Wanna Stay the Night?

One of the coolest things, I think, about being married (besides that AT&T wireless Family Plan and conjugal visits in prison) is that every night is a sleepover with your best friend.

If you happen to be married to yours, that is.

I try not to forget how lucky I am to be married to my best friend, and to know that. I call her "Buddy" and "Partner" as often as I call her "Wifey-doo" because, to me, she is just as much a partner and a buddy as she is a wife. And I get to have sleepovers with her all the fricking time.

When we're particularly wired at night and we complain that we can't fall asleep, we announce, "Slumbie Partie!" and we stay up until we're completely batty, joking around with each other in bed, saying stupid shit that wouldn't be funny if the sun were out, and generally being gay. Good old sleepovers.

I miss sleepovers.

Remember your sleepovers? They were probably awesome. Mine were. Well, the ones I went to were. I only had one (count 'em, ONE) genuine sleepover "party" at my house where there was more than just me and one other person. We slept in the basement, which, looking back on it, I cannot believe my mother permitted, as the basement in my parents' house is basically unfinished, with shuffle-board embedded in the floor tile. Sleepovers with just one friend were more frequent, but still sporadic and marginally successful.

Sleepovers at friends' houses were better. Finished basements, relaxed rules and regs, lots of food of dubious nutritional value, attractive mothers, enormous televisions, and CINEMAX.

Can you say, "First Porn Ever"? I can.

I remember one sleepover where my friend's older brother recounted the story of how he got arrested for attempting to steal condoms at a local Rite-Aid because he was too chickenshit to bring them up to the counter to pay for them. That fucking moron is a doctor now.

At another sleepover, another friend of ours confessed that he got an erection while his elderly male physician was giving him the old turn-your-head-and-cough hernia test.

"Ooops," my friend said the doctor remarked, "it happens!"

Sidebar: "Ooops, it happens!" is exactly what a urologist told me, many years later after removing his gloved hand from my anus during a check of my pancreas when some poodie came out. If there was a gun anywhere in that zipcode, I would have found it and shot myself.

I can remember another sleepover where I went upstairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water and found my friend's younger sister, who must have been around seven years old at the time, seated at the kitchen counter on a stool consuming sour cream, right out of the container, with a gigantic wooden spoon. I almost threw up on her head. I mean, sour cream at two o'clock in the morning?

Ooops, it happens!

Sometimes, I want to have sleepovers again-- not just with my wife, with other people. And I'm not talking about orgies or cheating. I just mean staying up all night with people-- getting giddy and weird and very inappropriate and baring your soul and knowing things about others they'd never tell you with the lights on, talking about who was hot in high school, sharing memories and never-known facts or stories. I love stories-- especially at night. Not campfire stories, or war stories-- just stories. That's probably why I love folk ballads so much-- because they're just stories, with a couple innocuous chords.

I think, when foreign leaders visit the White House, they should be offered a sleepover with the President. Can you imagine Hu Jintao, on the floor of the Lincoln Bedroom, in a polyester sleeping bag, swapping stories with Obama at 3:30 in the morning in the whispering darkness?

God. How awesome would that be?

I wish I'd had more sleepovers as a kid. It's something you never know you're going to miss until it's gone. But thank God I have my buddy to get silly with beneath flannel, made safe and sound by the warmth of the dogs.

Well, Lil' Bow-Wow and Hu Jintao, It's... DEAR APRON!

Sure, on Sunday you could be singing the praises of the Christian Lord or eating some donkass shit at Old Country Buffet and pretending it's food, or you could be trimming your hedges or your pubes or your expense accounts, or, you could be in a tank-top, licking your lips seductively, stretching out over a goose-down comforter, whilst purring like a kitten, your breasts heaving everso slightly as you enjoy another slick, succulent and let's not forget moist edition of...

DEAR APRON:

My adult son passed away nine months ago. I am mostly numb. My home has always been welcoming, and I have had friends and family here constantly -- but now they won't leave! They don't seem to "get" the fact that I need some time to be alone.

