Brilliant Sulk

Genius, pure genius.

After I dabbed my eyes I headed to the bar. As I reached for the Chopin vodka I heard a voice…

“Hey motherfucker, make me a drink too!” It was my favorite cousin, a delightfully demure blonde who for some odd reason was obsessed with warts. I hesitantly asked her how things were. She’s currently writing a book. About warts. Intriguing. She read an excerpt.

VERUCCA VULGARIS: THIS WARTS STORY

Through due diligence I have determined that there is nothing funny at all about warts.  Unless your name is the Latin version…Verucca Vulgaris. I’m pretty sure I met a stripper once whose name was Verucca Vulgaris. She clearly was NOT the headliner at the strip bar and the way she twitched pranced danced about on the stage, so skinny that her thong was baggy, was really…um sexy? I suppose I should have felt sad that she couldn’t find panties to fit her properly but hey maybe that was part of the act…you know a way to get a sympathy fuck buck  out of the guys there. Verucca Vulgaris is my name and being a high flying super hero stripper is my game. My panties act as my cape for when I swing around the pole they flap in the wind, after all it is a peep show Y’ALL. You see I’m a wart and by day you would know me by the moniker…Verucca Plana but by night you might catch me (heh, get it? catch me) twirling around a pole headlining at your local strip club under the name of Verucca Vulgaris.  But I suggest you look and don’t touch as I like to spread the love and I am not sure you are ready for this super hero stripper wart because once you get me…I am with you forever.  It’s really gross to think about warts and strippers together…but apparently I have a stripper fascination. They always seem so happy and hairless but I never actually saw a wart on a stripper, thank god. I think Verucca Vulgaris would probably look a lot like Varicosa.

I do believe this will be a best seller.

So after downing five shots of vodka with my favorite blonde I thought I would head outside for a smoke. Except I don’t smoke. I heard someone yelling something about boobs.

Oh, it was Sue. She’s my next door neighbor and LOVES her boobs. She CANNOT STOP TALKING ABOUT HER BOOBS. I happen to mention that we ran out of cream for the coffee. She whipped out a little bottle from her purse. “Here, use this.” It was breast milk. She then told me all about it…

Breast milk. Even saying it out loud has a comforting effect on people, don’t you think? The instant those two little words hit your ear you feel like you’ve been shrouded in a warm cream-coloured Snuggie. Am I right? Here’s the thing about breast milk – it comes from boobs. Shocking, I know, however, some people seem to not understand the correlation. Have you ever been to a restaurant where a mother fed her baby breast milk at the table, like, directly from the source? It’s funny to see the faces of other diners as they slurp down their warm New England clam chowder and either try not to look or quickly make a menu barrier between their eyes and the itty bitty baby’s pucker. What’s the big deal? That baby is just sucking back some chowder of it’s own. The only difference is the shape, and maybe colour, of the spoon. Well, you could argue that a spoon doesn’t shoot chowder with as much brute force as a breast does…..and breasts do create a lot of force. If you ever get the chance to be in a room with a bunch of breast feeding mothers see if you can cajole them into a friendly target competition. Watch them with awe and fascination as they swiftly unclick their nursing bras, deftly whip out their icing bags, expertly wrap their hands around their fleshy mounds, and SQUISH. Enjoy the spectacle of warm milk shooting at lightning speed across the room. Reflect on the Jackson Pollock-ness of the splatters made on the far wall. Mourn the lost opportunity of adding a splash of the now spent creamy goodness to your coffee – at least, for a little while. (If you wait twenty minutes and your coffee doesn’t get too cold you could put in a special request – it’s sweet stuff so you wouldn’t even need sugar.) Breast milk is an amazing thing when you really think about it. Not only does it have the ability to fulfill every single dietary need of a newborn child, but it can come in handy when your scrambled eggs aren’t coming out quite fluffy enough, and if you happen to get something in your eye you can use it to flush it out with the added bonus of having it work as an anti-inflammatory agent. The real and potential medicinal qualities of breast milk are being explored and touted daily. Maybe the real question is, why we don’t create breast milk factories? We, as a country, could bottle it and sell it not only as food for our young (because we all know that formula kills – or at the very least, makes our kids stupid) but as a cure-all. Have a boil on your big toe? Here, use some of this Mama’sMilk (TM). Oh, did you get a splinter in your ear? Just splash some Mama’sMilk (TM) on it. What’s that, you contracted crabs? No problem, just drown the little suckers with more Mama’sMilk (TM). Imagine the possibilities and epic revenues of nature’s perfect food. Think of the reduction in unemployment and incredible opportunities for women this could create. Understandably, some fantastically ignorant people may have reservations about this idea, but flipping them should prove to be easy as pie – Boston CREAM pie. With a nipple, er, cherry on top.

