You won’t pay a lot… but you’ll read a lot.
Well, let’s try something a little different today.
Or rather, something exactly the same as other people, but not as me.
Or more specifically (and less confusingly), let’s answer some interview questions. Yeah!
So, here’s the deal. This has apparently been going on for quite a while now, but no one told me.
(Yeah, I’m always the last to know.)
But how it works is this:
Someone answers five questions on their blog, posed to them by another blogger. Said question-answerer then offers to ask five questions of any bloggers who request the service, which they must then answer on their sites, and offer to ask questions of the next group. And so on and so on, until every single blog in the world is filled with weird and scary questions, and their weirder and scarier answers. Sound good? Good. Now it’s my turn.
So, I asked the venerable ‘poo of Shampoo Solo to provide my questions, and I’ll answer them below. If any of you out there haven’t been quizzed yet, just leave me a comment on this post asking for questions, and I’ll find five to hit you over the head with. In the meantime, enjoy my nervous ramblings below. Oh, and read shampoo’s stuff, and especially her quiz. It’s a thousand times better than the drivel I’m about to come up with. Plus, I hear she has the best boobs in the world. What more reason do you need to read all about her?
1. Describe a time in your life when you were attracted to a member of the same sex.
Damn, you don’t warm up, do you, ‘poo? Just *pow* — hit with the hard stuff right away. All right, let’s see what I can tell you…
Well, first, I’m assuming that anything involving a mirror doesn’t count, right?
(‘Cause I am a sexy bitch! Yeah, baby! Shagadelic!)
No, doesn’t count? Hmmm. Well, I suppose I do point out how good certain actors and athletes look, but it’s usually done with tongue firmly in cheek.
(And that’s my tongue in my cheek, in case you thought I was directly answering your question there. I haven’t even begun to do that yet.)
Anyway, it usually goes something like this:
Female 1: Ooh, look, it’s George Clooney.
Female 2: Oh, yeah, I like him. What a great actor.
Me: Yeah… he’s so dreamy…I know I’d do him!
Yeah, the chicks really dig that. And no, I don’t have many female friends. Why do you ask?
But that’s probably not quite what you meant, either. So let’s see…
You know, this is a tough one. Not because I want to seem overly manly or repressed or anything… it’s just that guys are gross, generally speaking. There’s all that facial hair and back hair, and scars and stubble and hooks — you ever seen a woman with a hook? No — it doesn’t happen. But guys have hooks and missing fingers and cauliflower ears and crooked noses… the list goes on and on. Who wants to snuggle up close to that?
So, I’ll give you the best example I can think of, and it’s more embarrassing than anything you were probably fishing for in the first place. So you’ll be happy with that, at least. It also ties in with the ‘women’s parts are generally nicer than men’s parts’ theme.
(Hey, maybe I could have said the dude in The Crying Game was cute, but I knew all about it before I watched it. So, really, I was just looking for his Adam’s apple the whole time.)
Anyway, I was riding in a car with a couple of guys from work a few years ago. It was summer, and the short shorts and T-shirts were out in full force. The guys had been pointing out women throughout the trip from the office to my apartment — maybe a mile or so. ‘Hey, check her out.‘ ‘Wow, is she really wearing that?‘ Et cetera.
Well, I’m one of the guys, too, I thought. So I scanned around for someone to point out. And there, across the street, mainly hidden behind a parked car, I saw my quarry. Two bleach-blonde heads bobbing up and down. A couple of co-ed joggers, no doubt. I had to jump on this quick before one of the other guys stole my thunder.
‘Hey, looks like a couple of hotties at ten o’clock.‘
As it happened, we were turning left, and would be passing them momentarily. And we did, and there they were. Two pre-teen boys, running and skipping along the sidewalk, their hair bleached from three months in the sun, not drowned in bleach from a bottle. Like a co-ed jogger might do, or a stripper. You know, someone appropriate for the ogling and pointing I was prepared to do.
You can imagine the ribbing I took. Or hopefully, you can’t. They say that justice is merciful and swift — well, this couldn’t have been justified, because it was neither. I’m not sure I’ll ever live it down. It’s one of my most embarrassing moments.
On the other hand, the taller kid gave me his number. And in just a couple more years, it’ll be legal to call him. I wonder if I still have that piece of paper? For all I know, he was one of the Hanson chicks. Er, dudes. You know what I mean, dammit.
