’s happened in your life.
My advice to everyone else: If you’re ever feeling down, look up that bully or person that tried to make you feel less than and see where they are now. I imagine their current situation will put a smile on your face.
My advice to all those people out there in high school and who are bullied or picked on for being different: The You Tube videos are right…it really does get better.
T.G.I. Gaga
October 4, 2010
If the world were to end tomorrow, I think I could aptly pinpoint the cause of its destruction, socially anyway, down to two individuals: Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian. If the nature of their responsibility eludes you, please let me provide you with a hypothetical conversation between the two skanks that helps to highlight my reasons.
PARIS: Hey, don’t I know you?
KIM: I’d think so. I was only on the second largest-selling sex tape ever sold on the internet.
PARIS: Yeah, second only to mine.
KIM: O.M.G. That was you? You’re, like, totally my hero.
PARIS: I know. I’m so hot.
The skanks twirl their hair and adjust their mini-skirts.
PARIS: So, like, what do you do?
KIM: Other than get my beaver stuffed on camera? I’m totally famous.
PARIS: Shut up. Me, too.
KIM: Shut up. What for?
PARIS: For having more money than God and looking down on everyone.
KIM: That’s my dream job.
PARIS: Oh, and getting arrested, thrown in jail and being stopped at every airport in the country for carrying illegal substances by those awful TSA workers in those icky blue uniforms.
KIM: They’re so ugly, right.
PARIS: Are you talking about my boobs?
KIM: Gross, no.
PARIS: I’ve had them done twice, but I’m still not happy.
KIM: Tell me about it. I’ve had my ass shaped three times and they still have to air brush it out for my Playboy centerfolds.
PARIS: Playboy is so hot.
KIM: So, you know my stepdad is like, totally famous.
PARIS: Um, so is my whole family.
KIM: His name’s Bruce Jenner. He was in the Olympics.
PARIS: The what?
KIM: He was also in The Village People Movie “Can’t Stop The Music”.
PARIS: The what?
KIM: He was on Dancing With the Stars.
PARIS: Shut your mouth. That’s my favorite show.
Silence…
PARIS: Did you hear me?
Silence…
PARIS: Hello. Are you alive?
KIM: You told me to shut my mouth.
PARIS: You’re funny.
KIM: And you’re pretty.
PARIS: So are you.
KIM: I know. I’m so much prettier than my younger sisters.
PARIS: Shut up. Me, too.
KIM: Haven’t you been in like, movies, or something.
PARIS: Other than my sex tape?
KIM: Uh, huh.
PARIS: A few, but they were all bombs, so I’m back to just being famous.
KIM: I swear, we have like, parallel lives.
PARIS: What?
KIM: Parallel, like we’re the same person.
PARIS: Are you saying I have a big butt?
KIM: No way. I totally love you.
PARIS: Shut up. I love you, too.
KIM: Let’s dyke out and make a new sex tape.
PARIS: Sweet.
Even though Paris and Kim sit atop the skank pyramid, there is one shining beacon of light that is making her way like a juggernaut to bowl over and topple them from atop their mountain. Lady Gaga burst onto the music and social scene a couple years ago with her debut album “The Fame” that catapulted her into the stratosphere of coolness. Everyone loves here. I love her; bf loves her; Homo Honey loves her; Mom loves here; and even my three year old neice loves her. Her music is effortless without being lazy, fun without being neurotic and addictive without being bad for you.
Unlike the tireless parade of sluts that have preceeded her, Lady Gaga has managed to rely on talent and hard work over sex scandals and herpes outbreaks. Where Brittany Spears lip-syncs, Lady Gaga actually sings (novel thought for a singer, huh?); where Lindsey Lohan gets fired from jobs for not coming to work, Lady Gag is dedicated to her craft, producing two albums in three years and touring non stop around the world; where Paris Hilton relies on her family name and money to get through life, Lady Gaga relies on improving her sound and finessing her image; and where Kim Kardashian relies on her big ass and a sex tape to feel good about herself, Lady Gaga stands up for other people and has an idea of equality for everyone.
Two years ago, when she won an award at the MTV music awards she dedicated her trophy, after she removed that fabulous red lace face mask, to God and the gays. I mean, how wonderful is that? To dedicate the trophy to a guy who, probably hates her, and a group of people that he’s called the second greatest threat to human civilization behind global warming.