I love these people, but my heart is broken. The only person I want to see and spend time with is my surviving son. I have lost my enthusiasm for almost everything. I work full time and no longer want to be the "hostess." I am tired. My sons and I were close, and I raised them by myself.

How do I tell my friends and family members that I need to be alone without offending them? I want to do the right thing. -- HEARTBROKEN IN CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS

DEAR HEARTBROKEN:

I don't get it. These friends and family members of yours are living in your house? What do they think they've got-- Squatters' Rights? Man, you need to call Sheriff John Brown and have these motherfuckers evicted! And tased!

This is outrageous-- first they kill your son and then they try to move into his bedroom, break his model airplanes and eat his Cheetos and shit? God-- that. is. fucked. UP!

DEAR APRON:

My 12-year-old daughter, "Sophia," repeatedly shirks her basic responsibilities. She routinely receives detention for not completing homework assignments and for failing to bring required materials to class. Despite my concern, Sophia continues with her usual shortcomings. This is causing a great deal of stress between us, and our relationship is now very poor. Should I keep pushing her or should I just allow her to fail? -- DISAPPOINTED MOM IN LOUISIANA

DEAR DISAPPOINTED MOM:

"Should I keep pushing her or should I just allow her to fail?"

Well, kudos for you for asking a question most people are far too intelligent to ask. Standards really must be different in Louisiana. And I think that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Certainly I think you ought to explore failure for your daughter. It seems to be what she is most interested in/geared towards, and I think that's generally where her aptitude lies. Something people who don't live in Louisiana often forget is that you can actually be a success, at failure! I say, encourage your daughter to embrace failure-- that way, you won't be perceived as one of those annoying, pushy, aggressive helicopter parents, like the kind we have up North.

Of course, if she fails at failure, there's always Hitler Youth. If you sell enough cookies, you get patches and moustaches and shit.

DEAR APRON:

My husband and I have been arguing about his leaving the lights on throughout our house. He's convinced that it adds little to our electric bill, but it bothers me that every single light is left burning. I realize there is a cost difference between incandescent and fluorescent lighting, but leaving all the lights on seems unnecessary and wasteful to me. Could you please "shed some light" on our argument? -- LIT UP IN JOHNSON CITY, TENN.

DEAR LIT UP:

OH! OHHH!!!! I get it! "Shed some light" because it's a LETTER about LIGHTS written by an ASSHOLE! HAHAHAHAA! That's FUNNY!

Good one, asshole.

DEAR APRON:

I am a fairly conservative young woman, and also somewhat shy. I have been dating a young man who comes from a much more casual culture than I do. This has its benefits -- he laughs often and deeply, and easily connects with people. But it also has its downside.

"Mac" has a terrible habit of talking publicly about what we do in the bedroom. He means it in a teasing way, and he's never insulting. He can't understand why it upsets me, although he is always remorseful when he realizes I'm angry. He worries that I'm ashamed of him and what we do, but I'm not. I just don't want it to be a topic of public discussion, especially with people from my church. I find it embarrassing to have my love life made public.

Mac is never mean-spirited, only vulgar, which to him is acceptable. I love him. He's a strong, kind and generous man. But I do not feel respected. The truth is, he just doesn't know how to treat me with respect. What can I do? -- WOMAN OF CHARACTER

DEAR WOMAN OF CHARACTER WHO OBVIOUSLY SQUIRTS AND WEARS A VINYL FACEMASK AND A STRAP-ON UNICORN HORN ATTACHED TO HER MONS PUBIS:

Mac told me all about you in a different letter, and he included pictures. I jerked off on them.

Is that wrong?

The Penalty Box

Changing my trousers is a bit of a pain. This, of course, comes from a man who, only yesterday, on this very blog, complained about the drudgery involved in making fucking sandwiches.

Changing my mind is even more of an ordeal.

A long time ago, I was an ardent proponent of capital punishment. It seemed logical to me: take a life, lose yours. Pretty simple.

Well, life just isn't so, and the only thing more complicated than life is death.