2. Your wife and your dog both fall over a cliff. you can only save one of them. which do you choose?
Damn, ‘poo, you don’t let up, either! If I wanted questions this hard to answer, I’d tell my mother I have a blog. Sheesh.
So, let’s see — dog or wife, wife or dog. I think I know the answer to this already, but let’s go through the pros and cons, shall we?
First, the dog. I’ll start with the ‘pros’ of not having her around (i.e., letting her fall to her cliffy death):
Wow, quite a list. But let’s see what the ‘cons’ of losing the dog would be.
Well, it looks about even for the pup. How’s about the spousal unit? First, the ‘pros’ of letting her take the ‘Nestea plunge’ down a ravine:
And the ‘cons’ of losing the wifeykins down a mineshaft?
So, that seems about even, too. Oh, sure, the ‘soulmate’ thing is all touching and shit, kissy-kissy, all that. But she does have a fair amount of life insurance, and got some more when we bought the house. That’s a lot of money, people.
But in the end, I’d definitely have to save my wife. I love my dog and all, but I’ve only known her for four years (and already she’s peed on the carpet almost as many times as my wife has in thirteen; the dog’s clearly not trying). Plus, as torn up as I would be, I can always go back down to the pound and pick out another pooch for free, and bring it home the next day. Mail-order brides cost way more than that, and they’re the easiest kind to get. Going through all that courting and dating and shit again? Please! Who has that kind of money, nowadays?
So, it’s definitely my darling, beautiful wife that I’d save. And while the deciding factor might be that she’s the only one of the two who might ever read this post, that’s certainly not the only factor. I love her, and if that makes me wrong, then dammit, I want a fucking recount!
But what I really want is to throw a question back shampoo’s way: just exactly who is it that’s gonna hurl these two toward their messy, splattery deaths in the first place? ‘Cause I think I’ll just kick their ass, and be done with the whole thing. It’s all about nipping in the bud, folks. Nipping. In the bud. Remember that.
3. If you could live anywhere else in the world, where would it be?
All right, what I really want to say is ‘my basement’, since it’s not particularly habitable at the moment, but I have such big plans for it. So in a way, I wish that all that shit were done, and we already had a nice room or two down there to live in.
But I know shit, you see. I read The Monkey’s Paw, so I know that wishes like that, that seem so simple, are the ones that get twisted and turned around. So I’m not wishing for that, lest I end up in a huge fight with my wife, and have to sleep in the basement, as-is, with the cold and the dank and the hard concrete floor. You’re not gonna get me that easily.
So, to re-answer your question, I think I’d go to Ireland. Any hard-drinkin’, party-lovin’ place that looks as beautiful as Ireland does in all those boring PBS shows must be a cool place. Oh, I’d probably have to live in one place for a while to get my Yank feet wet, maybe affect an accent and make up a backstory. Then I’d move to my real target area — whereever I deem that to be — and live as a native.
You see, I hear they’re none too impressed with ‘outsiders’ in a lot of those places, and least of all ‘ugly American outsiders’. I can’t do much about the ‘ugly’, but if I can fool them on the other two counts, maybe I’ll just have a shot at going ’round pub and sittin’ with me mates for a pint. Or two, or ten. I guess I’ll have to build up my tolerance, as well. These people can throw down the brewskis. Er, lagers. Lagers and Guinness. See, I’m learning already!
4. Tell us about the time you were hit hardest in the balls.
Ah, the stories I could tell you. I have a rich and stormy history with this sort of thing. Or as the Iron Chef folks might say, ‘luxurious‘.
(Hell, they call everything else ‘luxurious‘; why not getting your baby bells rung?)
Anyway, I’ve had a lot of experience in this area. I know all about having my dingleberries donged, and my acorns buried, and the little twins spanked, and my nutters buttered, and Tango and Cash given a pink slip, and being Gitcheed in my Gumees, and getting a hammerin’ in my hoohahs. (And only a couple of those are really euphemisms for sex that I ‘borrowed’… but I bet you can’t tell which ones.)