She was right. The coffee was wonderful with a touch of breast milk.

We all gathered around for a fun game of pin the tail on Uncle Desmond (he didn’t mind, he can’t hear, see or feel anything) I looked over and saw a very distant relative from Connecticut who now lives in Dallas. It was Lesley. She was combing her GIANT hair and checking her teeth in a tiny compact she pulled from her GIANT purse (everything is bigger in Texas) She began to tell me all about it…

My hair is impossible. It throws tantrums and tangles itself on purpose and simply will NOT stop growing. It’s like a toddler attached to my head. My face is also impossible. I pamper it with lotions and decorate it with makeup and start the day convinced that for once, I look really good, until somebody takes a picture of me and I look at it later and realize I went through the whole day with a foundation line across my jaw and, of course, a mass of tangled hair. But my teeth are another story. Ok, they’re stained with coffee and starting to get that old-lady-see-through-teeth look that everyone finds so charming. But they are strong. Fearless. And low maintenance. Here are my secrets to great teeth: pick out the gummy bears as you go along, brush em once a week, and stay away from the dentist. Especially if you live in Texas. I’ll tell you about that later, when you ask for stories about Why You Should Avoid Dental Spas That Offer Financing Plans.

Lesley continued to ogle herself in her tiny compact so I left her and made my way over to find Jing from Singapore dancing on the table wearing leather pants and a deep purple t-shirt. She confessed she had gotten lost leaving the Karaoke bar the evening before and somehow ended up at my house…

I have a confession to make; I’ve always wanted to be a rock star. And believe me, I’ve tried. I auditioned at our glee club in college; although how I’d get to be a rock star when we were singing church songs I do not know. I auditioned for a show band; although I left when they asked me to sing Debbie Gibson’s Lost In Your Eyes. And so, to recapture a bit of my rock star ambitions, I belt out Led Zeppelin’s Stairway To Heaven at the karaoke bar; that’s when I can grab the microphone away from my equally-starstruck friends. When I was younger Led Zeppelin used to be this really cool rock band with leather pants and long hair. Now, my kids know them as animated characters playing Smoke On The Water. Is nothing sacred anymore?!

Finally, as things were winding down I stumbled into the backyard to feed the leftover raccoon stew to the giraffe and tripped over someone. It was the Unfinished Rambler. Not sure how exactly how we’re related but I asked how his trip to Europe was…

Europe was one of my favorite bands growing up as a teenager. Why? Mainly, because I always wanted hair, to be Swedish and have a voice like Joey Tempest. Listen to “Carrie.” I also was THAT girl in the foreground in The Final Countdown video (starting at 3:04 and going to about 3:06, see video below) that knew the lyrics to every single song, including “Superstitious,” and loved not only blowing up shit myself, but also seeing shit blown up by others on stage (cue: 4:30, same video) with the cool fadeout of voices (“down, down, down, oun, oun, oun”) on the synthesizer:

Cue airplane engine.

The reunion finally ended when I ran out of booze and Uncle Desmond had to be rushed to hospital. Someone lodged a tail too far up his ass.

The End.

Whew. That was long. Did your diaper hold up?

A big thanks to everyone who participated in this utterly ridiculous blog post. Your contributions were much appreciated! I will NEVER EVER do this again…

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Unfinished Rambler