Dear Senator,
Hello again. It’s been awhile. I’ve missed that adorable way you ignore my emails and my subtle suggestive winking on Match.com. Listen, I know I didn’t return your calls either, and I fear things are growing awkward between us. I admit I told you if you shaved your back I’d be more open to seeing you again. But you can’t tell me you shave your back, you just have to do it and pretend that’s the way God made you, don’t you get it? You have your secrets and I have mine. I’m not ready for anything more committal than that. Also, I hate the word “panties” so please stop using it. (I did enjoy the nighty though. How’d your secretary know to buy the leopard print? Send Sheila my thanks and also the duplicates from our weekend at the Cape.)
*Ehem* So, uh, yeah. This email actually has another purpose altogether…
Today I am writing to urge you to introduce a new bill into Congress, a bill that would force the United States government to recognize “Boy Speak” as an official language. Boy Speak is already the unofficial official language of nearly half of America, nay, half the world, and yet, for far too long we have been remiss in acknowledging it as such. Until we do, we will never have the much-needed tax-dollar funded task force of overeager former frat boy translators nor Boy Speak’s own picture dictionary of terms and phrases. And I need that dictionary, Senator. We all do.
For as long as Boy Speak remains so unstudied and un-understood, large pockets of our populace (namely, the female half) will continue to be severely and unnecessarily confused by their male counterparts. Official recognition of Boy Speak, like the legalization of marijuana or breaking and entering, would lead to better education, limited but necessary government legislation, and increased safety for all involved parties. Most notably, women would finally be able to understand men, and men might finally be able to understand themselves.
Boy Speak is composed of mostly the same words as the American English dictionary, less all words over three syllables, and is derived from roughly the same alphabet; however, crucial differences exist and must be duly noted. For example, onomonopea are used quite frequently in Boy Speak and often substitute for not only words, but whole sentences, sometimes even paragraphs. Beyond grunts, groans, and other audible movements of oxygen through the lungs, Boy Speak often employs everyday phrases to express alternate meanings. Such meanings are dependent on the time of day, present company, and blood-alcohol level. For example, at 10:00 AM on a Monday in the junior accountant wing of Ernst and Young, “I don’t know what I’m doing with my life right now,” is a genuine and seriously lamentable statement in Boy Speak. It is, in fact, fairly synonymous with the same phrase uttered in regular American English by any member of the human race. However, this same statement spoken at 12 midnight in the presence of a female after 2-6 beers is either a serious come on, meaning, “I have emotions; therefore, do me,” or the popular combined complement/patronizing let down, “I want to hook up with you now, but please don’t expect any sort of relationship slash follow up.” But how do you tell which is which? It’s all in the details. What seems trivial could be colossally misunderstood by the many of us who do not speak Boy. And there is a devastating lack of linguists dedicated to creating informative, reliable resources for the mono-gender-lingual among us.
Okay, you say, but what about the economic and geopolitical ramifications of recognizing Boy Speak as an official language? They are compelling, Senator. According to a recent Gallup poll, recognizing Boy Speak has a 99.8% approval rating. And the other .2% are happily married couples with great communication and 2.3 children, so fuck ‘em. Furthermore, several fully credible studies* have confirmed that recognition and increased literacy of Boy Speak could reduce our dependence on foreign oil, reduce the deficit, and settle a centuries old, Biblical beef between Israelis and Palestinians. Even the Christian Right and the Latte-Loving Left are in agreement on this issue, both proclaiming that recognizing Boy Speak is the most serious issue of our time, if only because we’re all trying to make an honest buck here, and I paid them 5 honest ones each before obtaining their statements.
Some may argue, I suppose, that if we are acknowledging the officiality of Boy Speak, we must also, to be fair, collect the same data and acquire the same official recognition of Girl Speak. Touché. My only fear in this is the temptation towards Girl to Boy Dictionaries and vice-versa leading to problematic direct translations. For example, a guy may think paying the check means he gets a little something-something later (don't deny it, Senator), and a girl may think a little something-something means "I love you," but if a man is actually asking for the check, saying, "I'm in love with you, Abigail," will only complicate matters and lead said couple in a direction they had not planned to go. Plus, there's still the matter of the unpaid bill. So I say, yes, both should be acknowledged, but one thing at a time.
