Hmm, perhaps I am a sick freak

"I know, right? What kind of a sick mind would think that a chain of butcher shops inspired by Ed Gein was a good idea?"

Actually, maybe the question should be, "What kind of a sick mind even thought to allude to Ed Gein as a caption for this contest?"

For those of you who aren't familiar, the above is the cartoon from this week's New Yorker caption contest. Every week on the last page of their issue, The New Yorker publishes a cartoon without a caption, and invites the readers to submit their own. The hundreds (dozens?) of contenders are competing for, well I don't really know, but I'm betting the prize The New Yorker awards to the winner pales in comparison to the fact that winners get to brag about their caption being chosen. I mean c'mon - if my caption were to ever be chosen (not that I've ever sent mine in...their all humorless bastards anyways...don't know a good caption when they see it! Their content to just let captions that people put their sweat and tears into flounder in the pile! Um, ahem), I'd totally eschew the year's supply of Rice-a-Roni to just carry around the issue my caption was published in and shove it in every passerby's face, declaring, "Look! The New Yorker, one of the most intelligent and intellectual magazines written today, deems ME as witty and clever!" (Rightfully, the passerby would then pummel me with his/her issue of Cat Fancy)

And I can't even be honored for being the first to think of writing an anti-caption. Seinfeld made fun of New Yorker cartoons back in 1998, and every week, Daniel Radosh features his own anti-caption contest on his blog.

But I was a bit taken aback when, as I first laid eyes on this week's New Yorker contest cartoon, I thought of alluding to Ed Gein. What kind of a sick freak am I? One of my first posts on this blog was about how The Aristocrats joke could serve as a Rorschach test, and now I'm thinking the same holds true for the New Yorker caption contest.

Then again, the cartoon takes place at a butcher shop, there appears to be dancing Rockettes sitting in the meat counter, and weirdly, there is a hacksaw hanging in the background. An allusion to Ed Gein - or any other demented serial killer - seems inevitable. Maybe a Patrick Bateman reference is more current?

So obviously I can't send my Ed Gein caption into The New Yorker - how about this one?

"Using the meat counter as advertising space brings in WAY more money than the ground chuck ever did."

Sigh. I'm never gonna win that caption contest.

The horror, the pain...the facial

I write today of a story containing much woe and debilitating pain, a tale that will make you cringe as you read - it is also probably the most bourgeois complaint you will ever see on this blog.

It is the tale of the facial I received last Friday.

And perverts, let's get it straight from the get-go - it was a facial you get at a spa, not something that happens when 8 men profess their love to a woman in one of your XXX films.

But to be honest, after I stumbled home from the spa on Friday evening, I think I would have rather been on the receiving end of a bukkake than endured the assault on my face the facialist inflicted.

Early last week, I was looking at my face and running my fingertips along the t-zone - it was like a braille board, with dozens of tiny bumps festering under the skin. A summer of sweaty beach-going, camping, and blase skin care had left me with a face akin to the Yellowstone Caldera - about to blow at any minute with very, very bad results. Since I can't afford a dermatologist, a facial was in order.

I had never had a professional facial before, so I didn't know what was in store for me. I assumed that it would be a relaxing experience; the facialist would cleanse my face, rub some St. Ides scrub into my skin, and soothingly work out any clogs she came across (which would be many). My expectations were purported by clips I see on reality tv, like when the girls of The Hills, or Kate from John & Kate Plus 8, retreat to the spa for the ultimate in calm and rejuvention. I fully expected to come out of my facial with a new-found outlook on life.

It all started out fine enough. My facialist was eastern-European, which seemed totally appropriate, and after I told her it was my first time, she reassured me at every step. I undressed my torso and took off my shoes, laid on the spa bed, and allowed my body to de-tense as the facialist kneaded my shoulders and neck, and rubbed various ointments into my face. A sitar played from the speakers; the room was ensconced in low but warm lantern-light. This is nice, I thought, practically asleep. Why didn't I do this sooner? So what if it's an indulgence, I deserve an indulgence every now and then, don't feel guilty, just enjoy it, even if you COULD have given the money you're spending on this to charity, sshhh, sshhh, goddamnit would you just kick-back for once? Yes, this is how my mind works when I'm relaxed.

Just as I was about to drift-off into some warm, fuzzy nap state, my facialist said, "Ok, now ve vill begin vee ex-track-shun."

I didn't really respond, so she added, "Vis not so much fun."