And it didn’t stop there. She’s publically stood up for the end of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, going as far as staging an impromptu concert in the state of the two wavering republican senators that she, and most of America, according to most opinion poles, was hoping would vote for the ban. Unfortunately, Senator John McCain got his way and those senators didn’t vote to repeal DADT, but that hasn’t stopped Lady Gaga. She tweets about it frequently, and has even produced an educational video as to why the ban should be repealed.
A lot of people have lambasted Lady Gaga for being too this or too that, but I’d like to ask all those people: Would you rather have your children, siblings, cousins and/or friends looking up to a young woman who is talented, sympathetic and a voice for tolerance and acceptance or some skank whose only claims to fame are sex tapes, drug arrests and a lack of any talent whatsoever?
Think about it.
My advice to Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian and all the other talentless skanks out there polluting the minds of young people around the world:
The next time you’re in the bathroom, take a good, long, deep look at yourself and ask “Am I doing something productive to advance civilization or even help someone?” If you can’t answer yes, or if you don’t understand the question, bash your head into that mirror as hard as you can. Maybe that will knock some sense into you.
My advice to Lady Gaga:
Keep up the good work. I’d give you the title of Goddess, but I tried that once and Homo Honey got mad.
My advice to everyone else: Stop buying anything related to these no-talent, paparazzi-obsessed skanks and invest your time, money and energy into something that isn’t going to cause the downfall of our civilization.
UJR
September 24, 2010
UJR
So, I’ve covered who I hate most in my family (See Mann Coulter and My Asshole Uncle for more information) and now it’s time for who I love most. Beside my mother, whose awesomeness I’ve already covered in Mom, the blessed honor of favorite family member goes to UJR. Although two people, my mom’s brother and his husband (Yes, husband. They live in Massachusetts), I’ve come to think of them as a single entity. They’ve done more for me than I, or they, realize. Without them I’d probably be dead or living under an overpass, addicted to prescription drugs and whoring myself to the highest bidder and for that, I’m thankful.
I don’t remember it, but I first met UJR on New Year’s Eve 1980. I was a spry, young five-year old probably clinging to the Cabbage Patch Kid my parent’s had reluctantly given me for Christmas that year. R (he’s the boyfriend) met me and, from what he says, knew instantly that I was a friend of Dorothy. For the next decade he tried to convince UJ of my latent homosexuality, but UJ wasn’t hearing it. Not until the summer of 1993.
As fate turned out, I ended up attending a college in Baltimore, the same town UJR were living in at the time. The June before school started, my BFF, let’s call him Flint, and I drove road tripped to B-more for a getaway before starting college. Halfway through our trip the radio broke and, since this was before CD players were standard in every car, all we had was an old crappy tape player and a slightly used copy of The Carpenters greatest hits tape. We popped it in and, before we knew it, we were listening to “Top of The World” on repeat for three hours. We arrived at UJR’s door, singing that song at the top of our lungs and it was then, UJ later told me, that he knew I was truly part of his family.
Me and UJ
And thank God I was. When I started college I was stuck with the roommate from HELL. The campus was so full that, in a freshman dorm, they stuck me with a 22 year-old, ex-marine with a penchant for loud, obnoxious music and making out with his skanky girlfriend until all hours of the night. Thankfully, since UJR lived close by, they let me come over for dinner, took me shopping and even bought me a copy of “A Boy’s Own Story”–a staple for any young emerging homo. One day, after class I came back to my dorm room and my butt face roommate was gone. No one ever told me and I never asked, but I think JUR may have made a phone call to the dorm monitors in my building.
College flew by with my spending almost every extended break with JUR who had by that time moved to Miami Beach. It was no surprise when I came out to them when I was 21 and even less of a surprise when they invited me to live with them when I graduated.
I did so, had a fabulous time, dated a complete loser (See Facebook and Ex-Boyfriends for more information), all the while learning what it meant to be a successful gay man. UJR taught me how to make a killer martini, impress dinner guests with homemade risotto, why everyone should hate the French and even how to interview for a job. Every weekend we would go out, have way too much to drink, demand the dj play ABBA and talk about all the crazy people in our family. Those memories of Miami Beach are like keepsakes that store on a bookshelf, pulling them down when I want a good laugh or to remember just how wonderful my life is.
Me, mom and R
But, like college, my time in Miami came to an end after about 18 months and I moved up to New Jersey to live with Homo Honey.
It was quite a change to transition from living with my two gay uncles in what was, at the time, the gay Mecca of the United States to sharing a small apartment with Homo Honey in the middle of Straightsivlle, USA. To ease the culture shock, UJR and I talked every Sunday at 8. We’d chat about our weeks over martinis and cigarettes. They helped me through my relationships and work dramas and I levitated their lives with pop culture gossip and the emotional rantings of a twenty-something fag.