It took me a long time to come around, but I eventually did. Well, sort of. You certainly won't see me taking to the streets with a poster of some murderer's face yelling for him/her to be freed, brick by brick. And you won't see me calling for the abolition of the death penalty either.

Maybe I should be, if it's really something I don't believe in anymore, but I guess I'm just too fat and lazy.

Well, I'm lazy.

See, I say that I've come around "sort of" because I believe that, while the death penalty is on the books, it ought to be used. I do not believe in convicted murderers languishing on death row for twenty-five years (or more) while they literally shit out appeals. As far as post-conviction relief appeal hearings, I'm a fan of the "One and Done" philosophy. Oh, can't prove your innocence after one goodhearted appeal?

Sorry. Thanks for playing.

Of course, I won't be shaking my head in despair when the death penalty, imperfect and blemished as it is, finally gets put to death itself once and for all in this country. That will be okay with me. The idea of your average, run-of-the-mill shitfuck wasting away in a prison cell for the remainder of his or her natural life is just fine. Having been inside prisons as an EMT, I can state that the idea of being in inmate in a prison for the rest of my life would make me wish for capital punishment to come quickly to me. Yeah, sometimes I think an early termination of life is too good for them.

And then the news comes on, and I can feel my mind going to the other side...

The piece of shit who put a bullet into Congresswoman Gifford's head, who slaughtered and wounded so many on that arid Tuscon day-- the man who turned a supermarket parking lot into a bloodbath. The motherfucker whose name I can't even bear to write out.

The piece of shit who ended the promising life of Lakewood, New Jersey Police Officer Christopher Matlosz. Matlosz pulled his cruiser up next to this bastard and, as they talked, the suspect pulled out a handgun, stepped back, and fired into Matlosz three times. This brave officer, dead at 27, was buried on Thursday. And all his fiancee got was his hat.

And, closer to my home, we've got the piece of shit abortion doctor. I want to throw up every time I think about him, about his filthy exam room, about the fifteen-year-old he had working for him, administering narcotics and anesthetics, about how he cut the spinal cords of viable, alive babies with a pair of scissors after they were delivered. About how he killed a mother, a poor woman, desperate for even the help of a charlatan, how he killed her through his negligence, his greed, and his ineptitude. Murderer. Ungodly, horrible, corrupt murderer.

I don't shock easily, friends, but this has been a rough couple weeks.

Why shouldn't we, as a society, kill this man? Why shouldn't we kill any of the aforementioned sonsofbitches? What are we proving by a stance of supposed morality? That we are better than them because we will gallantly spare their lives? Because we do not kill assassains or cop-killers or abortion butchers?

Well, go, us.

Where is the higher ground when we are confronted with such atrocities? And, even if we should find it, why bother to climb to its peak? Why? Who benefits from sparing such lives?

And, of course, I suppose I have to just ask myself, as I struggle with my own petty, internal grief, who benefits from taking theirs?

Let's Do(n't) Lunch

I try to be a good boy.

(Really.)

Instead of spending obscene amounts of money at Starbucks and Starbucks-like establishment, staring aimlessly at baristabreast, flitting away profane amounts of money on hot, brown, liquid, mood-stabilizing narcotic, I make my coffee at home. The days when I work 7a-3p, the coffee-maker is auto-programmed to start doing its caffeinated thing at 5:16am. 8a-4p, it goes makey-makey at 6:16am.

Why 6:16 and not 6:15? Because I'm weird. Because I have this fear that, if I do things on the hour, or half-hour, or quarter-hour, that I'll be just another boring simpleton.

Seriously. I have problems. Join me in the happy place known as Sicktitude. I meet you there at 12:07. Let's do lunch.

Speaking of lunch, I make that the night before work, too. Well, most days I do. I hate making my lunch. It's boring, monotonous, laborious, mundane, and it makes me feel like Dilbert or Charlie Brown, or their fuckchild offspring.

The accoutrements don't bother me. The trappings. The two clementines. The cheese-stick. The salty, the sweet. The carrot sticks and ranch lube. The Caffeine Free Diet Coke. I don't mind throwing all that shit into my bag. I like it, actually-- the comforting regularity of my lunchtime accessories. When clementines go out of season, I typically ponder donning a black armband for a month.