"O-ohhh?" I was up, no longer lulled by the calming sensations of the room. Not fun? Like, when you're trapped in a boring college course not fun?

She placed a blindfold over my eyes. "How do you like ven you ex-track your blemishes at home?"

"Um, it's ok, I mean, I don't like it." I thought she was asking if I got my jollies by squeezing pus-filled whiteheads in front of my bathroom mirror. Indeed I do, but I didn't want her to think I was a freak.

"Vell, imagine vaht it feel like ven someone else do ex-track-shun."

Wait, what was going on? Why did she put a blindfold on me? The movie Hostel popped into my head.

"But don't vorry," she continued, as if there was an overhead projector connected to my brain that was displaying my fearful thoughts. "I use a needle to get out all vee hard stuff, and your face vill be smooth and beautiful."

A NEEDLE? But it was too late - the ex-track-shun had commenced.

She began with the nose, an uber-difficult place to push out blackheads if there ever was one. I tried not to squirm as she plied the cartilage, working the skin over the ridge of my nose, nearly breaking the fragile bone. At least she is starting with the nose, I thought. The nose is the most painful and frustrating area to pop zits - it should all be easy-peasy from here.

But I was wrong...I was so wrong. Imagine me saying that is a desperate, cracked whisper. I was so wrong. She moved to my problem area, my chin, and that bitch took the soft skin between her fingertips, gripped it like a vice, and squeezed that shit with all the mercy of Mussolini. Every muscle in my body tightened; the veins in my neck must have protruded two inches from the skin. Bullets of sweat sprang from my pits, and I'm not just saying this - I could literally feel pools of sweat cascade from my underarms. This was some serious pain.

And it only continued. With each new extraction, I prayed she would stop. My hands balled into fists and my toes curled like cheetos; my back had become a veritable swamp, since all the pain being inflicted on me had put my sweat glands into overdrive. Sure I was used to the brief sting of popping a zit, but the thing here was that she was extracting from bumps deep under the skin; many layers of epidermis had to be ripped open in order to deplete these potential blemishes. At one point she even said, "Your skin is so tight! Make for very difficult ex-track-shun."

Of course - only I would be someone with tight - yet clogged - pores.

Every millimeter of my face was pinched, and some areas had the pleasure of getting poked by her tiny needle. I think I now know what it feels like to receive Botox. It was so relentless, no time to breathe or recoup, just pain, grit grit git, GAH PAIN, grit grit grit, PAIIIIIIIN. People, I am not one easily provoked by the ache of the physical. I have always handled it well, and though I didn't scream out or tell her to stop at any time during our session, I have to say this was one of the most painful physical experiences of my life. Not the worst, but probably in my top five.

Throughout the facial, she kept talking to me. No, not idly chatting, but trying to engage me in conversation. She wanted to know about chemical peels I had had in the past and if they helped me or not because, wouldn't you know it? SHE had just taken a class on chemical peels and she wanted the perspective from someone who had actually had one... all this while she was facilitating fiery explosions from my face. I tried to be cordial, but all I could think was, bitch, shut-up! I really need to go to my happy place right now, and you are preventing that from happening.

And you know what made the whole thing even worse? I was having some stomach problems during the facial (translation: I had gas), and it was near impossible to not let one fly while I was writhing and gritting my teeth. The sheer fact that I did not A) cry like a baby or B) fart through it all puts me on the level of Superman.

Though it felt like a century, it was probably all done in 15 minutes. She applied a salve to my face then left the room as I reeled from the annihilation I'd just endured. Was it really over? Or was she about to return with a two-foot syringe in her hand and announce, "Oh you thought it vas OVER? You silly, silly American!"

But she didn't return for another 10 minutes or so, and when she finally did, she instructed me to get dressed. Ugh, gladly! I launched myself off the spa bed, got dressed, then spotted the wall mirror. I looked, but due to the low-lighting, I couldn't see the damage. Since my head felt like a hot, throbbing goiter, I knew it couldn't look good.

The walk home was hazy and a bit fevered; every inch of my face was prickly. I was happy for the darkness, since I didn't want passer-bys to be frightened by my boiling-red mug.

It is now a couple days later, and my face looks WORSE THAN EVER. It is dry and scabby. But the facialist did tell me it would look bad for a few days...le sigh.

