humans are funny

Category: hmmm

  • I’m a Chupacabra & You’re a Unicorn

    My friend, Madge, is 62. After her dining room table lasted her twenty years, she bought a new one.

    “It’s so weird to think this could be my last dining room table,” she said.

    Holy shit!

    I mean, Holy shit.

    I’ve heard that we are all going to die. I know people die. I saw my grandmother in her casket when I was eight (and poked her body because my cousin dared me to). Plus, my dad never calls me anymore, so I’m pretty sure he’s dead (although, I still slightly suspect he faked his death to move away to his secret family in Idaho– road trip to Idaho pending).

    I get it. People die. Everybody dies.

    I’ve even contemplated my own death. I like to ask myself about my own death pretty often. I’ll say, “Hey, Laurenne, would you be okay with dying today?” Or sometimes my own demise is forced upon me when I’m just walking in a really bad neighborhood (which I do pretty often because I like to live on the edge). I’ll say, “A bullet could go through your brain any minute now. Are you ready?”

    And usually it’s a yes. Usually, I think about all the times I’ve laughed in my life and all the people I love, and I say, “Yes, I think if I HAD to be okay with dying today, I’d be okay.” When I landed in Papua New Guinea and the guy in line behind me in customs told me he was 100% positive that I would be raped and maimed if I stepped into the street, I did it anyway because I had prepared myself mentally for my own death. And because I’m fucking crazy sometimes. And because I was in Papua New Guinea! Totally cool with dying after that.

    But mentally prepared for dying is one thing. Actually preparing for dying makes me want to crawl in a hole and avoid avoid avoid. Actually buying the last dining room set ever in your WHOLE LIFE…? I don’t like it and I don’t like that I don’t like it. Some cultures celebrate death. In Bali, they party when someone dies. The human is able to pass onto the next life, which has the possibility to be so much better. So why not celebrate? And in India, death is not so scary. If you’re a devout Hindu and you die by the Ganges, no biggie. But, in this society, death is looked upon as such a horrible ending. We escape conversations about death and whisper about the poor souls with cancer and then soak up boxes of tissues when they finally disappear.

    When we know death is close, we do everything we can to keep it away. We’ll undergo any operation necessary to hold on just days longer to our precious lives. Yet, we can’t stop ourselves from eating Big Macs and shooting up schools.

    Most people in this country believe in heaven, yet still we still hold on so tightly to life. Why is everyone so scared to go bowling with their great uncles in the sky? Either we’re all aware that we wouldn’t be dressed well enough to get passed the heavenly doormen, or there’s a little part of us that thinks heaven sure sounds like something we just made up to make us feel better about dying. We have no proof and no idea about what death could be. Really, dying is like walking into a dark room. What if we turn on the lights and it’s better than expected?

    I may tell myself I’m okay with dying sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I’m finished. I want to see more of the world and make more of a difference and love even more people and laugh a million more times. And to me, death takes that away. But maybe it doesn’t?

    I would like to salute my friend and her dining set for addressing death as the inevitable mystery that it is. It’s just some thing that happens. Perhaps not a horrible thing. We’re all going to die. And we don’t even know what that means.

    Possible things that happen when we die:

    1.   Our souls travel to a Universal hub. We have to take turns coming back to Earth to learn lessons. But we all think Earth is so boring and petty, so we have to Rock, Paper, Scissors for it.

    2.   We find out that all the mythical creatures actually exist in another realm. In this other realm, I am a chupacabra and you are a unicorn.

    3.   We find out we’ve been in the matrix. Laurence Fishburne is there and then we all wear black coats and then there’s an oracle and then some more stuff happens but I don’t remember cuz that movie was a long time ago.

    4.   We all become shape-shifting ghosts and we meet up once a day to watch all the human teenagers masturbate. Because we think it’s funny.

    5.   We find there really is a heaven and hell. And that we’ve actually been in hell this whole time.

    6.    Nothing at all happens. We just die. But there’s a perfect few seconds right before we realize there’s nothing when we’re able to regret ever wearing MC Hammer pants.

    Anybody else have a good theory?

  • Text Fiend

    My phone fell into the toilet. With just the unbuttoning of my pants, a miniscule splash warned me of its plunge from my back pocket. My super-fast reflexes got it out within seconds, but the device fizzled to its untimely death. Dead phone.

    Read the rest of the article on The Next Family.—>

  • I banged that chick last night. She smelled like fruitcake.

    I was about seven when I heard an off-color joke I didn’t understand. My mom explained it as politely as she could.

    “Well, Laurenne, some men like to joke around and say that a woman’s private parts smell like fish.”

    Aaaaand that was the beginning of a very long paranoia about the scent of my own vagina.

    I don’t remember my mom ever saying much else about it. There was no, “Any private part that’s stuffed into a sealed-off underpant all day long is about to catch some sweaty scent– even balls.”

    That would have been slightly comforting. If she did say that, all I heard was “Holy shit! Your vagina’s gonna smell like fish one day and some guy’s gonna think you’re disgusting.”