But in the end, I know the absolute worst example. The time when I never thought I’d be able to breathe without pain, much less walk or piss or play One-Eyed Wiggly Winkie in the bathtub ever again. Here’s how it happened:
I was about eleven years old. I was on my Little League team, playing first base. It was a practice day, and my Dad — the coach — was hitting grounders to the infielders. We’d been doing it for a while — long enough for the young infielders’ mantra to come out of my father’s mouth, over and over: ‘Stay down on the ball. Stay down on the ball.‘ This is to avoid the embarrassment of having the ball roll under your glove, a la the infamous Bad News Bears. Fine.
So, he hits a sharp two-hopper to me. I gauge the path of the ball from the first hop, and drop my glove right on the ground. I widen my stance, the better to block the ball, should anything unexpected occur. And a good thing, too. Because on the second hop, very close to me, the ball hit something among the infield dirt. A rock, perhaps, or a bottle cap. And instead of gliding into my waiting, outstretched glove, it hopped up, over my glove and hand, and slammed straight into the Rockettes.
(Such as they were at the time. I’d barely even found them, and I almost lost them.)
I’m happy to say that I didn’t weep. Oh, a tear or two might have squeezed out from beneath my eyelids, but I did not cry. I moaned, of course. I heaved. I crawled like a wounded soldier toward the sidelines, as though there were some medic there who could make me right and safe and whole again. But there was no medic. Only the pain, and so I stopped crawling, and rolled from side to side, just hoping that when I took off my pants that night, nothing but nylon and elastic would come off with them.
After a few seconds of my writhing and wailing (but not weeping; let’s be clear about that), my father reached me, and asked where the ball had hit me. Now, I don’t remember what my vocabulary was like back then, so I don’t know quite how I indicated to him that I was clearly never going to sire him a grandson, based on where the ball had hit me. But somehow, I got the message across. And so, he delivered — as was his duty — the sage advice that fathers and coaches have been offering to children in my situation since time immemorial:
‘It’s okay; just get up and walk it off.‘
Walk it off. ‘Walk it off,’ he says. Look, if I walk, it’ll fall off! Can’t you see that I’ve been mortally wounded here? Those puppies are so far up me, I can almost taste them.
(It may have even literally been true, though I prefer to believe that it was the sweat and dirt on my face that created the musky, salty taste in my mouth. It’s just easier for me to sleep that way.)
But eventually, I found I was able to walk — like a bowlegged cowboy, but I could walk. And in time, the little peepers peeked back out, and the pain subsided, and I could get back to a normal routine. Not that day, of course. I was done practicing, and I dare say that I was a little shy of ground balls for a while after that. But I got back on the horse, and played again, and even fielded my share of grounders.
On the other hand, I had just a few go through my legs, too. I love baseball and all, but I only had one glove out there. And sometimes you’ve got to make hard choices. It’s all about the priorities.
5. You win a $1 billion lottery jackpot. what’s the first thing you do?
Okay, I’m going to assume you mean with the money itself. Because, from what I can tell from all the lottery winner footage I’ve seen, the very first thing I’m supposed to do is question the whole business. ‘Really? I don’t believe it!‘, ‘You’re joking.‘, and ‘Stop pulling my fucking leg, you fatass tease!‘ You know, that sort of thing.
And then I’m supposed to shriek, and jump up and down like a moron, and hug everyone within reach, and gasp and whoop and ooh and aah, and blah blah blah. Can’t I just have a little dignity while I’m accepting the prize? Is this how the prim and proper do it in Britain? ‘Cause I think it’s got to be much cooler over there:
Ed McMahon, only British: Hello, hello. Are you Mr. Tingiblets, then? Mr. Randyhorse Tingiblets?
Mr. Tingiblets: Yes, yes I am. And you’re that lottery sort of person, then, aren’t you?
Ed McMahon, only British: Why, yes I am. And thank you so much for recognizing me. Do you know why I’m here, then?
Mr. Tingiblets: Well, I’ve never met you before, so I suspect it’s not for tea and crumpets.
Ed McMahon, only British: Ha, yes, very good. No, it’s not for tea, Mr. Tingiblets. It’s to tell you that you’ve just won a billion pounds!
Mr. Tingiblets: Ah, yes, well. Pip pip, old man! Jolly good. Jolly good, indeed.
Ed McMahon, only British: Yes, I’m ever so happy to present you this check for the amount, and these lovely balloons.