Like a man needing to express himself who suppresses his emotions and subsequently develops an ulcer and high blood pressure, ignoring this issue does the nation more harm than good. Senator, I beg of you, lead this charge! Be the guy who changes the course of history – the next Webster. The next Dr. Phil. The next over-privileged, under-qualified dude who gets elected into some cool office with a cool circular-ish shape.
So sack up, grab your figurative ovaries, and get to work. And Senator, no hard feelings about the last time. It happens to all guys. Really.**
Most sincerely,
Your Lijey-poo.
*One. Not really credible. Get over it.
**Girl Speak Translation: "That was so embarrassing. I burned my sheets. Really." Also, it was green. Ga-ross! You should probably see a doctor.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Sex Ed 101
The following is a comedy sketch. Laugh.
We’re in a seventh grade classroom. A young, female teacher (ALICE) addresses her class.
ALICE: Raise your hand if you would like to have sex one day. Joey, raise your hand. Good boy. Now, raise your hand if you’ve had sex already. Joey, put your hand down. Okay. Well the talk about safe sex is quite antiquated. Very, very antiquated. And in my family what we do when the regular talking-talking isn’t working, is we yell. That’s right, we yell at each other. I mean we really go at it and say some rather hurtful things. And I’m not saying that it works. I’m just saying that it’s something that we do.
Today, since our nation’s regular talking-talking about the birds and bees doesn’t seem to be working either, I’m also going to try another method of communication. Actually, I’m not going to talk, or yell, in so much as I’m going to tell you a little story. Does that sound good to you? Joey, stop humping Annie.
Good. Ok. So I have a ‘friend’ who had sex that was not safe. In fact, not only was she not using a condom, but she was also in a car, not wearing a seat belt, going 90 miles per hour, and the engine was on fire. So what happened is that she got Chlamydia and crabs and herpes, and also a baby.
Now, what you may not know is that babies, like genital warts, don’t ever go away. In fact, most studies show that babies, most of the time, end up outliving the person who had the baby in the first place. This is scary. You should be scared. Basically, this means that babies, like Hepatitis B, are with you until the day you die. (she shudders)
Another alarming thing about babies is that as they get older, they get bigger. That’s right. A baby, like the cancer caused by HPV, will only grow with time. In fact, the longer you have a baby, the bigger it’ll get. And while we can all agree a baby in its initial form is bad, just like HIV, babies can develop into something far worse. I mean really, Joey. All you have to do is look in the mirror. Tissues, not fingers. How many times do I have to tell you?
Another fact: Babies are expensive, even more so than my friend’s monthly supply of Valtrex. And as babies get older and get bigger they also like to buy things. And these purchases, like the penile discharge caused by Gonorrhea, come in all sorts of varieties and colors. And they could be anywhere from two dollars to two hundred thousand dollars, if, let’s say, your baby decides it wants a BMW.
And the last thing that people all too often don't know about babies is that babies, much like herpes, make you vastly less attractive to the opposite sex. If you conceive a child, like contracting crabs, Syphilis, or genital warts, not even your dirty uncle will want to do it with you. You may never have sex again. That's right, Debbie, you little twelve-year-old whore. Never again.
So that’s my little story. A little food for thought, if you will. You should also be made aware that giving and receiving oral without the proper protection can magically turn genital herpes into oral, and vice versa, which also happened to my “friend”... BUT, you totally won’t get preggers. Which is why I do it all the time. And now if you'll turn to page 454 in you biology books, we're going to see how a nine-pound baby can rip apart your vagina.
We’re in a seventh grade classroom. A young, female teacher (ALICE) addresses her class.