The problem I have with making my lunch is the "main course," as it were.

Fuck

Ing

Sand

Wich.

I cannot stand making sandwiches. Just thinking about it makes me want to pull out all my pubes and use them to weave a hammock for a gerbil.

In reality, I know it's not a big deal. Because I make the world's most boring sandwiches, it's even less of a big deal than it would be if I utilized things like onions, flavored mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, and whatever else sophisticated people put on sandwiches. I don't know-- watercress? Pistachio crumbles? Fig Newton slices?

I have no idea. I am not sophisticated. I have hairy knees. I am a human enema. I hate making sandwiches.

I just... I don't know. It's ridiculous. All I use is bread, some sliced-up, processed, caramel-colored meat sliver, sliced-up, processed, yellow-colored cheese sliver, and some sort of lubricant-- usually ranch dressing. Sometimes, I'll get the aforementioned four ingredients out of the refrigerator with a lot of huffing and/or puffing and I'll look at my wife in despair and say,

"I just can't."

And, sometimes, I really just can't. I'll throw the clementines and the cheese stick and the carrots and the sweet and the salty and the CFDC into the bag and I'll stop on the way to work for a wrap (I know, that's so DIFFERENT than a fucking sandwich, right?) or some other horseshit. Or, on the less fortunate days, I will just eat the aforementioned supplements with no "main." Because I am a pathetic, hairy-kneed sonofafuck.

If I could resurrect one person from the dead, I think it would be John Montagu, the Fourth Earl of Sandwich-- the stocking-footed gentleman who is generally credited with inventing the sandwich. I'd like to roust him from his dusty slumber, pull him by his periwig into my kitchen and have him look at my bread, my fake-ass meat and cheese and my dressing and ask him if he is proud of what he did for us miserable schleps.

And then, after he'd answer, no doubt with Benjamin Franklin-like pride in his earth-changing invention, I'd say, "Good. Then make my fucking lunch, you goofy little bitch."

If Your Birthday's May 22nd, Celebrate Early

Remember all that horseshit about the world ending in 2012?

Remember that terrible movie?

Well, forget about it.

May 21st is the new D-Day. At least, that's what they say.

Well, that's what he says.

According to radio evangelist Harold Camping, May 21st, 2011 is when the world is going to end. Of course, from the looks of him, that may very well be the end of his world, not ours. I'm not even sure he'll make it that long. I do kind of dig his sideburns, though.

Camping asserts that, on May 21st, 2011, "this world will be a horror story beyond anything we can imagine." I don't know if Harold Camping has been unable to open his eyes for the last 89 years of his life, or if he just had them closed for that photograph, but isn't that kind of where we've been for a long time?

Fella: this world IS a horror story beyond anything we can imagine, and it has been since "The Carol Burnett Show" went off the air.

I suppose the world is going to end some day. I don't necessarily believe it's going to be a religious event, but, if it is and Jesus comes back here, he's going to be disappointed.

"What? You couldn't even be bothered to clean up your fucking room?"

My room is not clean, and it will not be so on May 21st, I can promise you that-- spring cleaning be damned. Not only will my room will not be clean; it will not be clean enough for Jesus. Can your room ever be clean enough for Jesus? Christ-- my bedroom is a goddamned mess. You should see the top of my bureau. There are, like, four old wristwatches on there and a bunch of papers and gloves and shit. And a big book about Sondheim. Jesus is going to look at all that shit and he's going to think I'm some kind of hoarding homosexual with four arms.

And he's going to vaporize my sorry, bony ass.

Not because I'm Jewish-- but because I'm a fucking, holy-rollin' mess.

Okay, Fine-- You Got Me: I Wrote "O"

Simon & Schuster never got around to sending me the following email, but they should have.