    It didn’t stop there. Once the junior high kids got wind of the rumor, they spread it all over the place. The bullies at school would call the boys “faggots” and tell the girls their lady parts were full of shrimp. As if I didn’t already have to worry about the rubber bands on my braces snapping or my bra stuffing falling out. Now I had to worry about how fresh I was. I even considered douching. This was in the 90s, a douche bag’s heyday– before the term was ruined by Ed Hardy.

    Mortified, I didn’t let anyone go near my shrimp spot. No way, Hosni (keepin’ it current up on this new blog, yo!).

    As I got to the age when guys actually wanted to explore down there, I cautiously giggled my way out of those situations. That stupid fish rumor single-handedly ruined all my early sexual experiences, making them way more one-sided than they should have been. Thanks a lot, society. You owe me at least twenty orgasms.

    It’s been a long road, but I think I have finally veered off the path of pungent paranoia. This happened because 1.) I have smelled enough balls to know that women should NOT be cowering in some corner as if WE have a problem. 2.) I’m no longer in high school where people are gossiping about whose snatch smells the worst. 3.) I’ve come to enjoy my womanhood so much that I wish that I could bottle it. What? What’s that you say? You say that someone has figured out how to encapsulate womanhood?

    SOMEONE HAS FIGURED OUT HOW TO ENCAPSULATE WOMANHOOD! Bottled. Vulva aroma. Vulvaroma. AND MEN ARE BUYING IT for 25 euros. It came out in 2009, and I can’t believe I am just now breaking wind of it.  Why aren’t more women exploiting this? This invention is a WIN for all womankind.

    Whether or not you buy it or use it, we finally have proof that some people love the scent of a woman. So much so that they want to wear it. Actually, the website says a tiny amount is applied onto the back of the hand “and the irresistible smell that exudes from a sensuous vagina immediately intensifies your erotic fantasies.” Men and lesbians can hit arousal just by smelling our cannelloni! Can somebody please start spreading this around so the current generation’s pre-teens don’t have to go through so much vaginal angst?

    In closer speculation of the video, you will note that the smoldering German model goes in for the sniff after the vulva is all worked out. MEN ARE EVEN ATTRACTED TO THE SCENT OF A WOMAN AFTER THE GYM! The creator of the Vulva-in-a-bottle claims it took him over a year to find the right combination of urine, sweat, and female arousal.

    Rejoice! I am feeling a female freedom I’ve never felt before. I feel like having sex once without showering beforehand (Just once.). I feel like doing the splits naked at the nearest gas station. I feel like shoving my loin divider into the noses of every man on the street and then charging 25 euros.

    But how accurate is it? I scoured the internets for some reviews. One chick says the scent is very accurate, and another British talk show host put some on his fingers and joked that he couldn’t go home to his wife (British humor– not always funny). Does this confirmation by many mean that all vaginas smell the same? British ones and American ones? Mine and yours? The perfumers claim the scent was extracted from only a ‘beautiful’ woman, but I have a feeling ugly women don’t smell bad just because they’re ugly. And if most people who smell it claim it to be accurate, doesn’t that mean all women share a similar scent? Rejoice again! We spend years utterly paranoid about how horrible we must smell when our ladinesses are all exactly the same and really smell good enough to bottle.

    In an interview in the Examiner, a gay man with no prior vulva experience said that Vulva smells like Christmas.

    There you have it, folks. We learned a big lesson today. Society needs to stop with the rumors and jokes about fishy vaginas. Women don’t smell like fish. We smell like commercialism and ham.

    Hey, jerks. Quit saying we smell like vaginas.

  • Phone for thought.


    When I first took this photo in a Laos village, I didn’t want to post it online. I felt like a pedophile, or I at least felt like I might be assisting pedophiles in doing whatever they do that makes them pedophiley. But I love this picture. It’s really what kids in Laos look like, and if that means that they don’t worry about covering their genitals, then the world should know that Laos is a place where genitals roam free and parents are more concerned with making sure their kids have their blessings tied on their wrists than the holes in their pants sewn shut (Or this could be a diaper alternative that I just don’t know about.). They live in huts of straw. They eat sticky rice for dinner. They wear shoes on occasion. They’ve never heard of computers. They grow their own food. They nap with water buffalo. Life is so easy.

    —————————

    This week I’ve been faced with a lot of technology. Not only do I have this whole iPhone thing to figure out, I’ve been tweeting. Fuck. I don’t want to do it, but it’s something “they” say I have to do if I want to get blog traffic and be a famous writer and leave advertising for good. So I’m doing it. I’m telling all my ‘followers’ how many times I sneeze per day, and then I’m turning to my phone to tell me when to menstruate, what Martha’s been cooking recently, and how I can get to a macrobiotic restaurant in the valley where my friends await me with a bottle of sulfite-free wine. I wear heels. I have a green-friendly car. I own stock. I shop organic. I just ordered curtains from UrbanOutfitters.com. Life is so easy.

    My question is… What if I’d been born in Laos?

    I’m so lucky.

    Or am I?