ALICE: Raise your hand if you would like to have sex one day. Joey, raise your hand. Good boy. Now, raise your hand if you’ve had sex already. Joey, put your hand down. Okay. Well the talk about safe sex is quite antiquated. Very, very antiquated. And in my family what we do when the regular talking-talking isn’t working, is we yell. That’s right, we yell at each other. I mean we really go at it and say some rather hurtful things. And I’m not saying that it works. I’m just saying that it’s something that we do.
Today, since our nation’s regular talking-talking about the birds and bees doesn’t seem to be working either, I’m also going to try another method of communication. Actually, I’m not going to talk, or yell, in so much as I’m going to tell you a little story. Does that sound good to you? Joey, stop humping Annie.
Good. Ok. So I have a ‘friend’ who had sex that was not safe. In fact, not only was she not using a condom, but she was also in a car, not wearing a seat belt, going 90 miles per hour, and the engine was on fire. So what happened is that she got Chlamydia and crabs and herpes, and also a baby.
Now, what you may not know is that babies, like genital warts, don’t ever go away. In fact, most studies show that babies, most of the time, end up outliving the person who had the baby in the first place. This is scary. You should be scared. Basically, this means that babies, like Hepatitis B, are with you until the day you die. (she shudders)
Another alarming thing about babies is that as they get older, they get bigger. That’s right. A baby, like the cancer caused by HPV, will only grow with time. In fact, the longer you have a baby, the bigger it’ll get. And while we can all agree a baby in its initial form is bad, just like HIV, babies can develop into something far worse. I mean really, Joey. All you have to do is look in the mirror. Tissues, not fingers. How many times do I have to tell you?
Another fact: Babies are expensive, even more so than my friend’s monthly supply of Valtrex. And as babies get older and get bigger they also like to buy things. And these purchases, like the penile discharge caused by Gonorrhea, come in all sorts of varieties and colors. And they could be anywhere from two dollars to two hundred thousand dollars, if, let’s say, your baby decides it wants a BMW.
And the last thing that people all too often don't know about babies is that babies, much like herpes, make you vastly less attractive to the opposite sex. If you conceive a child, like contracting crabs, Syphilis, or genital warts, not even your dirty uncle will want to do it with you. You may never have sex again. That's right, Debbie, you little twelve-year-old whore. Never again.
So that’s my little story. A little food for thought, if you will. You should also be made aware that giving and receiving oral without the proper protection can magically turn genital herpes into oral, and vice versa, which also happened to my “friend”... BUT, you totally won’t get preggers. Which is why I do it all the time. And now if you'll turn to page 454 in you biology books, we're going to see how a nine-pound baby can rip apart your vagina.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
The F Word
Some people really shy away from using the F word, which is not only unfortunate but inconvenient. The F word is used to create so many wonderful, meaningful phrases, phrases I’d rather not – and possibly could not – live without.
I refer you here to two articles of interest, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuck and a personal favorite, http://files.kavefish.com/audio/usage_of_the_f-word.wav.
In order to maintain usage of these powerful, fricative phrases at times when it’s not effing “appropriate” (whatever the eff that means), I say simply replace one taboo-fabulous F word with another. See examples below and feel free to use these lovely little clandestine expressions as often as necessary.
Feminist you.
I want to feminist.
I’m so feministed up right now.
Dude, you’re such a feministing tool.
Feminist’s the matter with you?
He feministed me right in the ass.
I feministed up.
Feminist off.
Let's feminist.
This is feministing amazing.
You’re feministed.
I’m feministed.
We’re all feministed.
What a good feminist.
Feminist me harder.
Who the feminist are you?
What the feminist are you doing?
What the feminist do you want?
He feministed your sister.
Your sister’s a mother-feminister.
Mother-feminister.
I feministing love/hate/want to feminist you.
Feminist him up.
WT feminist, Mate?
Don’t feminist with me.
He feministed you over.
Feminist it.
Get the feminist off of me.
Abso-feministing-lutely
Unbe-feministing-lievable.
Feminist a duck.
Oh feministing A.
Feminist this.
Feminist that.
Hot as feminist.
Go feminist yourself.
I refer you here to two articles of interest, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuck and a personal favorite, http://files.kavefish.com/audio/usage_of_the_f-word.wav.
