31 August 2011

Spandex, Cooties, Vagina Monologues and Superheroes

This is quite obviously my super hero alter ego, Violent
Mom. Nothing to do with vaginas mind you. Nothing at
all. I should be wearing a cape, but I am, tragically,
artistically challenged in the cape drawing department.
"No Gabba Gabba, C. Yo Gabba Gabba makes Mommy feel violent, okay?" I tell my middle kid, who giggles.

"I just love you violent Mommy." She tells me. I doubt she is grasping the true meaning of violent, but it makes me giggle.

It also makes me ponder becoming a superhero. 

If I was going to be a superhero, my superhero name would be Violent Mom. 

Totally out of the blue, I relay this fact to Husband.

"I am going to be a superhero, you know. My super hero name is going to be Violent Mom. I am going to have to buy Spandex. And a cape. And some hot pink iron on letters."

A? Goes with the flow. Because probably his meds are kicking in right about now, and he is able to follow the course of the conversation with more ease that normal. "Right. Spandex?"

"Because, obviously, one has to wear spandex if one is to be a superhero. I could probably wear sweatpants, but then all of the other heroes are going to laugh at me. Then I will have to put vee and em on the front of my shirt."

"Vee? Em?"

"Right. For Violent Mom. I wonder if the Vagina Monologues already own that logo. Well, probably they won't sue a superhero, right?"

"What are the Vagina Monologues?" A asks, slurring slightly as the sleeping pill kicks in.

"A play, I think. Something about monologues. And vaginas." I am all sophisticated sounding. I actually have no idea what the Vagina Monologues are, but I saw them mentioned on facebook.

"Are they puppets?" A asks with complete sincerity.

"I should think not, A. I mean, giant talking vagina puppets would be, just, disturbing. And they are certainly not real talking vaginas. Vaginas? Do not talk. Unless they do, in which case, you are probably on acid."

The mental image in my head? Is beyond disturbing, people. 

A is high, I think. From the meds, which actually can't get you high, but anyhow...

"Hey. Are they going to be short spandex or pants spandex?" He asks. He is all serious. His mental image? Probably not as disturbing.

"Obviously they will have to be pants. Because I have these ridiculous chicken legs, and I hardly think a superhero with chicken legs will intimidate bad guys." I really truly do not think that I could intimidate anyone in spandex.

A rolls over to lay half on top of me. "Hey, guess what?"


"I am touching you. That means you probably have cooties now. What are cooties anyway?" Oh yeah, the meds are working full blast now.

"I am not sure. They are way contagious though. I think they are probably amoeba-ish. Super contagious. Super. So, they probably wear spandex too." I only say this, because the word "super" anything is somehow inextricably linked to spandex in my brain.

"So do germs wear spandex then too?" A asks in all kinds of a serious voice. 

"That is utterly ridiculous A. They do not make spandex that small. I mean really." I sit up, pushing my half sleeping husband off of my back roughly. "A? How the Hell does this happen? Why are we talking about cooties and vaginas and spandex? I mean, I can see a connection between these things.. sort of. But where the hell did this conversation go so wrong? Also, if I am going to be a superhero, I will probably have to go get some shiny hooker boots. Which sort of sucks, because after walking around in hooker boots, I feel so incredibly sorry for hookers. Those things, make my legs and ass and back hurt." 

A eyes are getting droppy. "

"Truly? Do you think that hooker boots are a requirement for being a hooker? Also? Hooker boots will definitely help cover up my chicken legs. I do not want to be associated with a chicken. Certainly not. Especially in Porter country Indiana, they do not joke about chickens out here. One guy? Fucked a chicken. Killed it. Got ten years in prison." 

This is quite possibly the seventh billionth million time I have told my husband the story of the man that  tried to have sexual relations with a chicken in a motel room in my home town.

Sick bastard. 