Since then, we’ve all aged a bit and moved onto bigger and better things. I eventually moved to Atlanta, met the man of my dreams and became an architect. UJR moved to Boston, have each had a couple jobs since then and spend most of their time jet-setting to amazing places like Dubai and Monaco. Even though we’ve all grown and adapted to new surroundings and situations we still have a standing appointment every Sunday at 8 to talk on the phone. As soon as they pick up, it seems like we laugh continuously, stopping long enough to sip our martinis and reminisce about all the fun we’ve had.
Thanks UJR for being such amazing role models, such close friends and such trustworthy confidants. I love you both very much.
My advice to UJR:
You guys shoul start a company where you mold young men questioning their sexuality into positive members of the gay community. It worked for me…
My advice to everyone else:
Call your favorite family member this Sunday at 8 and let them know how much you care.
Mann Coulter and my asshole uncle
September 16, 2010
My mother always told me that I should never hate anyone. Try as I have, I’m unable to do so, but I have been able to whittle the list of people that I will actually enjoy being dead down to two.
The first is my asshole uncle. He’s a sad alcoholic whose main goal in life is to deflect how depressed he is about his own existence by making fun of other people. Growing up, he’d make fun of the way I talked, the way I walked, the fact that I wasn’t sports oriented and any other aspect of my life that he saw as a weakness. His taunts were so terrible that, when she met her breaking point, my mother actually threw a stuffed bell pepper at him during dinner one night after he leaned into my younger brother and whispered that he should just kick his sissy brother’s ass.
He’s totally pathetic and, as he gets older and more degenerated, I can only sit back, smile and wait for the day when he’s confined to a nursing home bed, forced to eat all his food through a straw and use a colostomy bag.
The only other person that I truly hate is Ann Coulter. Why? It’s not because she’s an ill-informed polemicist, spreading her hate and glib views on morality and politics to the Repulican right. It’s not because she’s a menace to the uneducated who seem to eat up her fear-mongering, conservative propaganda like a drug addict looking for their next fix. And it’s certainly not because she’s made a mockery of the American political system and any news show that’s dumb enough to ask her to be a guest. I hate Ann Coulter because, in the ubiquitous words of Project Runway Season 4 winner, Christian Sirano, she’s a “hot tranny mess”.
Hot Tranny Mess Example #1: She has an Adam’s apple. Tranny 101 tells you to get rid of that damn thing as soon as you transition. It’s the fundamental difference between men and women that can be observed while still wearing your clothes.
Hot Tranny Mess Example #2: She has man hands. If you’re going to be on television and out in the public eye as a tranny, have the smarts to either wear gloves or keep your hands in your pants pockets.
Hot Tranny Mess Example #3: She’s way too aggressive. No self-respecting natural woman would attack September 11 widows or call John Edwards a faggot. Ann may want to consult her tranny doctor and ask for an increase of her estrogen.
Hot Tranny Mess Example #4: She’s too acute. Aside from Maria Shriver, women’s features are not made of acute angles. Women are curvilinear, with smooth shapes that frame their facial features and body. Ann Coulter’s face, not unlike my asshole uncle’s face, is made up of a strong, chiseled chin, protruding cheek bones, a nose that could cut through a concrete wall and eye sockets that are practically sunk halfway through her head.
Hot Tranny Mess Example #5: She has retarded fashion sense. Hot tranny messes, not confident in their new bodies, generally chose clothing that, if they were famous, would place them on “GoFugYourself” daily
My advice to Ann Coulter: Get a refund from your tranny doctor. They f-ed you up, big time.
My advice to my asshole uncle: Be afraid. Be very afraid. One day I’ll have my revenge.
My advice to everyone else: You’re not supposed to hate anyone, but if you do, make sure you hate them well. We need to strive for excellence in everything we do.
The Crotch Girl and Personal Space Violators
August 31, 2010
In graduate school I was forced to take a ridiculous class that focused around how to properly program spaces within a building. It taught me stupid, common sense things like provide public restrooms off the main entrance of any building and make sure your elevator stops at every floor. Basically the entire class was a waste of time, except for a small piece of comedy it provided that I, and all my grad school buddies, still laugh about today.