So people, I tell you this story today so that the truth is known about facials - they are not enjoyable. They are not relaxing. They are, in fact, meant for masochists who enjoy the company of Easter-European broads. But as the old adage goes, no pain, no gain. It has yet to be shown if I gained the desired result, though - if my face turns out like the bottom of a newborn babe, then maybe I will visit my dominatrix-like facialist again in a few months. But I will do so after smoking two joints and imbibing a Volume.

American Psycho has me freaking out

I'm reading the book American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis. I've got 96 pages to go before I'm finished, and I really don't know if I should continue.

The book came into my possession a few weeks ago while my boyfriend and I were walking to Prospect Park. American Psycho, along with The Sun Also Rises and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, were lying on the sidewalk, laid in a neat row and presumably free for the taking. Though it had rained a hour or so prior, the books were dry and intact.

I had read about American Psycho in a book I own, 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. I liked the movie (starring Christian Bale), and since the book was an absolute must-read, I plucked it from the ground (I took the Hemingway novel as well; since I own Caged Bird, I left it for another lucky bookworm).

Last Saturday the bf and I were packing up supplies for a sailing trip, and since I'd left the book I was already reading (Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris) at my apartment, I brought American Psycho with me; when I finally began reading it, I was instantly drawn in. It was fast-paced and provocative, detailing a world where money and image mean everything while at the same time mean nothing. For the first 100 pages or so, there was no violence - just tedious descriptions of 80's yuppie fashion and the vapidity of a life that, though priviledged, made me sigh with relief because I have no connection to it.

But then the gruesome stuff started to take place. At first, the bloody murders were tolerable - though it disgusted me when Patrick Bateman would murder a bum and his dog, I eagerly took it all in, my mouth agape with shock. After a murder more tedious descriptions of name-brand clothing and upscale dining would soften the horror I felt. But then the murders became more frequent, violent and depraved, and now I'm actually thinking that I have made a serious mistake by picking up this book. Part of me wants to keep on reading - 1001 Books says American Psycho "must continue to be read," if for anything because it is a warning, or a powerful statement on how capitalism kills the innocence of the soul, or something...and also, I've got 96 pages to go - I'm almost done with it and I need to see how it ends.

But I'm having nightmares. Last night I dreamed that Patrick Bateman (looking like Christian Bale) wooed me with his looks and charm then tried to kill my family and me with butcher knives. I awoke thoroughly freaked out, and I can remember thinking in my dream "this is all because you are reading that fucking book."

Tonight I was walking my dog, and though I've walked him in my neighborhood (not to mention run errands and gone jogging,) at night a million times before, it was frightening. If the dog wasn't with me, I wouldn't have gone out at all. The entire time, I kept thinking someone was watching me and scenarios kept running through my mind - what would I do if accosted by a psychopath? Would my dog attack him? Should I just run? What about my dog, should I hold onto his leash to make sure he comes with me, or let go of it and just hope he follows? What if the psychopath got my dog, should I run or try to save him? At one point - and I'm almost too ashamed to admit this - I started walking in a zig-zag thinking that by doing so, it would be harder for some lunatic with a sniper rifle to shoot me.

And the worst part is, I can't even be comforted by reminding myself that it's just a work of fiction because the sick shit written in this book does happen. Maybe not in its exact form, but there are crazy people out there who need to control and need to kill, and their methods are revolting and torturous. Hell, maybe someone has read American Psycho and reenacted one or more of the murders described. That wouldn't surprise me in the least.

I'm really wondering if I'm going to have severe trust issues after reading American Psycho, and my paranoia of the everyday has been tripled. Or quadrupled. I don't know, all I know is that I'm freaked out by everyone. And my boyfriend is out of town, so I don't have anyone to relate my fears to:( Except for my readers. I guess that's why I'm writing this.

Then again, maybe this excessive fear will just last for tonight, and another week or so. Maybe the intensity of the violence will wane, and I'll come out stronger for reading it. But I cannot in good conscience recommend this book. It's sick. The detail Ellis writes with is, for lack of a better word, illuminating. But the word illuminating connotes a wonderful discovery, and there is nothing wonderful about this book. Or maybe there is. I don't know, I'll tell you when my stomach stops churning. Ugh, I'm even scared of what will happen if I have a kid and my kid wants to read this book - I certainly don't want him or her to, but how will I stop it? How can I censor them? Oh jeez, I need to chill out.