Mr. Tingiblets: Ah, jolly good. Yes, lovely balloons, those. Well, this is quite the surprise. I simply will have to tell my wife all about it.
Ed McMahon, only British: Ah, that would be brilliant. I’m sure she’ll be pleased. Well, I won’t hold you up any longer. I’m off to deliver more checks.
Mr. Tingiblets: Yes, of course. Well, thanks for popping ’round. Lovely to see you in person. Sorry you have to go so soon.
Ed McMahon, only British: Well, the work of <Ed McMahon, only British’s name> is never done, you know.
Mr. Tingiblets: Yes, quite right. Well, thanks again. The balloons are simply smashing, and I’m sure we’ll find a use for the money. Cheerio!
Okay, so maybe that’s not quite how it goes. Still, I’m certain it has to be better than Thelma and Earl in their double-wide trailer, waking up Aunt Bethel and cousin Gummy on the fold-out bed to tell them about all the tractor pulls and NASCAR races they’re going to finally be able to go to. I’m just saying.
But let’s get back to the cash. Suddenly, I have a billion dollars, thanks to ‘poo. (Who also tried to throw my wife and dog off a cliff, and slam me in the nuts, but we’ve made up now. Funny what a billion bucks can do for a relationship, isn’t it?) So what would I do? That’s a damned good question.
Of course, the honest answer is that I’d probably put that money away, and hire a damned good financial advisor, and not really see that much of it right away. Oh, my wife and I might take a vacation for a week or two, but I don’t think she’d quit her job. Nor would I quit looking for a job, myself. I might look for a different kind of job, in writing or comedy, but I’d still want to work, and I think my wife would feel the same. We get bored too easily if there’s absolutely nothing to do.
But I don’t think we’d really change much. We’re happy with our house, and our lives (except for the ‘me-needing-a-job’ thing; that’s starting to get old). We’d finish off the work on the house that we’ve been planning, and probably quite a bit more that we haven’t been planning for the near future, but I don’t think we’d move, or buy a new car, or anything like that. We’d spend some cash on our parents — a beach house for mine, and whatever the hell her mom and dad want (who can tell with in-laws?) — and we might add a little more convenience to our lives, but that’s about it. Start ordering groceries again, maybe, instead of going out ourselves to get them. (That extra ten dollar charge doesn’t look so big next to a billion dollars, all of a sudden.) Or hire a health consultant, to help us find time and menus and routines that will help us to get into better shape. That sort of thing.
And finally, we’d throw a few parties for our friends, or help them out whenever we could. I think in general that we’d try to keep the winnings as secret as possible, but of course word would leak out. Ed McMahon has a big damned mouth, for one thing. But I’m sure that the lottery folks would want to put us on TV, preferably holding their magazine, or soda can, or whatever. And then people would know, and we’d have to be low-key about the whole thing. But we could give a little to our friends here and there, or throw big parties just for them — renting out bars, or bowling alleys, or Fenway Park, just for our pals. Yeah, that’d be cool.
But I don’t think the billion dollars — or even a few dozen million bucks — would be in any danger of being frittered away, leaving us in the debt that seems to plague many ‘lucky’ lottery winners. For one thing, my wife wouldn’t let that happen. She’s too sensible for that.
(And thank god, because I would probably just go frickin’ crazy with the cash if she weren’t around.)
So we’d splurge a little, but I think we’d do a lot better than most with our money. And it would never become an issue, and we’d live happily ever after, right here in this house (with its automatic temperature controls, backyard jacuzzi and embedded bigscreen TV behind the huge bar in the basement… um, all of which are ‘minor’ items we might ‘splurge‘ on, given the opportunity). And that’s your story.
But, of course, that’s boring. We’re really not doing anything with the money, and there are no fights or shady land deals or anything. So here are a few things that I might do — not first, of course. But maybe ‘soon after‘, once the thought of all that money sinks in, and I can get all liquored up (on aged Dom Perignon, of course) and start writing checks that — for once, goddammit — my mouth will be able to cash. I might:
Yeah, you know, come to think of it, that first bit about the billion dollars was boring. Now I want to do all of the shit on this list. So just hand over that billion, ‘poo, and I’ll get started. Um, ‘poo? Shampoo?
Shit, she left. And didn’t give me the cash. Well, poop.
(Man, I am so not letting her hit me in the balls again…)Permalink | 5 Comments