"That's kinda messed up, ain't it. Not that he shouldn't have done ten years... but you can molest a kid out here and get a year of unsupervised probation. Fuck a chicken though, that really doesn't even have a brain mostly? They might actually give you the chair. For a chicken. What the hell does that say about our society?" I only ask this because, as you all know, I am deeply socially concerned. 


And shit.

A? Has no words of wisdom. He has no idea, at least I am assuming... unless his snores are a code that I am supposed to decipher. 

30 August 2011

The Psychology of Donkey Sex

The conversation probably started out innocently enough. In fact it probably started with the fact that I want to be a cowboy when I grow up.

"A cowboy? Don't you mean a cowgirl, Krissy?" T. asks .

"Absolutely not, T. Cowgirls have to do laundry and cook and stuff. I suck at all that. So, I am gonna be a cowboy when I grow up. Except, horses seem to hate me. So, I'll have to get a donkey. Can you still be a cowboy if you ride a donkey? Probably I will have to move to Mexico and be a cowboy. Mexican cowboys ride donkeys, right?" 

T. ponders. M ponders. I am not pondering. Not really.

"They have donkey shows in Mexico." M states, because, quite obviously, the next logical course of discussion in a conversation of this depth is Mexican Bestiality. I mean, really, where else could this have possibly led?

T smirks. 
"Ohmigod!" M says, loudly. "T! You have so been to a donkey show, haven't you?" This is a logical  assumption, because T was in the Army and is therefore our expert guest in all things sexually depraved. 

T maybe actually blushes. Or the alcohol has gotten to his face. 

"Well, it's sorta like a train wreck, you know. You don't want to look, but you kinda have to. You are compelled to look, just to see if it's real. Like 'Holy shit! Is that chick really banging a donkey!?'."

M ponders. I ponder. T is not pondering. T is reminiscing.

"Only that one time though. I mean, if you go more than once to a donkey show? You have problems."

M decides that she would like to see a donkey show. Just once. But then, she would also like to talk to the donkey show lady, and possibly the donkey, if the donkey is of the speaking type. Obviously.

"Really though, T? Krissy? Do you think that the donkey that is doing the human is socially outcast from the other donkeys? That the other donkeys are all like ' Ugh. Don't even talk to Billy, he did a human' you know?"

I find myself wondering if donkey are social creatures. 
It is at this point in the evening that I decide that we are almost certainly going to Hell. That just by listening to these words, I have  almost certainly damned my eternal soul. To Hell. 

 I am fairly confident at this point that whatever forces rule the universe? If there is actually no Hell? They will probably make a Hell. Just for us three, analyzers of donkey sex. I decide that there is probably a room especially for us in the depths of Hell, with a sign probably that says, "Reserved for participants of serious donkey show conversations."

M is not done of course, she is all kinds of analytical. "I mean really, how does one even become involved in a donkey show?"

I realize that I have always wondered the same thing. I didn't know I was wondering it. It was mostly a hidden wondering that she has brought out of me. I have actually never really thought about a donkey show, but now I am. Now I want to question the donkey show lady as well. Also? If there is a Hell? M is probably the devil because I am now also all serious about the psychology of Mexican donkey sex.

 Sonofabitch, she has reeled me into the conversation. I was a detached observer, but now? I am a willing participant. Straight to Hell probably. All three of us.

"Right, M. I mean really, how does the conversation even come about? Like in a  bar? Like 'Hey, Lady. Can I buy you a beer? You know I have this awesome barn at my house. And  really, really sexy donkey. What d'ya say we go back to my place and engage in some donkey sex?'" I am giggling. Holy shit. I am gonna have to go to confession. I am not Catholic, but I probably should be going to confession anyway.

"You are both fucked up. You know that, right?" Says T. He is probably thinking about how he is now also going to go to Hell.

M snickers. "Ahem. Says the only one of us that has actually witnessed a donkey show. We merely want to know how she would find herself in the position that someone would feel comfortable asking her to do a donkey on stage. Don't you wonder why she would do such a thing, T?"