If anything, American Psycho has made me see the need to legalize prostitution. Many of Bateman's victims are prostitutes, and the same holds true for the non-fiction world; ladies- and gents-of-the-night are often the most victimized group of people. Prostitution should be legalized, therefore monitored, to prevent further horrors from afflicting sex workers. I'm so convinced of this right now that I'm going to start looking into some pro-sex worker organizations. Seriously, I'm on it.

Ok, I think I'm done incoherently rambling. I'll probably stay up til 3 am to finish the book, and then stay up the remainder of the night clutching a baseball bat. Gosh, how lucky I was to find this book randomly laying on the ground; God must have been smiling on me that day! (douchebag)

I'd blog if I could...

I know it's taking me forever - 4 days, as Vern pointed out - for me to post, but I have a sore throat, a stuffy nose, and I'm experiencing bouts of painful diarrhea that cause me to run to the bathroom while watching Bravo. I attempted to write, but my head is too whoozy from all the DayQuil I've been popping. So bear with me, folks. If you're good, I'll write about the experience complete with pictures of my toilet droppings.

Good Night and Good Luck,

AndSheWas

PS Who gets sick in the middle of August??? I think this has something to do with all the rain at APW...

The Yard: Epicenter of Hipsterdom

I've been a bad blogger. To the five of you who selflessly humor me by reading my site, please accept my heartfelt apology. You see, I've been busy. And even a little lacking in inspiration. I think of about 20 different things to blog every day, but after giving said ideas a little thought, I realize that no one really wants to read about the inane minutia that I encounter.

But I think I've found something that will forever haunt me if it's not written in a cohesive thought, hence...to the blog cave! (Quite an accurate description of my room, I must say).

I went to a show at The Yard this past Saturday, and partook in the enjoyment of some indie rock, drank PBRs (I wasn't trying to be ironic, it was the only cheap beer they had), and gnashed on some chicken burritos. Also...I WAS SURROUNDED BY HIPSTERS.

Some of you may be wondering what a hipster is...how to explain? As my friend Aaron once put it, a hipster is someone who pays a lot of money to look like a homeless person. Here is the definition I lifted from Urban Dictionary.

Hipster:

Listens to bands that you have never heard of. Has hairstyle that can only be described as "complicated." (Most likely achieved by a minimum of one week not washing it.) Probably tattooed. Maybe gay. Definitely cooler than you. Reads Black Book, Nylon, and the Styles section of the New York Times. Drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon. Often. Complains. Always denies being a hipster. Hates the word. Probably living off parents money - and spends a great deal of it to look like they don't have any. Has friends and/or self cut hair. Dyes it frequently (black, white-blonde, etc. and until scalp bleeds). Has a closet full of clothing but usually wears same three things OVER AND OVER (most likely very tight black pants, scarf, and ironic tee-shirt). Chips off nail polish artfully after $50 manicure. Sleeps with everyone and talks about it at great volume in crowded coffee shops. Addicted to coffee, cigarettes (Parliaments, Kamel Reds, Lucky Strikes, etc.), and possibly cocaine. Claims to be in a band. Rehearsals consist of choosing outfits for next show and drinking PBR. Always on the list. Majors or majored in art, writing, or queer studies. Name-drops. May go by "Penny Lane," "Eleanor Rigby," etc. when drunk. On PBR

A lot of people in these parts, who aren't hipsters, don't really like hipsters. When I first moved to NY, I didn't get all the hipster hate - so what if they dress differently? Who cares if they are pretentious and parade around posing as "artists"? Hipster-haters complain that they drive up rents here in the city, thus driving out lifelong residents while they laligag and let dad pay the rent. But, after attending The Yard this past weekend, I have realized there is more to it. These hipsters are kind of a bane on society and give hard-working, honest kids like myself a bad name. Allow me to explain.

First off, I didn't realize what I was in for before the show. As my bf and I drove to the venue in Park Slope, I noticed many many bikes chained to fences and street signs. "Wow, it feels like we're in Williamsburg," I noted. For anyone unfamiliar with Williamsburg, Brooklyn, the streets are INUNDATED with bikes and the hipsters that own them. Chrome litters the sidewalk in that neighborhood, and it's like you are walking in a scrap yard, and the bikes are all consumed in this metal-painted orgy, piled on top of each other and toppling into the streets, prepared to ruin some innocent driver's day.