One concept that the teacher really cared about was personal space. Whenever he talked about it, he would choose a student “randomly”, stick his crotch in their face and ask if he was interrupting their personal space. Only, the “randomly” selected student was always the same girl. She wasn’t in my immediate class and we didn’t know her name, so , naturally we all referred to her as “The Crotch Girl”. She’s sit there week after week, silent as our creepy teacher, with his thick glasses, mustache and pleated pants would nudge up next to her, shove his privates in her face and ask if it bothered her.
Watching the teacher invade The Crotch Girl’s personal space was usually the highlight of my week, but it’s a very different thing when you’re The Crotch Girl and you have someone’s unappealing junk shoved in your face.
BF and I were flying to Las Vegas a few months ago and, by some awful twist of wretched luck I was stuck in coach, sandwiched between a new mother with an infant sitting in the window seat and a half man, half bovine in the aisle seat, in all of his obese glory. He was so fat that his blubber was oozing over the armrest and actually encroaching on my seating area. If I wasn’t such a passive-aggressive wimp, I would have complained to the flight attendant. Instead, I compacted myself and quietly thought of ways I could slip a laxative in his Coke while he was looking away.
Surprisingly, Rosemary and her baby were quiet as can be and, even though Jabba The Hut had all the tell tale signs of a morbidly obese person (that funky fat person smell and strange internal body sounds), the flight was not a total nightmare. That was, until the captain turned off the seatbelt sign.
As soon as the light went off and that all-too-familiar “ding” rang through the cabin, Jabba unlocked his seatbelt extender and pulled himself out of his seat to retrieve something in the overhead bin…I assumed it was a box of éclairs or a slab of peanut butter fudge.
As he opened the bin and leaned in to rifle through his bag, his front butt crotch lunged forward and practically attacked my face. I scooted back in horror, but was confined to my small chair. Not wanting to smother the infant beside me, I curled up into the fetal position (as much as you can in an airplane seat) and prayed for Jabba to quickly find what he was looking for so he could stop accosting me with his oversized belly and crotch from what I could imagine, hadn’t seen action since before the first Bush was in office.
After what seemed like hours, Jabba found what he was looking for (a bag of Bugles) and sat back down. I untangled myself and relaxed back into my seat. That was, until Jabba finished the Bugles and wanted something new. For the next two hours, Jabba got up at least six time, every time shoving his oversized, unused crotch in my face. And it seemed that, with every snack he finished, his crotch grew in size until, the last time he got up for whatever snack he was craving, the zipper of his pants was centimeters from my nose.
That’s when I remembered The Crotch Girl. But, unlike her, I wasn’t going to sit in my chair and allow someone to usurp my personal space.
My answer? I got up from my seat every ten minutes for the rest of the flight. I’d tap Jabba on the shoulder and say, in the fakes tone I could muster “I’m sorry but I have to”…then fill in the blank. “go to the bathroom”, “get something out of my bag”, “stretch my legs. I have restless leg syndrome”. On my sixth or seventh time asking him to get up, Jabba acquiesced to my ulterior motive, saying “Why don’t we just switch seats.” “If you want” I answered, knowing what my next move would be. We switched seats, and, as soon as Jabba was comfortable in the middle seat, I stood up, opened the overhead bin, searched for something in my bag and, as much as I could, I shoved my crotch in his face, wanting him to feel the same uncomfortable invasion that he put me through. I found a pen, sat down in my seat, turned to Jabba and said “Sorry if I just invaded your personal space.” “No problem” he said “It was my pleasure.” To that, he smiled, I threw up a little in my mouth and we spent the remainder of the flight with him smiling at me and me listening to my headphones, trying to ignore him.
My advice to personal space violators: Stop sticking your junk in other people’s business. It’s rude, uncouth and generally, not what someone is looking for.
My advice to everyone else: Based on the fact that my plan with Jabba failed, I think you have two options when someone violates your personal space with their crotch, or any other portion of their body. 1) You can grin, bear it and hope that it’s over soon or 2) Scream at the top of your lungs, explaining that you experienced a tragic event as a young person that makes it difficult for anyone to be within a one foot radius of your person. They’ll most likely assume that you were molested, not ask questions and respect your request.
My question to The Crotch Girl: Is the reason why you never said anything to our skeevy teacher because, like my airplane neighbor, you actually liked having his crotch shoved in your face? If so, all I can say is “Ewwwwwww”.
Kristen Stewart…update
July 14, 2010
Although I will never, ever see another Twilight move I just want it to be known that I’m totally for Team Jacob. He’s cute, caring and has a much nicer body than Edward. Edward’s too scrawny, he wines all the time and his face looks like it’s been beaten repeatedly with a flat iron skillet.
