Stupid Questions Answered – I Tried To Be A Good Guest

The mad-witty diva at Blogdramedy posted an interesting piece the other day which posed some supposedly stupid questions.  Ever eager to prove that I’m not stupid, I started answering each of the questions in the comment section of her blog.  I quickly realized several key points.  One was, there was a good chance that only a handful of people would ever see my answers, since a great many readers had already seen the piece and weren’t likely to re-read it just in case there were new comments made.  I also had a small lightbulb flicker on in my head signifying my realization that I didn’t have crap to write about unless the Dallas Cowboys had some new embarrassment pop up (A fella can always hope).  Finally, I recalled Blogdramedy’s offer to host a guest-post by yours truly.  We had collaborated previously on a blog involving the names which paint manufacturers pick for their colors.  The piece was well received, the New York Times simply RAVED about it (or maybe not).  In any case, the whole prospect of answering stupid questions seemed like a good idea.  The planets had aligned themselves for a perfect storm of self-indulgent, quasi-creative writing.

(In the spirit of full disclosure, I have to admit that after seeing my post on Blogdramedy’s site, I found a couple of things which I had to change, so the following has been edited slightly.  I know I couldn’t possibly find pics to illustrate this as well as she did – so I’m thinking I’ll serve it dry, without gravy)

Here then, are her questions and my answers.

1.  Why do people say that life is like baseball?

Life can be compared to baseball for many reasons.  For one thing, both life and baseball are incredibly boring.  Cynics will tell you that in baseball, as in life, young people participate in it while the old shits just watch it while complaining how it used to be better.  In addition, both baseball and life have been over-analyzed to the n’th degree.  Speaking of over-analysis, there are those who may choose to compare the dugout to the grave, the pitcher’s mound to Mt. Ararat and the ball to earth itself.  In reality, life and baseball are not alike because, as I learned from a riddle in 3rd grade, “How can a man with 4 balls walk?”

2.  When did Kim Kardashian decide that hooker chic was a good look for her?

Kim Kardashian in fact, has not embraced hooker chic.  Despite being the world’s oldest profession, hookers have long wished for a style they could call their own.  With the advent of reality TV, people were exposed to many new faces of frequently vacuous personalities.  The appearance of the Kardashian tribe, including Kim, did not go unnoticed.  A woman-of-the-night named Kitty Fontana, who was working in Nevada at the Chicken Ranch, was the first to propose to her fellow flesh-workers that they might increase business by dressing like Kim K.  The ploy worked, and sales jumped.  The hookers also noticed an increase in customers making kinky requests, like telling them in the middle of the Siamese Basket Trick things like “Kim you idiot!  Shut the hell up!” So there you have it: Kim doesn’t dress like a hooker; Hookers dress like Kim!

3.  Do you think that Mitt Romney is more concerned that Jesus was married or gay?

This is a tricky one, and it’s meant to be.  It’s an interesting premise.  After all, Jesus could well have been either…OR BOTH!  I’ve taken a few art history courses, and I have to admit, in some of those paintings, he looked like maybe he was a little light in the sandals, if you know what I mean.  By the same token, he was known to hang out with Mary Magdalene (who sadly walked the earth long before prostitutes had Kim Kardashian for a fashion role model).  It’s a scary proposition that the candidate for the presidency would spend any time worrying about such nonsense when there are turkeys to pardon and ribbons to cut.  The true answer is that Mitt doesn’t give a rat’s heinie about what the Son of God did behind closed doors.  Mitt’s campaign handlers, eager to keep him from putting another loafer-clad foot in his pie hole, cooked up the question to bamboozle the general public and paint Mitt as a deep-thinking intellectual.  Point Handlers.  MSNBC to volley for serve on the next point.

4. Why do people at fast food joints ask  “you want fries with that?” 

Asking people if they want fries with that is a left-over tradition from the very early days of fast food.  Fast food originated, like damn near everything else, in China.  The industrious Chinese of the Maac Dynasty first sold their version of fast food in the year 957 BC.  The Chinese are known for eating all sorts of things which we fickle Americans would turn our noses up at, such as insects and vegetables.  One of the most popular items was the Maac-raap (Pronounced Ma Crap), which was a wonton pancake wrapped around a variety of ingredients.  The dish was easy to eat on-the-go, whether you were invading Mongolia or building a wall.  One of the optional fillings was actually house flies, which when stir fried, add a zesty, protein-filled crunch to each bite.  Due to western misinterpretation of the the Asian dialects, “flies” became “fries”.  This worked to the benefit of everyone invloved as fast food workers were often too pressed for time to ask patrons if they wanted “shoe-string potatoes cooked in lard with that?”