So the bikes were upon us, strangling the street signs and fledgling baby trees with their chains. At the entrance, the attendant stamped the insides of our wrists. Why the insides of our wrists as opposed to the backs of our hands, I don't know, but I have realized that there is a good reason to stamp the back of the hand instead - because the ink can't get all over your skin and clothing as easily. Seriously hipsters, I don't know if you were trying to be ironic with the wrist stamping, but by the end of the night the ink had smeared on my legs and skirt. Tools.

When we made it inside, it soon became apparent that the bf and I were out of our element. A thick stench of B.O. hung on the air. Boys clad in scummy keds and green socks crept around with PBRs in hand. Girls stood hostile behind their bug-eye sunglasses and high-waisted shorts. In general, the crowd was just one giant ball of smell and ugly, of self-importance and hypocrisy.

The bf and I, who are by nature warm-hearted and open, realized that we would be making no friends there, and that is my general complaint after going to this show Saturday night. It's not like we were expecting to become best friends with anyone, but when I ask if this is the line for beer, I'd appreciate more than a grunt for response. If you bump into me, I'd like it if you could just look me in the eye and acknowledge that accidents happen, instead of shooting me a loathsome look. Get off your high-horse and ditch the "tortured artist" attitude, because if your idea of personal style is any reflection on your "art," whatever you "create" is ordinary and copied, thus you have no more cultural significance than I do.

And more on the hipster "personal" "style" - never have I seen so many tattered, threadbare and mismatched outfits in all my life. My bf compared many of the girls to Laura Ingalls and Little Orphan Annie because their dresses were literally disintegrating. It's all part of the hipster schtick to look like a poor and starving artist, but the jig is up when you are seen chatting away on your BlackBerry Pearl. There was even a girl decked out in a majorette uniform, complete with a coiffed camel toe. Um, let me just say this - I used to be a majorette and I was forced to strap myself in those lycra jumpsuits throughout high school...and it sucked. The uniform was uncomfortable and unflattering, and the fact that you, girly, voluntarily wore that ridiculous outfit makes a mockery of the suffering endured by all the poor majorette girls in the world.

As for the guys, their hairdos and beards were perfectly greased and uncombed, and their socks evinced all the colors of the rainbow - observe:



















We made it out alive, in no small part due to the many beers we imbibed, but I am still thanking my lucky stars that I don't live in Williamsburg (though I'm sure the infestation will take over Bay Ridge by the year 2012).

Oh, and more bonus pics of moi and the crowd:

For more anthropological studies on hipsters, visit www.diehipster.com

In my absence, I charge you with a task

I'll be MIA for maybe this entire week - I'm on vacation, hence the boyfriend is taking me camping. But don't worry! I like camping. Then a little Six Flags action on Thursday, and on the 4th I'm heading to the Hamptons with my roomie to take advantage of his mother's summer home (I guess there are upsides to sharing an apartment with him, specifically his mother's wealth).

Even though I'll be on vacay, that doesn't mean you guys should slack off - here's your task: I've recently started working with a producer, and currently we're developing a show for A&E based on hypnotherapy. But he's always open to other documentary ideas, and he's always prodding me for my opinion about what I think should be developed.

Aside from the fact that it's fucking weird that anyone would take me seriously, I'm really trying to provide him with the "young" and "hip" material that would be a ratings hit. Not as easy as it may sound. So! Do you have an idea for a reality series or a documentary that you think is original and interesting? Something fresh, something weird? If so, send the idea my way. If your idea gets developed you will be handsomely rewarded (and no, Vern, I will not dole out blow jobs).

I personally think a doc on people with Morgellons would be fascinating - ugh, or vomit-inducing. I haven't thought it through yet.

Just what, exactly, is Alyssa Milano doing in this scene from Fear?

Jump in your time machines, folks, I'm revisiting the childhood classic movie, Fear.

Fear came out in August of 1996, starring Mark Wahlberg and Reese Witherspoon. I was 12 at the time, and Fear instantly became staple movie-watching at slumber parties, or while I was babysitting (after I had put the brats to bed, natch).

I have to admit, though, there is a scene in Fear that has always perplexed me. No, not the part where Wahlberg's character blithely breaks some dude's neck, or the part where Wahlberg's gang chops off a dog's head and drops it through the doggy door - I'm talking about this scene where Alyssa Milano is, uh, "entertaining" a fella (I possess neither the know-how nor the utilities to cut this video to the one minute clip I am referring to, so just fast-forward to 7:14 and stop it at 8:17).