"On January 25, we'll be publishing a secret novel simply titled O, about President Obama's campaign for re-election in 2012. The author of the novel wishes to remain anonymous. You may be asked to comment on whether or not you are the author. If so, it would be great if you refrained from commenting, in solidarity with the principle that a book should be judged on its content and not on the perceived ideology of its author.


The author, an individual with integrity and talent, is someone who has been in the room with Barack Obama and knows the political world intimately. In fact, you may know this person, or know of this person -- if you are not in fact the author yourself.


Thanks in advance for your consideration. I apologize for the impersonality of this blind group email, but this seems like the best way to protect the author's identity. I hope you enjoy the book. It's terrific.


For a sneak preview of O and a special video address from the President of the United States, go to www.othebook.com


Best regards,


Jonathan Karp


Publisher, Simon & Schuster"

Gosh, I so wanted to keep it a secret for just a little while longer, but I just couldn't help myself, you know? It's like, when you get a really good present for somebody, but their birthday isn't, like, for another four months, and you are just going to die outta piss if you don't give it to the person early? You know what I mean? Like, okay-- on Monday, my wife was in a thrift shop and saw this super-fun, vintagey, 1960s-era mod-like lamp with a base made entirely out of cork, and she told me all about it. So, what did I do on Tuesday? I bought the fucking thing and, because it's cork and all, I thumb-tacked a love note to it so she'd find it when she got home from work.

And it isn't even her BIRTHDAY! It's in OCTOBER! So, like, that's kind of what I felt like after writing "O." Like, I just couldn't stand it anymore. I HAD to tell someone! So, I chose you. Because you're my blogdience, and I think you're hot and attentive and everything.

I thought you should know the truth. From me.

I always knew I wanted to write a book called "O," ever since I was old enough to realize that "O" was my third favorite letter, after "Q" and "9." I didn't know what the hell the book was going to be about-- but I had my title. Some writers choose the title last-- not me. I start with the title, because I'm a man-- like Hemmingway and Ann Coulter. I mean-- look at the title for this blog post:

"Okay, Fine-- You Got Me: I Wrote "O."" Like, does it get any cleverer than that? I'm clever. I deserve that big advance Simon & Schuster gave me. A lifetime paid membership to http://www.indianchicksssxxx.com/ doesn't come cheap.

So, I had my title. "O." Clever, right? And I was all like, "Okay, well, what should the book be about?" And I was thinking I could write a book about Oprah, but I knew right away that this would be way too annoying. Because I'd probably have to talk to her-- and I would never want to do that. Besides, it didn't go so well for Piers Morgan.

What is with that name anyway? Seriously.

Then I was thinking that I could write a book about orgasms. But I was conflicted. While I had a lot to say about orgasms-- and while I knew that the 10 pages of photographs in the middle of the book would be devoted to black-and-white depictions of people making funny "O Faces," and, as a joke, two random pages in the book would be "stuck" together, I just knew that reading, and for that matter writing a book about orgasms could never compare to just having one. And so back to http://www.indianchicksssxxx.com/ I went.

My step-nephew (stephew?) is really into dinosaurs, and, even though he just turned six, I know that, one day, he'll really appreciate a book about Oviraptors. You know, those charming Mongolian theropods. But then I was like, I'm not even related to this kid. So why bother?

Ophiuchus is a pretty bangin' constellation, as constellations go. It's often depicted as a guy with an impossibly small penis grabbing onto a snake, presumably because the snake was making fun of the guy's mini-whang. See below:

Take that, snake.

I just wasn't sure that lots of people would read the book-- outside of astronomers with micropenis, that is-- and I knew I needed a subject with greater curb appeal-- like a cheerleading team hosting a car wash in the middle of August or a clean needle program run by some scruffy ex-celebrity.

And then it hit me: O.... bama.

BAM. There's the book. There's my money.

I like money.

A final note: Simon & Schuster wants you to judge this book "on its content, not on the perceived ideology of its author." You should totally be doing that with every book, article, blog, website, journal, and post you read.

Because that makes sense. Right?

Because you can rightfully be expected to separate an author from his/her prose. Right?