In order to maintain usage of these powerful, fricative phrases at times when it’s not effing “appropriate” (whatever the eff that means), I say simply replace one taboo-fabulous F word with another. See examples below and feel free to use these lovely little clandestine expressions as often as necessary.
Feminist you.
I want to feminist.
I’m so feministed up right now.
Dude, you’re such a feministing tool.
Feminist’s the matter with you?
He feministed me right in the ass.
I feministed up.
Feminist off.
Let's feminist.
This is feministing amazing.
You’re feministed.
I’m feministed.
We’re all feministed.
What a good feminist.
Feminist me harder.
Who the feminist are you?
What the feminist are you doing?
What the feminist do you want?
He feministed your sister.
Your sister’s a mother-feminister.
Mother-feminister.
I feministing love/hate/want to feminist you.
Feminist him up.
WT feminist, Mate?
Don’t feminist with me.
He feministed you over.
Feminist it.
Get the feminist off of me.
Abso-feministing-lutely
Unbe-feministing-lievable.
Feminist a duck.
Oh feministing A.
Feminist this.
Feminist that.
Hot as feminist.
Go feminist yourself.
For a good time, call...
Ok. I honestly don’t get it. First off, who heads into a bathroom stall wielding a marker? Packing a properly working writing utensil is the least of my concerns when I use a public restroom. Whatever is floating in the toilet bowl – yes. Toilet paper status - yes. Whatever liquid is on the floor and/or toilet seat – check. Contracting crabs and other diseases from the toilet seat – yes yes. Keeping my coat and bag away from all previously mentioned liquids and bacteria – yes. But remembering my heavy duty permanent marker? No. The scrap of paper bearing all 12 stanzas of my favorite poem by Keats? No. Just no.
But apparently I am missing something because bathroom graffiti has not only endured the test of time, it has progressed (for lack of a better word) from the “For a good time call...” and “Katie likes dick” variety (though there's still plenty o' that around) to full on discussion forums. People in NYU's library bathroom stall number 2 practically have a book club going.
Upon a recent visit to the w.c. at Think Coffee by Washington Square Park, I found the following on a tiny square of wall above the trash can:
Person #1: “Im getting an MFA.”
Person #2: crossed out the “n” in “an” and after MFA wrote “hopefully not in English.”
Person #3: pointed to person #2’s comment and wrote, “Actually it is ‘an MFA,' but ‘Im’ should be ‘I’m.’”
Person #4: “In the time it took you to read this, 10 people just died.”
Oh NYU students.
Next time, I'll have to remember to bring, not a marker, but a camera with which to capture the many musings, hopes, dreams, public service announcements, and snarky criticisms inscribed on those four teeny tiny walls.
Bathroom graffiti. Get you, I don't. Love you? I think maybe I do...
But apparently I am missing something because bathroom graffiti has not only endured the test of time, it has progressed (for lack of a better word) from the “For a good time call...” and “Katie likes dick” variety (though there's still plenty o' that around) to full on discussion forums. People in NYU's library bathroom stall number 2 practically have a book club going.
Upon a recent visit to the w.c. at Think Coffee by Washington Square Park, I found the following on a tiny square of wall above the trash can:
Person #1: “Im getting an MFA.”
Person #2: crossed out the “n” in “an” and after MFA wrote “hopefully not in English.”
Person #3: pointed to person #2’s comment and wrote, “Actually it is ‘an MFA,' but ‘Im’ should be ‘I’m.’”
Person #4: “In the time it took you to read this, 10 people just died.”
Oh NYU students.
Next time, I'll have to remember to bring, not a marker, but a camera with which to capture the many musings, hopes, dreams, public service announcements, and snarky criticisms inscribed on those four teeny tiny walls.
Bathroom graffiti. Get you, I don't. Love you? I think maybe I do...
Monday, March 19, 2007
Hello!
yar. Here we are at my blog area debut-ness. It is going to be a fabulous fun time. Be ready. Pack extra fruit and peanut butter. Also water. Stay hydrated. Things may get rough. But probs not.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)