5. Does your zodiac sign really explain everything about you?

This question is open to individual opinion.  Personally, I was born under the sign of Capricorn the Goat.  While I do not have a scraggly beard hanging off of my chin, I’m tempted to grow one.  I must admit to enjoying the occasional tin can for a snack and it’s no treat finding shoes to fit my cloven hooves.  Despite those goat-like attributes, try to explain my fascination with Norwegian fetish porn or the early music of Tommy James and the Shondels.  There’s just no zodiac symbol for that crap.

6. Is love really all you need?

Love is a many splendored thing (That’s not my line).  It won’t keep you warm in the winter or fill your belly during a famine.  While love may be one of the things you really need, it won’t get you to work on time, you’re gonna need a car for that.  On a related question, why has no one compared love to baseball?  I’ll tell you why, because baseball is a game and love is a battlefield (Pat Benatar, that was for you – it still hurts).

7.  Do you think Elmer Fudd ever got over his speech impediment?

“Speech impediment” is a modern concept.  Elmer Fudd lived in a time when people didn’t concern themselves with “labels”.  They got up, wooked the swing shift at the Boeing pwant, dwank a couple of dwafts with the boys down at the wocal tapwoom and on the weekend, they hunted wabbits.  They wived theah wives wiffout wegahd to how they pwonounced the wuhds they spoke.  They wuh the gweatest genewation.

8.  Do you think the band “Earth, Wind and Fire” left “Water” out on purpose?

Absolutely, they left water out on purpose!  Contray to popular belief, it wasn’t a matter of snubbing water or favoring the other elements.  In truth, they had expected fans to actually identify the individual elements with certain band members.  Jimmy “Earth” Monroe was known for his funky bass playing and keeping things grounded with his licks.  Perry “Fire” Winslow played a blistering tenor sax.  Freddy “Beans” Wallace was known for his fondness of Mexican cuisine and his frequent flatulance emptied more than a few tour busses.  Sadly, fans didn’t go along with the bands’ plan, preferring to just enjoy the music without bothering to learn who the actual musicians were.  As an example of this fact, I made up the three names listed above, and I’m guessing that no more than 7 of you even noticed.  A bonus bit of trivia: The original name the of the band was “Rock, Paper and Scissors”.  I made that up too.

So concludes my answers to B-Dramedy’s supposedly stupid questions.  If you’re reading these words, you’ve likely just wasted several valuable minutes of your life hoping to find a chuckle.  So who’s calling who stupid now?

Forty-Seven Shades of Pink

Now that the author of the “Shades of Gray” books is likely swimming in a jacuzzi filled with C-notes and caviar, I thought I’d take a stab at some of this erotica stuff myself.  Rather than waste valuable energy developing a plot, I’ve opted to just rehash a classic- inserting juicy parts as I go.  I’ll just slip them in slowly, but with urgent determination, again and again.

Anybody who says I don’t sacrifice for my art should know that I bought this pound of bacon solely for this purpose. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m going to cook it and eat it, but my main reason was for the photo shoot.

Once upon a time, there were three little pigs, Francine, Gloria and Beulah.  All three of the pink, succulent porkers were mesmerized by thoughts of the new guy in town, the roguishly handsome Mr. B. B. Wolfe.  They nestled together in the comfort of Francine’s California king-sized bed, beneath the tangled sheets in a sea of eager, pink flesh and tightly coiled tails.  They whispered to one another about B.B. and his devilish good looks.  Each hot breath filling their pointy little ears, until they could hardly stay still from the excitement.

They’d heard that Wolfe had a fondness for tail.  He’d surely want theirs, and they quivered in a volatile mixture of fear and anticipation.  Each piggy had her own views on how best to build her house to keep him out.

Buelah set to work on her plans.  She set out from the comfort of the bed and hastily slipped into her work clothes, not even pausing to bother with her thong.   In truth, Buelah seldom wore a thong, she’d long ago grown tired of untangling her curly tail from the G-strings.

