Saturday, January 26, 2013

The Shart of The Matter

72% of shopping carts tested positive for fecal matter according to a report from Faux News. In fact, shopping carts are dirtier than public bathrooms. No small achievement based on what I’ve seen go down in women’s restrooms up and down the east coast. I Snoped it because Faux News makes stories up all the time and 72% seemed like a lowball number. I mean, we’ve all been to Walmart, right?

I thought about this 72% fecal matter today as I drove home from the grocery store. I had a particularly nasty cart with some kind of unidentified brown sticky stuff all over the handle. Was it baby barf? Perhaps it was fruit juice? Personally I’d prefer the baby barf because I’m allergic to fruit but whatever it was it was a sticky germ trap for all the feces on all the hands that came before mine.

I thought about this as I drove home, eating Cheetos and sucking the orange “cheese” dust off my fingers and out from under my nails. My fingers and nails that had just manhandled a nasty, shit laden shopping cart around a grocery store for 30 minutes. For a second, just a second, I was like “OH MY GOD! I just sucked somebody’s shit off my fingers!” But then I thought about all the times in my 38 years that I’ve had shit in my mouth in some form or another and I’m a pretty fucking healthy person. I think I’ve used hand sanitizer all of 3 times in my life and only because some germaphobe made me use it. But let’s go back to the fact that I’ve had shit in my mouth. Numerous times.

Back in high school I was sitting outside with my friends between classes and a bird crapped in my mouth. A bird. Shit. In my mouth. That was the last time I laughed freely under an open sky. How many points do you think that bird got? I’ll bet he got all the birdy ladies after that hole in one.

During college I interned at a zoo. ‘Nuff said. Maybe not if you’re not familiar with animal husbandry so let me explain. I worked in the African Plains area of the zoo. Think elephants, giraffes, zebras, bongos, cheetahs. I spent my mornings shoveling hundreds of pounds of elephant shit into wheelbarrows, up a ramp and into the back of a dump truck. Then we’d drive the dump truck to the other side of the zoo, dump the shit out, climb into the back of the truck and clean out the shit that didn’t fall out on its own. Then we’d go to lunch. I cannot tell you the number of times I’d pull my sandwich out of its baggy, get halfway through it, see my filthy shit covered hands holding the delicate white bread, think “Meh, too late now” and keep eating. I feel confident saying there’s been elephant shit in my mouth.

And let’s not forget about the time the monkey threw hot, fresh shit in my face while I was cleaning the enclosure. Sure it was a tiny Cotton Top Tamarin with a green Mohawk but his aim was true. So true.

Crazy eats copious amounts of crap. She prefers it soft serve direct from the factory but will eat it day old too. We don’t let Crazy kiss us but she’s got that Ninja Tongue action going on and sometimes you’ll be talking or laughing and SLURP!! Open mouth, insert Crazy tongue.

Are we keeping track? Bird, elephant, monkey, dog. Considering the number of times I’ve ripped open a bag of Cheetos on the way home from the supermarket I think it’s probably safe to add human to that list. 

So I’m driving home from the supermarket, sucking orange “cheese” off my fingers that were already sticky from the mystery goo on the shopping cart, thinking about that fact that 72% (minimum) of shopping carts are coated in shit and the fact that I’ve inadvertently eaten a lot of shit over the years and I thought “Whelp. Nothing I can do about that now” and kept eating the precious Cheetos and sucking on my fingers. 

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Hell is...

Lying in bed for six hours, staring at the ceiling, occasionally dreaming of a hot guy with limited intelligence and his unfortunate brother with red, yellow, and green glass teeth who – whether exercising on the beach, hiking Roaring Brook Road or hanging around the mansion – will never leave me alone with said hot dumb guy, getting repeatedly punched in the face and stomach by the largest monkey and why do my sheets smell like mildew or maybe the monkey farted.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

A Tiger, A Panther And My Mother Walk Into My Head

The monkeys and I are hanging out in my parents’ backyard and Sidekick jumps onto a boulder growing through the fence. That’s not a typo. The boulder grew through the fence. I run over to grab him before he jumps into the abyss and there it is. A tiger hiding in the grass outside the fence stalking my dogs! Bitch is not going to get my monkeys! Crazy runs over barking and growling, the tiger starts crawling forward. This is it. I have to move. And make a decision. I grab Sidekick and Crazy by their collars and run for the house. I yell for Boppo and Doodles to get to the house. Boppo makes a beeline (for once) but Doodles stands his ground barking at the advancing tiger. I get the other three in the house and run back for Doodle, screaming at the top of my lungs “GET AWAY FROM MY DOODLE!” I grab him, stuff him under my arm and run. When I look behind me the tiger is climbing over the boulder and has transformed into a black panther. The large cat, not the African-American revolutionary kind of black panther.

Now we’re in the kitchen looking out the sliding door to the patio where three women are standing, wearing lab coats over red dresses and holding clip boards. They're pointing at the house and trying to tell me that I need to come outside so they can talk to me about insulating the house. I’m no idiot! I know they’re the tiger-panther and they want to eat my monkeys. I’m not stupid. I’m a brunette now.

Suddenly the tiger is right there clawing at the sliding door trying to get it open! WHY? Why is this tiger so intent on getting my monkeys? She gets the door open an inch and I am trying so hard to get it closed again but the monkeys are trying to get the door open from the inside so they can fight the tiger! Boppo’s got his nose shoved into the open inch trying to help the tiger open the door. Seriously. We are not on the same wavelength at all. I need to call for help!

I reach up and grab the phone on the wall, it’s a really old one with a hundred foot long twisted up cord. I’ve got it clamped between my ear and shoulder with the cord wrapped around me, the monkeys are getting tangled in it and I call… my mother. Not the police. I call my mother. This is the ensuing conversation:

Me: Ma! Call the police! Three women and a tiger-panther thing are trying to kill us!
Ma: What? Three women? Who are they trying to kill?
Me: They’re the tiger and panther! They want to eat the monkeys!
Ma: Monkeys? Are on you something?
Me: Just call the police! They’re trying to kill us! They’re at the door, I can’t keep them out!
Ma: I’m at a Sisterhood meeting. What’s going on? I’m busy, can I call you back?
Me: Jesus Christ, Ma! Call the police!
Ma: I don’t understand. What do the women have to do with the tiger?
Me: Just call someone! Help us, please!
Ma: I’m busy. Hang up and call the police.
Me: MA! Help! Please!
Ma: You’re not making sense and I’m at a meeting. I have to go now.

So I had a dream that a tiger-panther-woman thing was trying to kill my monkeys and it turns out the whole thing was about my mother.