Saturday, December 25, 2010

Saturdays Questions Love The Holiday tradition of wearing the Pileus and Not Punishing the Slaves

How long have I been in the game making rap tunes?

Ever since honeys was wearing sassoons.
Now it's '95 and they clock me and watch me
Diamonds shining, looking like I robbed Liberace
It's all good, from Diego to the Bay
Your city is the bomb if your city making pay
Throw up a finger if you feel the same way

What kind of wine will these strangers I'm visiting tonight enjoy?

So we all know there's a learning curve for wine, right? There's the beginning, where you start off drinking Boone's Farm at community theater cast parties, then you and your gay friend move on to Sutter Home on Wednesday mornings when you're both unemployed. A boyfriend buys you Riesling, and then you're into sweet whites for a year or so, until one day you can't take the cloyingness, so you get a sweet red in a box for that weekend you and the boy don't leave his apartment at all. But then you're at the wine bar with your friend and he orders a Shiraz and you don't want to look like a peasant, and even though it turns your tongue into that of a well bred chow dog, you suddenly think Shiraz is awesome. When you get bored of Shirazs you move to Malbecs. From Malbecs it's a short nonexistent step to drinking whatever red wine shows up at the party. Projected timeline? Five years? To achieve minimum appreciation.

The point is, as long as it's not Boone's Farm, I think you're okay. Spend at least 15. Save the stuff you make in your basement for the next 19 yr old to show up at your house.

Would you if possible have sex in the belly of your giant drunk rhino friend? would it alter your answer if he had organs made of paper-mâché?

I'm trying to think of guys I know who look like rhinos and I can think of two. I don't particularly relish the idea of having sex anywhere in the same vicinity as either of them. Not because they look rhinos, but because they are assholes. Especially not sex inside their squishy bloody cut open abdomen, though I assume it would be warm. Warm is always good.

So I'm just going to forget that line of thought, and assume in this scenario I actually have a rhino for a friend, and for whatever reason, I've gotten it drunk. What would a rhino drink? I'm thinking chocolate martinis. I think rhinos would just go nuts for chocolate. My rhino would.

So then there's this issue of having sex in the belly of the beast. I don't want to kill my rhino. I love my rhino. His name is Maurice and he's a gangster of love. So I'd have to shrink me and my partner down first, all Rick Moranis style, and hide ourselves in Maurice's martini with tiny scuba diver gear, so we don't drown/and/or die of alcohol poisoning. I imagine it would be like having sex in a warm sensory deprivation tank, which is pretty much the ideal place to have sex period, right? Yes. It is. Don't argue.

All I want for next Christmas is a paper mache rhinoceros.

Why are my expectations so terribly unrealistic? Particularly in regards to time and my ability to complete tasks within allotted amounts of time.

Your problem is that the blood that runs in your veins is not from this dimension. You are a rock orphan, separated from the quartz and granite that gave you life. Time constructs that make sense to short lived fly people like them, don't make sense to you and me, it would be like a moon trying to understand the life cycle of an ant. Our cells pulse at the slowest universal beat.

Stop trying to be something you're not. Throw away the pitiful short lived promises of this culture, and embrace your glacial abilities. When they are all dead in the grave, we'll have only aged a minute in our crystal carved brains, promise.

I know, it's difficult. We all think we can drive from the West Side to the East Side in fifteen minutes.

If you had been in charge of designing a festive annual holiday for an up and coming largest religion in the world, what would happen on it?

Well let's see.
First, everyone would buy presents only for their immediate family and friends, of only things they needed, like tires or heating bills.
They would make large batches of candy for everyone else.
There would be a large exaggerated rodent as a mascot, like a guinea pig or a capybara. The capybara would represent survival of the species, and we would all spend the first morning congratulating everyone we know on still being alive.
Really devoted folk would make a pilgrimage to the LHC to surround it with flowers and milk. Lots of people would go to several smaller radio telescopes to celebrate. There would be parades in every city, highlighting their technological advancements for the year. There would be huge light shows in every city.
Then for dinner we would all get drunk and eat astronaut ice cream and algae dumplings.
There would be one exact moment during the day when everyone signed on to a random video chat and said Happy Survival Day to another random family somewhere in the world.

Why do guys like it when you're fake pregnant?

For those of you who didn't read the comments from the last questions post, we are NOT referring to actual fake pregnancies, which guys emphatically do not like, and most girls look down upon too.

We are actually talking about knitting. Catch up.

Look, I'm not saying every guy wants his girlfriend to be pregnant. But you know, they like a little nesting. A little making of stuff. A little domesticity. Most guys are pretty domestic themselves. Everybody wants warmth and food and pretty stuff around them. It's comforting and it's evidence of status quo being maintained. Girls want guys to pretend they're fake pregnant too, and do things like fix faucets and put together furniture. Fake pregnant is just another way of saying looking settled and staid and warm, which knitting is like, the epitome of. Look honey, I'm not going to the bar with my friends, I'm staying home with you and making something soft and warm. Because if the world ended tomorrow, and we were all stuck down in the salt mines while the mutant deer ravaged the cityscape, I'd be able to knit you a sweater out of my hair. Call me sexist, that's fine. But if I get stranded underneath a giant lake while radioactive zombies chew on my loved ones, I'd like a guy with me who knows a little about how to jumpstart a car.

I guess, what I'm saying, is fake pregnant is another way of saying "somewhat competent at being alive, maybe enough to support another life form".

People really underestimate the value of warmth, not emotional but actual physical warmth, when it comes to the interactions between guys and girls. Are divorce rates higher in naturally warmer places? I bet they are. I mean, in the places where you're allowed to get divorced. I bet there's a correlation between the rate of divorce and the rate of murder in a country.

Ask Me Anything


  1. I am so glad you remembered to add the Fake Pregnant question, because I totally meant to email and remind you, and then the Holidays hit me square in the face, and I forgots.

    It's too bad we could never date, because I am awesome at the Fake-Pregnant, Living-Competently stuff.

  2. My only hope is to find a male version of you living in Ohio.

    Or New Zealand.

  3. Bridget... two questions.

    One, I am still looking for the link to the entry you posted the B&S song to... I really would like to check that one out.

    Two, don't you have a BF? I could be mistaken, but I really thought you were recently attached. Made me a little sad because I was wondering if I had the skill set to be considered.

    Then I remembered that I have CBTI and live in Omaha now. Quel dommage!! C'est la vie...

  4. Mark, first of all, hi! Thanks for reading.
    Second, the B&S song is the entry right before this one. Which after I write this next one, will be the third one down.
    Third, no BF. But I'm a girl who ruins guys, so no one qualifies really.
    Fourth, I don't know what CBTI is. Or Omaha. What's Omaha?! How can such a thing with such a silly name exist?

  5. I think that Omaha is a Columbus. Don't quote me on that yet. I haven't bee outside of my apartment yet.

    Got the initals screwed up, which is par for the course.

    Chronic Traumatic Brain Injury. There are quite a few other acronyms to cover what is essentially the same thing.

    Take care and good looking out! Maybe we would have ruined each other... cause I have ran through as many women as has the trots... or full bladders stuck in a car on a 45 min. road trip...


Who wants to fuck the Editors?