This morning I woke up inside the body of a man, who was inside the body of another man, like a trucker or barber. I couldn’t really tell. I just felt greasy. Clamy. I prefer to wake up inside the body of Cher, or a kitty cat, or the Captain of a Carnival Cruise Line, like the Princess of the Sea, but it wasn’t my lucky day. I called my BFF Squinny and s/he said that s/he woke up inside the body of another person as well but Squinny was pissed because she woke up inside the body of Tim Tebow and William Levy. I was like no way and s/he was like totally yah way. I asked hir how s/he was inside two bodies at once and Squinny said s/he didn’t know but it was true true. I was like are you sure and Squinny was like I’m so sure. I was stunned. Mortified. I told Squinny she was a true artist.
I asked Squinny if Tim and William have sex with each other and Squinny said don’t be silly. William wouldn’t go for Tim even if Tim were a football star. I had to pee first and then I told Squinny that being inside the body of two men at the same time is like being inside your home and your neighbor’s home at the same time. Squinny said that’s how s/he feels everyday inside hir own body. Squinny said s/he feels like s/he occupies two homes at once, like matter and anti matter, one home in outer space and the other in inner space. Squinny made me think about home and what makes one. I asked Squinny if s/he wanted to go for a walk. I asked Squinny if s/he wanted to play football or play Actors & Actresses, or both. Squinny wasn’t amused, but s/he looked gorgeous on the outside of hir new inner bodies. Even the color of hir eyes reflected the multitudes inside. Finally, I gambled and asked Squinny if s/he wanted to be a boy or a girl when s/he grows up. Steve just smiled a big ass what do you think smile and said yes.
Mom thinks the grounp Young Americans for Freedom is a hate group. Mom thinks all they want is to see her dead. Her son dead. Her lover dead. All of us dead who think all humans should have the same rights. Mom will have more to say on Ryan Sorba later but right now she is in the process of putting on her lesbian shoes. The ones she wears to protest. The sames ones with the high high heels she wears to work when she strips for the Young Americans for Freedom. Mom is going to make breakfast today and wear her high high heels while she makes breakfast. Amanda Bernstein and I called the fire department just in case she burns the house down. We hope Ryan Sorba shows up so we can show him how supernatural mom really is. Like a Clydesdale. Bigger and stronger than he’ll ever be. Even though he has fancy eyebrows we can see right through him. We hope he shows up for breakfast so we can show him how good it tastes.
My friend Squinny says my scar gives me character. I show her my Swiss Army Knife and ask her if she wants a scar and she says no way no thanks are you crazy? Squinny has a future in drag racing. I don’t mean the kind of racing done with cars or motorcycles. I mean the kind of racing done with too much lipstick and glitter gloss. I let her wear my training bra to school underneath her uniform. We exchange underwear in the men’s room. She fills the bra with socks. The other kids call her Bob but Squinny doesn’t think Bob fits her figure or her future career in Spandex. I tell her the name Bob gives her character but she says it gives her the wrong kind of character, like the character of a trucker or a retired lawyer. I really think a scar will give her character. When she gets her sex change she’ll have a scar in the you know what. She says no one will notice except maybe her future husband and that’s only if she gets married. She is undecided. She wants kids but can’t stand the smell. She loves men but she’s not a homosexual. I won’t get married till I’m a woman, she says. Fine, I say, be that way. I’m only a child but I know she will go through with it one day, i.e. the sex change. Squinny is my best friend. She looks like Charles Jensen but way younger (not that Charles is old) and she doesn’t have face hair (like Charles), at least not yet. Squinny can’t sing even though she tries “Oh My Darling Clementine”. Squinny is a jerk sometimes, never shares. Has temper tantrums. Loose stool. She just doesn’t eat right. She’s a character, the kind you find in fa la la land or Las Vegas, not Disney World. Squinny will change the world one day, I know it. She will. One night she’ll dangle above the Grammy stage like Lady Gaga or Bruno in her finest wig and sparkley underwear. She will point me out in the crowd and say this one is for you. And, if she doesn’t, for some reason beyond her control (everything is beyond Squinny’s control), I will commit this story to history. In her honor.
I woke up shivering cold with Spider Woman’s arms around me. Too bad mom can’t spin a web because if she could she would be super cool. But she can’t. She’s got chicken fajita breath and she weighs as much as a Ford Mustang. Her hair smells like cigarettes and Chiclets. I’ll always love you, she says. I wait a few seconds then she calls me a son of a bitch. Mom talks in her sleep, talks like an insane asylum inmate on lock down talking to little pink aliens over loud music. Whatever I do it’s never enough, she says. Whatever I do you always look the other way. I was looking at her but mom hates to be mocked so I didn’t wake her up. I listened to her complain about climbing the walls in the heart of January. She hates the holidays. Hates the fact winter is two o’clock. Hates the cost of heat. I made her breakfast, coffee and a Marlboro Red. I lit one too. Pretended to smoke my brains out. I waited for the rain to fall.