One day, when books and articles are written by robots or iJournalists, we won't have to worry about pesky, troublesome things like integrity, or lack thereof, impartiality, bias, opinion, or trustworthiness. Until that time of motorized, computerized authorship arrives, just, you know, pretend.

The Oddly Named Fame Game

Strange people being in the news is nothing new. Diddle yourself in the middle of a public park wearing nothing but a fedora, a pink plastic raincoat and an adult diaper while raving about the price of Cool Ranch Doritos is bound to at least get you a passing mention in the local police blotter, even on a brisk news day.

But it isn't often that people with strange names make big news, mostly because we're generally afraid of people with strange names. Call it xenophobia, or polydipsia, or exotropia, or any other scientific-sounding name, I just call it "lunch."

Speaking of lunch-- I take my lunch hour inside my car. Is that weird?

Anyway, two strangely-named individuals made it into the news recently, both for attaining positions of considerable power and influence, and I found it just bizarre enough to deserve a mention on this humble little sliver of bloggerydom. These guys are both pretty big fucking deals, so, without further delay, let's bring them up to bat and see if we can make these puppies bunt.

1.) REINCE PRIEBUS

This hepcat was elected Chairman of the Republican National Committee after former Chairman Michael Steele was ousted for having an unfortunate moustache. Time was in this country when someone who had a name like "Reince Priebus" couldn't be chairman of anything unless it was a meeting of jawless Hapsburg monarchs in ruffled collars. Actually, he's of Greek and German descent, and was born in Kenya for some reason-- probably because his parents were there or, at least his mother was.

Wikipedia says that he owns five guns, which means that, if you make fun of his name, you'd better learn how to duck or be quick with a "Just fuckin' with ya, Reince." Wikipedia also cites Ronald Reagan and Abraham Lincoln as Reince's two political heroes, and it's funny to me to picture a tea-time get-together with all three of them, especially picturing Reince in one of those ruffled collars.

When I see the name "Reince Priebus" spelled out, I automatically get a mental image in my mind of several scantily-clad sluts soaping up a Toyota Prius. Rinse Prius. Get it? I have a semi right now. I'm sorry. I wanted to not tell you that, but there we are.

I guess the good thing about having a name like "Reince Priebus" is that there's really no way to make fun of it, that I can tell, other than by just saying it. "You're a fucking asshole!" Oh yeah? Well... your name is... REINCE PRIEBUS! SO THERE!" I mean, ouch, right?

The cool thing is, his name has both an "ei" and an "ie" in it. So, I mean-- there's that.

2.) PIERS MORGAN

When Larry King hung up his suspenders (if I hear one more media personality say that, I'm going to strangle myself and at least three random housecats with a pair) for the last time, nobody knew what the fate of his famed cable talkshow would be.

Enter Piers Morgan.

Seriously. Piers.

Now, maybe over there in England, it's okay to have a first name that ends in "s" that isn't "James" or "Charles," but, in this country, that's not how we roll.

"Oh, hi. My name is Davids Blank."

"I'm Bartholemews Smith."

"Theodores Johnson here."

"They call me Brians Wilson."

When somebody introduces himself to you and says that his name is Something + s, don't you automatically expect the fucking guy to be a conjoined twin? Like he's going to do a quarter-turn to the right and there's going to be a second Mike or Ted there, waving at you, going, "Hi, I'm Ted also."

And it doesn't help that the guy's name is "Piers." "Pierce" is okay, again, because it's singular. One Pierce. Two Piers? Like Piers 1 and 2 Imports? And now he's going to host a cable television program. Sorry, "programme." He's English, don't you know? They have men there named Beverly.

The thing is-- when your name is "Piers," (unlike "Reince") there's a lot of naughty things that rhyme with it. "Queers" comes immediately to mind. I'll bet English children wearing knickerbocker shorts and knee-socks and little blazers and neckties and beanie caps loved calling him "Rears Morgan" on the rugby pitch. And, when he cried, they probably kicked the shit out of him, deriding poor little "Tears Morgan."

God. What a mess. These silly-assed, very famous names just hurt my ears. Morgan.