She got working on her new home, which would be an earth-friendly, straw design.  As she busily tied the bunches of straw together, her mind kept drifting to B.B.  There were rumors in the village that he had a penchant for ropes and hand-cuffs.  She found it hard to focus on tying the bundles as she imagined her own hooves being wrapped in twine, unable to move as B.B. helped himself to a wolf’s share of her fatback.  She imagined herself squealing in pain and pleasure, helpless as Wolfe did as he pleased.  Though she was a successful, self-sufficient young sow, she had to admit to herself that it made her pork loins tremble at the thought of being used by Wolfe for his every whim.

When at last her work was done, she sat back and regarded the fruits of her labor.  Her new home was quite stylish, and politically correct from a renewable resource standpoint.  The front door was hung in a flimsy frame made of bundled straw, and would take no effort for B.B. to blow it down.  She knew she should reinforce it, but deep inside, her inner bacon bits yearned to be ravaged by the lupine lothario.

Gloria left the giant bed and wiggled her little pork butt over to her own construction site, where her new home was being built with sticks.  Unlike Buelah’s hands-on style, Gloria favored having paid construction professionals doing her heavy lifting.  She sat in the shade of a nearby elm and watched the team from Seven Dwarfs Construction as they worked weaving the sticks together to make the walls. It was a hot day, and the little men glistened from their efforts in the afternoon sun.

Gloria tickled her cheek with a piece of grass and wondered if what they said about dwarfs was true.  She thought the one named “Dopey” looked especially virile.  She dozed off and dreamed of two or three of her hot little laborers and B.B. Wolfe, all together with her back in the giant bed.  Stubby little fingers pulled at her pink pigskin and a long hairy tail wagged in delight at the orgiastic scene.

When she awoke, the construction workers had left for the day.  The house was nearly finished, except for the thatching of the roof.  Gloria could plainly see that her money was not all that well spent.  The house would never hold up to B.B.’s hot, powerful breath.  Maybe Wolfe would show up at the exact moment she was meeting with Doc, the construction foreman.  The wee builder could see for himself how little protection the house provided.  One thing would lead to another, and Gloria would end up as the suckling pig centerpiece at the feast of their attentions.  She smiled to herself and her pork belly jiggled just a little as her mind went back to her naughty fantasies.

Francine was happy to finally have the giant bed to herself.  She rolled around in the cool sheets happy as a pig in poop.  Her brick villa was finally done, and she would most certainly have the safest house of the three.  She had a soft spot for both Beulah and Gloria, and they would be welcome to seek refuge in her home once theirs proved to be unsafe.  She thought of the three of them together and cozy in the bed again.  While their company was always welcome, Francine had a weakness for bad boys, like Wolfe.  The very thought of him made her hog jowls flush and her chitlins churn.  She put on her thigh-high stockings and her sexiest 12 cup Victoria’s Secret bra and waited as patiently as she could.

Beulah in waiting – Illustration by the author

Francine was roused from her fantasizing by the squeals of her two friends.  She thought that perhaps B.B. Wolfe had already chased them to her, but saw not a trace of him when she flung open the door.  Before her stood Gloria and Beulah, their tails still very much intact, but their faces streaked with tears.  She ushered her dear friends into the house to find out what was the matter.

Gloria started, “It’s that B.B. Wolfe!” she cried, “I was ready for him.  My house of sticks is nearly done, at no small expense, I might add, and there’s no sign of him.  I could have stayed in my old place and saved my money”

Beulah cut in, “My straw house was all set too.  I waited and waited, but B.B. never showed up.  When I spoke with Henny Penny in town, she told me what she had heard.”

“That B.B. is a kinkier rascal than we knew.  He got us all worked up and worried about our tails, then he went and shacked up with Little Red, over in the hood.”

Gloria sobbed,  “It turns out, B.B. is some kind of transvestite freak who’s into dressing up like Grandma and doing the whole role playing thing!”  She wailed in falsetto “Oooh, what big eyes you have!  I tell you it’s just sick!”

Francine knew there was no chance B.B. would be stopping by now.  She said, “Cmon girls, I’ll make us some slop, we can climb into my bed and watch some cable to get our minds off things.  Maybe there’s an old episode of  ‘Sex and the Sty’ on.”

The three pigs walked into the brick house and soon forgot their disappointment.  They lolled around on the satin sheets and watched the TV as Carnitas, Hamantha and the other characters negotiated the social world of the sty and vied for the attention of a guy named Mr. Pig.

The moral of the story: A wolf in sheep’s clothing may just be into that sort of thing -or- You can’t make a silk thong out of a sow’s ear.