T drinks his beer. Looks at M and I like we are carnival sideshow freaks.

"No, I don't wonder. Know why? Because I am a man. As a man, I don't really think about how the situation has come about. I'm just like ' Holy shit! She is really fucking a donkey!', and then I don't think about it anymore. You guys though? Are seriously screwed up."

29 August 2011

Hookers, Blow and Death by Penis

I often find myself engaged in ridiculous conversations. After such conversations, I am generally unable to figure out how the subject changed so drastically from "how was your day" to the death of a penis. There is really no logical path from point A to penis death. It happens though. Regularly.

Having said that, there is no way I can narrate the beginning of the conversation, which may have begun with having to get booster shots for my middle kid for kindergarten. 

Husband is on medication, actually a few of them that carry the warning, "if you experience an erection lasting for four hours, seek immediate medical attention". For some reason we are discussing this. I am slightly alarmed by the bold writing and dire message on the side effects list. 

Husband? He is not alarmed. He thinks that it would be awesome. 

"A. If you had an erection for four hours, we would have to call in back ups. I am so not down for four hours. There would be nothing fun about four hours. We would have to get hookers. And blow, probably. Yep. Hookers and blow." I do not know the connection between hookers and blow, only that my Daddy never says the word "hooker" without including the word "blow". They are like peanut butter and jelly, macaroni and cheese... or something. 

"Plus also, if you have an erection for over four hours and you don't go to the doctor? You will probably die."

Husband laughs at me. "You don't die from it, Krissy."

" I think you probably do. Or at least, I think your penis would die. Then you would have a dead penis. That's probably bad, right? I mean truly, if it dies, wouldn't they have to cut it off or something, gangrene and all that. It would spread and kill you, then that would be ridiculous, wouldn't it? We would have to put it on your headstone..'Here lies A. Killed by his penis. Erections can kill'. We would probably have to start some sort of public awareness thing.. with, like, ribbons and car magnets and stuff."

Husband is blinking at me. He then feels the need to correct my thinking with something loosely resembling facts. "What really happens is that the blood gets trapped in the penis, it can't circulate, so it just stays there."

"Trapped? In the penis?"

"Yeah, it's like honeycomb in there, sorta. When the blood can't circulate, it gets trapped in there and then.. something happens anyway." 

"Honeycomb. Like with bees in it? Poor bees. That would be worse than death by penis, I think."

I am thoroughly enjoying the look of utter confusion and concern on Husband's face. 

"Cause probably the bees would die right? Just drown in blood and maybe semen, right? That? Would be a really shitty way to die I think." I am struggling to keep a grin off my face. Because it makes me giggle when people take me all serious like A is doing right now.

He frowns. He wrinkles up his eyebrows. He thinks that maybe I have totally lost my mind.
"No, the semen isn't in the honeycomb. It's in the... There are obviously no bees in the honeycomb either... That's just ridiculous." He ponders a moment and then wonders aloud if maybe I should be taking some of his psyche meds.

"Hell NO! I don't wanna die. I don't even have a penis. What the hell happens if you don't have a penis?"

"Krissy, you don't die from it. Plus if you don't have a penis then you don't get an erection..."

"No shit A. I'm not retarded you know. I passed sex ed. Speaking of sex ed... We really have to get C. that booster shot for kindergarten...."

28 August 2011

No, I'm Not Actually A Serial Killer...

"I missed you, Krissy." Said R one day.

I nod and smile. "I can tell. Since you haven't hit me yet. Shitty aim. Are you out of ammo yet?"

R blinks. Then he gets the joke. "Ha. Out of ammo. Yep. I guess I am."

"Right, so then you will have to throw rocks or something at me."

Days later? R brings three rocks to tip me with at the bar.

Weeks later, R calls to go have a beer. He asks if I am bringing rocks with me. I tell him I have giant pockets of rocks. We are going to war, R and I. 

Of course I didn't really bring rocks. R asks me where the rocks have gone.