I skip class to hang out in the toilets with my girlfriend Squinny. She’s not my ‘girlfriend’ and we’re not ‘in’ the toilet but Squinny is taking a leak. She doesn’t sit so I’m concerned for the black ants on the floor. I hope they can swim. Let’s go to Yemen, she says. Where’s that? I ask. No clue, she says, but I think we can make it big there. Squinny thinks she’ll be a hunk one day when she gets her penis. I ask her how much a penis costs and she shrugs her shoulders. I think she’s full of shit but I wouldn’t put it past her. Her mom’s in an asylum and not one built for political prisoners. It’s time to get back to class. I heart Algebra. I hate bras. Squinny straightens the sock in her pants and I do too.
I’m gonna take a break, meaning I’m gonna to learn how to fly a kite. I got one for X-mas and it’s fat, i.e. it’s really awesome. The neighbor’s kid says I’m a jerk but who cares what that pig says. He doesn’t have a kite or a mom. Mom’s gonna kick his ass and then some. It’s Sunday. We didn’t go to Church today because mom wasn’t in the mood for coffee and doughnuts. She had premarital sex last night with the neighbor’s father. She does this every once in a while for a little extra cash. She says kites aren’t free and counts the cash. Yesterday when we went to the fishmonger we bought squid with tentacles, salmon and shrimp. Mom hates fish but I love the smell. Reminds me of the day Bobo the Mutt died or ran away. Damn dog loved fish. I’ve always wanted to learn how to swim.
I’ve been so busy shaving my armpits I haven’t been able to keep up with my blogging. Fortunately for me I’m done shaving my pits but now mom is on the rag and she’s totally nuts, bonkers to be more exact. Last night she chased the raccoon out of the attic, again. This time they met face to face as the raccoon poked his head out of the wire mesh be busted in through. She roared like a Wild Thing and I’m pretty damn sure that critter ain’t coming back.I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night.
This morning mom made huevos rancheros without the huevos, so basically we’re going to have rancheros, which are like farm hands but tastier. Mom is on the war path today because she’s pissed it took George W. Cheney 8+ years to not win the wars in Iraq & Afghanistan. I mean, come on, she says, Lady Gaga could probably have really kicked some ass.
Mom says right wing wingnuts are God’s gift to dipping sauce. By this she means insane people’s balls should be deep fried and served with BBQ or Sweet & Sour sauce. Even though, she says, wignuts are pretty bitter, so I’m not sure if we need to go there.
And, finally, Mom’s gonna wait for the Sarah Palin bus tour to land in Miami, so she can see the second coming for herself. Sarah, she says, reminds me of Linda Blair in the Exorcist. Except, she says, Linda was only acting.
I’m going to start two wars, kill hundreds of thousands of Iraqis & Afghans (directly & indirectly), waste a trillion bucks in the process that could have been used to reform healthcare in America, let thousands of American troops die or get dismembered in the name of faulty intelligence, allow tens of thousands of Americans in America die due to lack of adequate access to health services, and then I’m going to complain when someone else wins the Nobel Peace Prize (President Obama) while trying to end those two quagmire wars, to improve health coverage and health outcomes for all sick, dying and downtrodden Americans, republican or democrat and everyone transgendered crack smocking whack job nutcase in between.
“You go girl,” mom says with no heart or soul, as if I’m not really a girl, which I’m not, or have a soul. “I thought Sarah Palin would have won for sure.”
I’m getting busty but in the wrong places. Too many Oreo cookies and television. I’m obsessed with Rachel Maddow and Sponge Bob reruns. I’ve got the runs too. It’s been a tough week considering I still haven’t caught H1N1 yet. I’m gonna get vaccinated as soon as I can but I don’t have $24 yet. Mom says she’ll sell herself if she has to to get me vaccinated. “I can work over that guy with the shiny car down the street.” The other moms in the neighborhood hate mom because mom will do anything to survive even if that means preying on one of their husbands, or significant others. One time she blackmailed the neighbor’s husband because she caught him having sex with a man at the pub where she works. She swore she wouldn’t tell his wife if he bought me a school uniform and mom a six pack and cigarettes, the good kind. Mom has no shame. I’m not ashamed of her except when she wears those black fishnet stockings to the Unitarian Church on Sundays. “Attention is good,” she says. “I took marketing in collage you know.” I didn’t know. I didn’t even expect mom to be the kind of woman who went to college but she’s an extraordinary woman even though she’s almost toothless beneath the dentures. She can fillet a yellow fin snapper. She can slay a dragon with her own bare hands. She can, I swear. If you don’t believe me, ask my father.
I’d call you a liar but mom says I shouldn’t cast stones or darts, so I won’t, yet. When I read your essay “Listening To A Liar”, which was published on RealClearPolitics.com, I thought your pants were on fire. I listened to you Mr. Sowell and all I heard were jingle bells. Mom says never smackdown anyone who has a PhD, even if they’re not smarter than you or just trying to be controversial, but she’s got a PhD too yet she’s totally bonkers and not credible at all. I make my own decisions.
In any case, I get the sense you, Dear Thomas, are hellbent on fanning the flames of fear and hypocrisy as you stoop down to your cable television logic. I must admit, up front, you have the right to your own opinion, but you don’t have the right to your own logic. I want to assure you this is not an attack on your freedom of speech, but you will probably see it otherwise. Instead, I would like to address 3 points: your ad hominem attack on Barack Obama’s character, your total disregard for facts relevant to the healthcare debate, and your relentless assault on intellectualism in general. Continue reading “Listening To A Liar: A Response to Thomas Sowell”→