Sunday, January 16, 2005

"I'm going to add some hot Bex pepper and spice up the action"

So I woke up on the early side of this morning (meaning 9am. I can and will, if left unchecked, sleep until almost 2 in the afternoon. I either never outgrew the ability to sleep like a teenager, or else I'm phenomenally depressed. It's entirely possible that I'm phenomenally depressed, but I repress the depression so well that it only manifests in my ability to sleep like a teenager. The power of positive thinking quells most of it, but apparently not the need to sleep the day away and then wake up and eat ginger snaps.) And Noah and I have been watching a DVD of "Beast Wars" which was a late-90s Transformers computer-animated thing. It's funny, I never watched any of that shizzy, but I was impressed with the thorough story arc and given-circumstances development. Like, why do robots have different personalities if they're all just robots? Because there's some vector program that separated and assigned traits to their "sparks" (a spark seems to be some combo of a soul and an essence-of-youness/self-awareness).

My biggest question is: now that there are female transformers, why are there plotlines about romance and flirtation and jealousy? Why would male robots only develop romantic feelings when female 'bots joined the fray? I don't think robots would have sexual predatory/territorial feeling about other robots -- for one, I'd assume they wouldn't mate-for-life because they're robots and wait, they don't have to mate. It's not like you only get a baby robot when a boyrobot fucks a girlrobot, and why would they need to fuck anyway; surely all that grinding metal is not good for one's exoskeleton, and wouldn't robot-sex be more about triggering the pleasure nodes rather than actual insert-tab-A-into-slot-B humping? But I'd assume they just, whoomp, create new robots-- there's no intrauterine gestation or anything and thus no need for sexually derived recombination of genetic elements. because they don't have genes. anyway. i was stumped -- why did the boy robots only start feeling those 'love' feelings when the chick robots showed up? because if there were a cartoon about gay boy Transformers, i'd be watching the fuck out of that shit.

Anyway! So there's this Cheetah-robot Transformer named "Cheetor" (or something) and he's about to join in this fight between the good guys and a bad semi-dinobot that Megatron (the bad guy leader) created by inserting some robot parts into a real dinosaur, and the bad semi-dinobot is terrorizing the good guys and Cheetor shows up and yells, "I'm gonna add some hot Cheetor pepper and spice up the action!" And I thought -- damn skippy. I am SO going to start saying that.

And speaking of spicing up the action, I have been involved in waaaaay too many convos recently about a certain former lady wrestler's 3-inch clitoris. Yes, it's true. That's what steroids to your clitoris, ladies -- if you don't want a mini-penis, stay away from the 'roids. And so, because I have probably logged a good three hours discussing said (neologism alert!) penoris, it's here. Learn about it in context here, in a review of the porn movie in which it appears.

Last night's discussion of said appendage launched both a sidebar on the porn "freaky dicks" and about the need to level the playing field -- we were talking about (i'm going to be heteronormative here, sorry) how dudes look at chicks and they see the total package, but chicks have to wait until they reach a hand down the boxers and find out what kind of sea monster is lurking below the surface. And how that's just sorta unfair. Like if I'm at the beach in a bikini, it's all out there for anyone to see, thunder thighs and all. But dudes keep it a personal secret until they whip it out. We were talking about a standup I saw on tv when I was a kid who said that women's breasts should pop out when they got aroused -- so like you're at the beach, flat as a board, and a stud walks by and your breasts go kapow, kapow, and suddenly you have two breasts for all the world to see. Or, as my roomie just pointed out, I guess all us ladies have the opportunity to grow a penis whenever we want -- we could rock the 'roids. Boys can take steroids and shrivel up their penises, but they can't grow vaginas. But us chicks can take steroids and grow mini-dicks. Chicks with mini-dicks! And then we'd get the corner offices and the big bucks.

Hey! My buddy and pal Mike came over to play yesterday because he was in the 'hood and he took a photo of our Jesus/Mary optical illusion. We have a lot of psychedelic Jesus-y stuff around the house because it appeals to our ironichipsterkitsch weltanshaung. I just like that in our universe, Jesus is kitsch. Ha. Ha ha. Hey, look, in our universe, these things have ironic quirkyness: elementary school posters from 1960s about eating right and washing carefully; one of those moving-waterfall pictures often found in chinese restaurants; a vast collection of coffeemate bottles stripped of their labels so they're blank and vaguely android-like; Jesus.

Noah just talked to his mother and she and his stepfather are doing their annual check of their emergency go-bag -- it's stocked with flares and water and pills and iodine and tents and food and all that stuff. Which is hi-larious, because they live in Arizona, 15 miles away from the nation's second largest missile silo. As in, when the big one comes, so too goes Arizona. It's the same reason why we don't have an emergency anti-apocalypse go-bag -- we live in NYC. When the nukes hit, so too goes New York City. If we were all in bumblefuck Ottawa, I'd say sure -- pack that go-bag and maybe you can stick it out in the nuclear winter. But, living in NYC, which is certainly on the 'primary target' list, there's not much to worry about. Siren, flash of light, and then the undiscovered country. It actually makes it easier to sleep at night if you think about it this way.

La la la. The cute-boy-in-my-life is now in calimafornia. sniffle, sniffle. Oh! And to answer some questions from readers:
1). Yes, I am from Glen Rock, NJ. Perhaps you knew me by my previous name, which was "Becky." Let us speak no further of that name, although I'll happily try to be funny about my high school days. Remind me to tell ya'll about the defenestration of Westwood someday.
2). Greetings and salutations to Todd. He's one of those real-life bloggers and he's neat.
3). D, reggae

And to tie this all up, although I surely have strayed from the 5-paragraph essay format -- speaking of depression, the reason I saw "Freaky Dicks" was that I was really depressed once (as in: non-repressed depressed. And hung up on something. So I was totally obsessed non-repressed depressed. But I was stressed. And poorly dressed. A poorly dressed, stressed, totally obsessed non-repressed depressed person) and my friend Faceboy said, "I'm sorry you're depressed. Why don't you come over to my house and we'll watch "Freaky Dicks" and I thought, "You're the type of person out with whom I like to hang." I miss those days, back when we were doing "Wrong Fag To Fuck With" and, despite the depression, all was right with the world. But not with those freaky dicks!

No comments: