Slut Babies

Ahhh the tender age of preteens or as some call: tweens.
I call them Slut Babies.

Barely menstruating with a training bra yet to fill and mouth full of braces these pre-whores know how to get any predator to come knock on the door with a bag full of condoms and beer. They provocatively pose for pictures as they show off their pierced bellybutton and baby fat. “Kissy face” is a popular look among the slut babies; it’s a mating call to their puberty stricken male counterpart. In two simple movements by pursing lips together and looking to the upper corners of eyes, you have: MySpace whore circa 2004.

Nonsensical chatter of peacock cry like voices are heard from the row behind during a movie.  They kick your chair, they smack their gum, they don’t stop moving and I want a pack of wild wolves to chase them back to Limited Too.  Where are your parents? Oh that’s right, they dropped you off at the mall because they can’t stand you either.

In grade school there is always that one girl who is the “ring leader” in a group of friends.  She is the pretty one with all the stylish clothes and an attitude of Napoleon.  She is the first among her friends to wear makeup, the first to shave her legs and the first to get mono.  She is: Sovereign Slut Baby. Every move would be followed by her cohorts and by the unfortunate mistake of disagreeing with her choice in lip gloss; you are exiled and sent to the lunch table of dweebs. Brrr, that’s a dark corner.  If her majesty got a push up bra, then you must too.  It is the law of the playground; zero tolerance for reform. Enjoy your time in office Sovereign Slut Baby, you are at your prime because after high school you will wear a size 14 and work at Dairy Queen- the anticipated curse of every “popular girl.”

Slut babies can be seen anywhere.  They stand four feet tall bunched into groups that multiply by the minute like an infectious bacterium.  Usually spotted at shopping malls, frozen yogurt shops or the local In ‘n Out.  We must take a stand against slut babies, pre-whores and micro hookers to cover their midriff, remove their makeup and wash away their juvenile promiscuity. INNOCENCE! Alas, we meet again!

The Kids of Holmby Park

A warm summer breeze tunnels through a vine crawled colonnade while the sounds of children playing, cars passing and rustling of leaves seep through my headphones.  Strollers lap along the perimeter making it a showcase of who pushes the most advanced design -if the stroller doesn’t have air bags, then I’m not interested. Muffled music playing through an aching phonograph attracts a small crowd to stop their activities and rush towards a white rape van decorated with peeling ice cream decals.  Anxious children drag their mommies, nannies and mannies to be first in line. The cries of bratty kids who demand the popsicle with bubble gum eyes overpower the patiently waiting boy rocking a Jew-Fro.  The baby Zach Braff stands quietly gripping his two dollars as he carefully observes the selection of ice cream. Judging by the intent look in his eyes, his correct choice of ice cream has the power to rid all conflict between Israel and Palestine.  Make the right choice kid, your people are relying on you. Feeling the heavy pressure upon him, he requests for the orange creamsicle. Wait, what!? An orange creamsicle? I hope your proud, you just killed the hope of your people.

A terrorized squirrel gets chased across the park by a hefty, sweaty red head as he used his yo-yo to lasso the furry squirrel.  I immediately don’t like him. He passes me and I give him a stinking face of disapproval.  Suddenly a shrieking reprimand in Farsi was yelled by a high-strung mother who scolded her son for throwing sand at a group of kids.  He probably imagined it was magical wizard dust protecting them from an evil force or he’s just a naughty little punk influenced by his dear mother. A two year old girl with a Pampers booty slowly walked around the playground for the fifth time; she must be a hooker. I saw her eyeing on the young boy riding his shiny new tricycle which obviously displayed “money.”  What kind of juvenile delinquency is all this?
 
I sit on a shaded bench feeling out of place as I have no child to look after. Just observing as if I am waiting for the right moment to say “hey little kid, want some candy?” I give a tired, no-teeth smile to each of the mothers as they pass by just for reassurance that I have no intention of touching their kiddie’s privates.  A blushed, sun-kissed boy stops in front of me and tells me “I am going to hammock.” I could not understand his gibberish and I am convinced that “hammock” is not a verb in toddler talk, but his big brown eyes and eagerness to do “hammock” has melted my heart.

The sun is going down, the kids are getting tired and I must return home to creep on other things.

Useless Things: Male Nipples

I understand through natural selection we have lost the need for certain traits such as wisdom teeth.  At one point in time our ancestors needed wisdom teeth to accommodate their diet, but at which point did men need nipples? God forbid the thought of a newborn babe suckling on its father’s teat, but if it was ever necessary why are they still apparent on the male species?

After a little research and a few mild pornographic images of male nipples I came to the conclusion that nipples are formed on a fetus before any sex hormones have been developed.  Autosomes (which nipples categorize into) are the chromosomes that are given regardless if you are male or female. The sex hormones determine if those nipples will be fully functioning breakfast-lunch-dinner nipples.  For example, autosomes gives us a voice box but the sex hormones determine if the voice will be masculine or feminine…but if you’re Gilbert Gottfried then you’re just a genetic glitch.

Basically once the sex hormones determine you will be male: you’re screwed. You have a pair of useless man nips.  Aesthetically, the nipples create some sort of cohesiveness among men and women but nipples are not needed to distinguish sexual dimorphism.  Quite frankly, it would be straight up weird if a man’s chest looked like his back. Male nipples have not died off through natural selection because it does no harm to the body. The only harm it could do is birth more midgets.

Bless Your Soul

It’s that time of the year again, where horror films publicly display their haunting advertisements on national television.  I am a scaredy cat, afraid of the dark and a prime victim for the boogie man.

After a thirty second commercial break of Downey Fabric Softener, a gruesome image of a devilish creature appeared without warning. It's peeling face looked as though napalm had burned to the bone then dragged face down by a chariot...twice.  What happened to the fluffy teddy bear rummaging in the warm sheets? Strobing images of Satan’s childhood flashes on the TV; an eyeball hung from the socket of a tumor stricken face, bloody hands tightly gripped onto a machete and a possessed child blankly stared with no soul.

Maria full of Grace, Jesus-Mary-Joseph! Show me blood, witches, goblins and ghouls but dare to show me an image of a child who has Lucifer running through its veins. Oh, hell no. I scrambled for the remote in dire need to change the channel but once again Time Warner’s second hand equipment had failed me.  Buttons are stuck! I pressed harder, swayed it towards heaven and hell to catch receiver signal but unfortunately these efforts would have benefitted more at Wii Tennis.  I yelled “la la la la la” to muffle the audio but it was too late- bloodcurdling images are now burned into my memory.

I see dead people.

What's That Intoxicating Smell?

I am not very fond of pungent smells. Who is? Unless it is of gardenias or carnitas burritos I can deal with it, but the thick musky smell of unbathed human flesh makes me cringe at the sight of this sentence.

Walking into the public library I see an old, dried out librarian whose nose crinkled and mouth furrowed like she had just smelled pee.  Fact is, she did smell pee.  The whole building smelled of pee. A wave of heavy funk charged at me with odor particles attaching onto my clothes, hair and skin.  Pockets of stinging, peppery smells wafted through the aisles and it was not redolent of pages from naturally aging books.  It was homeless people.

 But before I ridicule the homeless for causing my olfactories to panic, I commend them for spending their time reading and learning rather than aggressively beg for money at the freeway exit.  Back to the point- DUDE, I CAN SMELL YOU ALL THE WAY FROM THE AUTOBIOGRAPHIES! I truly thought I was going to faint.  I imagined waking up with the first three volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica scattered on top of me, a medic wafting alcohol swabs and a crowd of homeless people witnessing my post-timber experience.  Panic starts to set in- I am going to faint.  The circulated essence of unbathed skin and pee soaked clothes started to constrict blood flow to my brain.  I gasped for a final breath, unwillingly tasted the remnants of Homeless Man No. 5.

Useless Things: Abstract Furniture

Suuuuuure…I would love to lounge on a giant toilet paper roll made of metallic material that not only reflects light but absorbs heat so an imprint of a barbeque grill can be branded onto my bare breasts.  Mi scusi, it’s my turn!

It’s the belly of an obese Pillsbury dough boy swallowing humans through his naval.  It’s a modern interpretation of a cavity in a molar.  Whatever it is, I just want to fall from a two story building and let this bed hug me as I drift away into la la land.

On The Verge of Blindness

Most days I wake up with an eager desire to be productive.  Some days I fail to comply. Today I woke up with a handicap.

Vision is a privilege we sometimes take for granted. The precious gift of sight is what creates memories, the art of understanding and to simply avoid walking into things.

I woke up on a Monday morning as I usually do; stretch, crunch my toes, complain…the usual. You know that saying “what you don’t know won’t hurt you”? I didn’t know I had a breeding eye infection, I didn’t know I looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the Terminator...well golly, I was swell!  Until the mirror told me and my reflection doesn’t lie. The mirror is as blunt as it can get, it doesn't slowly reveal the truth for fear of causing you to panic and it certainly doesn’t send words of comfort.  I panicked.

I inspected the swelled up eyelids that created a fourth dimension and an unknown substance oozing from my ducts like soft serve vanilla ice cream. (Ok, it wasn’t that disgusting but I panicked.) I scrambled to look for medicated eye drops, only to be disappointed to find expired bottles.  It was the same disappointed feeling after realizing my coupon to Fuddruckers had expired in 2002…I was craving a free cookie. This nuisance of terrorized red vein vessels had slowly consumed me within all of its glory. You win eyeball.  Uncontrollable tears streamed down my face and I could no longer open my eye for the sensitivity to light had caused me to surrender.  I closed my eyes and slept.