Just sayin’.
Kristen Stewart
July 12, 2010
When I started college I wanted nothing more than to be an orthodontist. So, like any dental-wanna-be, I announced my major as Biology. I’d sit in class, daydreaming of straightening the teeth of American youth then driving home to one of my many custom made homes in my shiny new black Range Rover. But those daydreams quickly deteriorated to delusions when, after failing my first two biology exams, I landed myself in the office of my academic advisor.
His name was Father Brunnett and he eerily resembled Yoda. He wasn’t two feet tall or had green skin, but he was wrinkled with large, caring eyes and he smelled a bit like an alien from a galaxy far, far away. I sat across from his large oak desk as he perused through my academic record, such as it was. When he was done, he set it down, removed his bifocals and looked at me with those all-knowing eyes and said “Michael, I don’t think God wants you to an orthodontist.” With those ten simple words, Father Brunnett changed my life and, although I never got that new Range Rover, I was able to pursue a major and ultimately a career that was much more situated to my talents.
Even though Father Brunnett has probably long since passed away, I wish her were alive to impart the same heavenly wisdom of my misguided career aspirations he gave me to Kristen Stewart.
For any of you that have been living in another universe for the last several years, Kristen Stewart is the celluloid affectation of Bella Swan from the uber-successful Twilight book series. Although I could write an entire blog on the books themselves and their horridly-overt Mormon undertones (the author, Stephanie Meyer is a huge Mo. For my complete feelings on Mormons, please read Mormons), I’ll focus my energies on the acting talents, or lack there-of, of the before-mentioned Miss Stewart.
Why do I think she’s such an atrocious actress? Let’s look at some of her acting history. Although I haven’t seen all of the 24 films that IMDB states that Miss Stewart has filmed to date, I have seen enough to know that she does not deserve the celebrity that has been afforded to her.
The first time I was unfortunate to see her in an acting roll was when she played opposite Jodie Foster in the moderately successful “Panic Room”. Although I enjoyed the movie thoroughly (I’m a huge David Fincher fan) I spent the entire film thinking that Stewart’s character was a boy. So, in terms of a successful acting venture for that film, she definitely failed for me.
The next cinematic endeavour that Kris Stew ruined for me was “In The Land of Women”. I went to the theater only to ogle Adam Brody, but my lust was interrupted every time KS, this time donning a new blonde hairdo, fumbled into a scene and practically puked out her lines. Her putrid acting, unbelievable delivery and awkward body language were enough to ruin a movie with one of the cutest actors of his time. Again, she failed miserably in her attempt to convince the movie going audience that she deserved a career in front of the camera.
Then, after hearing loads and loads about the Twilight books from every person I knew under the age of sixteen, I learned that Krissy was signed as the lead role. She must have slept with the Producer or promised Stephanie Meyer that she would convert to Mormonism to land this role, because I was convinced that she was unable to portray the pain and anguish that Bella Swan feels for her undead boyfriend. And I was right.
When the movie opened, I went to see it and my assumptions rang true. Not only was she the weakest link in the cast (which is saying a lot), but she also soured my love of vampire movies in general. I promised myself I wouldn’t see another Twilight movie, but tranced by the promise of a better second installment of the series by the action-packed trailers, I went to see Twilight, part two. Again, my same complaints rang true. It was like every time she was on the screen, I threw up a bit in my mouth and had to cover my ears, so as not hear her pathetic attempt to deliver dialogue. Against my better judgment, and only because Taylor Lautner has a hot bod and is half naked throughout most of the film, I went to see “Eclipse” last week. Aside from bare-chested werewolves in their human form again, Stewart ruined the film and actually made me die a little inside.
Mark my words, no matter how amazing the trailer looks or what sort of promises are made about partial nudity, I will not, I repeat, WILL NOT see any more Twilight movies or any other cinematic adventures that highlight the life-sucking pathetic excuse for acting that Kristen Stewart has seemed to make a career of.
My advice to Kristen Stewart: Do the world a favor and please stop acting. If you insist on continuing to make movies, please bring back the silent film genre. Perhaps without having any dialogue, you can finally convince me that you deserve the career you have.
My advice to everyone else: Please, please, please join my boycott of all things Kristen Stewart. The only way we can convince the powers that be in the movie industry that she is a no talent hack is to not endorse projects that have her associated with them. Who’s with me?
Straight Guy Half Huggers…update
July 7, 2010
Thanks to Jennifer Thorne who showed me the following video highlighting man hugs.