I beg of you, explain it to me. Every time I watch this freakin movie I come to this scene and am simultaneously embarrassed and confused. Are they having sex? Is she just gyrating on his lap? She's wearing underwear and his pants appear to be on, and he's smoking out of a pipe - even the most hardcore of stoners put down the bong whilst getting laid (though he might be smoking crack, in which case...wtf, is he smoking crack or weed?)

Is Alyssa having some kind of ecstasy-induced seizure? Is she trying to scratch an itch? WTF IS GOING ON?

I blame this scene for any misconceptions my virginal mind had about sex, men and relationships, because even if Alyssa is just gyrating, um.....WHY? Even my adult, sexually experienced head can't make any sense of it. Please leave your explanations in the comments.

Aristocrats = Rorschach Test?

So here's something I always wanted to blog about before I had a blog.

About five months ago, I watched an HBO documentary called "The Aristocrats." In short, 'The Aristocrats' is the most disgusting, profane, politically incorrect joke...that a comedian can invent. It's an ad-lib joke, that generally begins like this:

A man goes to see a talent agent, and he tells the agent that he's got a great idea for an act.

The agent says, "Alright, tell me about it."

The man then proceeds to describe the act for the agent, which involves public sex, incest, bodily fluids, murder, and bestiality.

The agent is shocked but intrigued. "What do you call this act of yours?"

"The Aristocrats!"

There were some revolting but hilarious examples of this joke from a wide spectrum of comedians. I'm no comedian, not a good one anyways, but I'm going to take a crack at creating my own 'Aristocrats' joke.

A woman goes in to speak to an agent. She tells the agent, "I have a great act that you're gonna love. We've thought about posting it on youtube, but we'd like a man of your expertise to manage us. It's gonna kill."

"Alright," says the agent. " What's the act?"

"First, I go onstage, and I'm wearing a skin-tight bodysuit made of fruit roll-ups. I do a little dance to get the crowd warmed up, and then comes in my husband, naked, riding a black stallion. He jumps down, I straddle his face, and he starts to eat away at the fruit roll-up covering my snatch. Once he's eaten it away, he starts to go down on me.

"At this point, my son walks on the stage, and walks the stallion over to us, and the stallion starts gnawing away at my tits, eating the body-suit. My son stands under the horse's asshole, and it takes a huge dump on my son's head. Hose in hand, my daughter comes on stage and washes all the shit off of my son, but then she takes the hose, shoves it up her twat, and fills her twat up with water. Once filled, she uses her kegel muscles to shoot the water into my son's gaping mouth, making beautiful arcs with the water that cast glorious rainbows in the stage lights.

"She fills up two more times, shoots water in my mouth and my husband's mouth. After this, my husband and son partake in some mutual masturbation, using the stallion's leftover shit as lube, while my daughter proceeds to eat the rest of my body suit off of me. Then we all take turns sucking off the horse, and when the horse shoots its load, we use it to slip n' slide off the stage onto a bed of rusty razor blades, from which we die bloody and painful deaths."

The agent is shocked but intrigued. "What's the name of this act?" he asks.

"The Aristocrats!"

There's my Aristocrats joke. It could have gone on a lot longer (I could have brought on the grandparents), but it needed to end sometime. In the aforementioned documentary, it was said that Chevy Chase would host 'Aristocrats' parties, during which the host and guests would attempt to invent the longest Aristocrats joke they could ad-lib. It's rumored that one Aristocrats joke lasted for two hours.

But I wonder, is an Aristocrats joke a glimpse into the psyche of the person who invented it? Some of the stuff I ad-libbed (and I really did ad-lib it - all I typed was what popped into my head, with little self-editing) was pretty disgusting.

Of course, that's the point, to be really gross and shocking, but where in the hell did that part with the water and the kegel muscles come from? (I'm asking myself, naturally.) That's not a joke I keep in my back pocket, it just came to me and I went with it.

If I over-analyze and over-reach, I can reason that the kegel part is ACTUALLY my homage to sprinklers, because I loved running through the sprinkler as a kid, and I was always fascinated by the fleeting rainbows they would cast in the summer sun. Aww, childhood!

Now that I'm reading my joke again, that all makes PERFECT sense. I talk about slip n' sliding too!

Anyone want to share their own Aristocrats joke? I.e. CHALLENGE ME? I know I have no readers, but maybe someone will see this a year down the road and get the urge.