"Well, I threw them at strangers on my way here."

"Ha! Strangers." Says R. He giggles like a school girl. "Strangers. Why?" He is maybe tipsy. He is maybe 3 to 8 beers ahead of me.

"Releasing some pent up frustrations. You know, like sometimes you are really, really pissed off at your wife? But you certainly can't kill your wife." I pause for dramatic effect. Enjoy the look of absolute confusion on R's face. 
"So, you know, you have to go find a hooker that looks like your wife." Another pause. A drink of beer. A totally lost expression on R's face.
"And then you kill the hooker instead. Because if you really kill your wife, they are going to know it's you, right? But hookers? Could have been anyone, right? So you just kill the hooker that looks like your wife."

R is confused, and maybe disturbed. I pat his shoulder. "No worries, R. There are hardly going to be any hookers walking around that look like you." 

"Wait. Whoa. why are we killing hookers?" D is listening to the exchange. D is not tipsy. 

"Because D. We can't really kill people we know." I tell him. Straight faced. No smile. Smirk visible in my eyes.

D? Gets the joke. He plays along. He smirks with his eyes too. "Oh. Right. Cause hookers are mostly dead on the inside anyway." 

D and I are not smiling. Mentally? We are giving each other high fives. And possibly giggling like school girls. 

R shakes his head slightly. Trying, I think, to clear the beer fog or the conversation from his brain. 
"Ah. Well." Says R " I have to get going. Gotta load in Ohio in the morning." 

I nod. "I hate Ohio. Spent a week there one afternoon." [Stole that from my Daddy, who stole it from somewhere.]

"A week?" Says R. "In the afternoon?"

R blinks again. Hugs me. Says goodbye and leaves the bar, head still shaking slightly. I suspect R leaves the bar feeling decidedly more normal than when he had arrived.

27 August 2011

Hitmen are Expensive

"Re post this if you know someone who is still alive because you can't afford a hit man." Said the facebook update on my brother's status. 

So, of course, I did. Who doesn't have someone on a secret list in their brain, that they maybe really want to kill, but they possibly find that they lack the testicular muscle to actually do it.?


The perfect solution to this lack of certain personality defects traits that one MUST possess to be a hit man... Murder for hire. 

Certain sociopaths people will perform this labor for another person in return for payment. Right?

Except lately, the hit men have organized, I think. They are union shops now. Skilled labor, hours of training, on the job and in the classroom. Also they are paid fair wages, have benefits and a retirement package. 

Now, I am all about unionizing. I have a long family history of union workers.Unfortunately, this organizing of hit men has left me few options in hiring someone to clear the list of names that I may have in my brain. Because skilled labor costs more. These  newer, better, more expensive hit men are outside of my budget. 

I could possibly hire a crackhead... but then who really trusts a crack head to perform quality labor? Plus there would be a greater risk of blackmail when utilizing a crack head as a hit man. I think. There are probably contracts and stuff if you go to a union shop. 

The people on this supposed list that I allegedly have in my mind?
Are safe. 

In any case, it started me thinking.. which is almost never a good thing. This brain I have, just runs away with stuff. 

Because what if everyone has this imaginary list in their heads too? What if everyone had just one person in mind that they would like to see tortured sadistically until they plead for death dead? 

If everyone had just that one person killed? We could call it population control. Right? Or am I way off base here? 

Because if it is population control, we could probably classify it as a public service. Which would make them less like individual companies and more like... garbage men or something.

And if you are poor, the garbage truck still takes your garbage, right? So, there could possibly be some sort of public aid to help pay for the hit men. Because population control is probably really important, or will be someday, with global warming and food shortages and all those starving kids in foreign countries and all of those cows that produce all of that methane when they fart. See? Less people = less cows = less methane = an end to global warming! Ta. Da. Someday people? I am going to run for office or have an office... or maybe just write a letter to an office somewhere. There will be an office involved.. somehow.

And yes, I am in counseling.