The most famous sparkling cider seems to be a brand called Martinelli’s. On their website they call it “The ideal festive juice perfect for the whole family.” So, for the younger kids who wanna toast with mom and dad, it’s kinda cute. But when two adults drink it on new years, huddled in their bedroom by themselves it’s, for lack of a better term, fucking weird. Isn’t this "pretend drinking?" Aren’t they flirting with the very thing they warn against? "Oooo, look at us…he he he, we’re having some pretend champagne." Just like children spread out tea sets to have a, hehe, pretend party, or play doctor to do some, hehe, pretend fucking. After they finish the bottle do they pretend to be drunk? Do they talk in pretend slurs? Do they get into a pretend fight, wake up the next day and pretend to forget what happened?
The most mind-boggling part: the stuff tastes like absolute garbage. I bet most of us will agree that when we took our first sips of alcohol, we checked to make sure we hadn’t mistaken that beer can for battery acid. Yeah, it was gross. But suddenly it felt warm and fuzzy so very nice good with that boy’s hand up our tube top. The sacrifice surrendered reward. But there is no reward for these people. And frankly I don’t think anyone over the age of twelve who thinks it's normal to pretend drink should be awarded anything other than a mouthful of merciless payback for the years of preaching they impose on me and my fellow alcoholics.
As for me, on new years I’ll be drinking for real in my club. And while my mother and pretend (step) dad pretend to pass out, I’ll be busy counting my tips in my manager's officer, pretending to be sober.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
happy pretend new year
Jesus may be the reason for a lot of people’s seasons. I’ve seen enough of those stickers on the lapels of stupid beaming church housewives to get it. But the holidays get me pumped for other reasons. Given that I’m a girl, I’ve worked in the service industry for years, and I’m still young enough that my family doesn’t expect me to bring alcohol yet, the holidays mean a lot of free drinking.
But my mom and step dad choose to be a little different from the rest of us. Why? Well, many reasons, but one being that they choose not to drink. Fine. A lot of people chose to do this. But not only do they avoid alcohol, but they feel the need to pollute the world with endless sanctimonious bullshit about why an innocent glass of cabernet is part of Satan’s evil plan to poison the sinners who choose to indulge. I mean, it’s red, the devil is red, hello, could there be a more obvious parallel?
But while on new years eve I’ll be working in my club and guzzling free champagne , she and joe the step weirdo, will do what they do every year. Which is sit alone in their bedroom (surprise, they have no friends) and toast the ball drop with this.
Sparkling cider. The non-alcoholic alternative.
The most famous sparkling cider seems to be a brand called Martinelli’s. On their website they call it “The ideal festive juice perfect for the whole family.” So, for the younger kids who wanna toast with mom and dad, it’s kinda cute. But when two adults drink it on new years, huddled in their bedroom by themselves it’s, for lack of a better term, fucking weird. Isn’t this "pretend drinking?" Aren’t they flirting with the very thing they warn against? "Oooo, look at us…he he he, we’re having some pretend champagne." Just like children spread out tea sets to have a, hehe, pretend party, or play doctor to do some, hehe, pretend fucking. After they finish the bottle do they pretend to be drunk? Do they talk in pretend slurs? Do they get into a pretend fight, wake up the next day and pretend to forget what happened?
The most mind-boggling part: the stuff tastes like absolute garbage. I bet most of us will agree that when we took our first sips of alcohol, we checked to make sure we hadn’t mistaken that beer can for battery acid. Yeah, it was gross. But suddenly it felt warm and fuzzy so very nice good with that boy’s hand up our tube top. The sacrifice surrendered reward. But there is no reward for these people. And frankly I don’t think anyone over the age of twelve who thinks it's normal to pretend drink should be awarded anything other than a mouthful of merciless payback for the years of preaching they impose on me and my fellow alcoholics.
As for me, on new years I’ll be drinking for real in my club. And while my mother and pretend (step) dad pretend to pass out, I’ll be busy counting my tips in my manager's officer, pretending to be sober.
The most famous sparkling cider seems to be a brand called Martinelli’s. On their website they call it “The ideal festive juice perfect for the whole family.” So, for the younger kids who wanna toast with mom and dad, it’s kinda cute. But when two adults drink it on new years, huddled in their bedroom by themselves it’s, for lack of a better term, fucking weird. Isn’t this "pretend drinking?" Aren’t they flirting with the very thing they warn against? "Oooo, look at us…he he he, we’re having some pretend champagne." Just like children spread out tea sets to have a, hehe, pretend party, or play doctor to do some, hehe, pretend fucking. After they finish the bottle do they pretend to be drunk? Do they talk in pretend slurs? Do they get into a pretend fight, wake up the next day and pretend to forget what happened?
The most mind-boggling part: the stuff tastes like absolute garbage. I bet most of us will agree that when we took our first sips of alcohol, we checked to make sure we hadn’t mistaken that beer can for battery acid. Yeah, it was gross. But suddenly it felt warm and fuzzy so very nice good with that boy’s hand up our tube top. The sacrifice surrendered reward. But there is no reward for these people. And frankly I don’t think anyone over the age of twelve who thinks it's normal to pretend drink should be awarded anything other than a mouthful of merciless payback for the years of preaching they impose on me and my fellow alcoholics.
As for me, on new years I’ll be drinking for real in my club. And while my mother and pretend (step) dad pretend to pass out, I’ll be busy counting my tips in my manager's officer, pretending to be sober.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
it's been so long...so sorry
“So I paid some guy to fuck me last night.”
Standing in front of the mirror putting on makeup inside the club dressing room, I almost smeared my eye-liner across my face. The cosmetic equivalent of a record scratching.
“You did what?” another one of the girls asked.
“I went on this website and they have these guys there that you pay to come over your house for a few hours.”
“And he just came over and fucked you?”
“Yeah. I mean, why would I waste time going to a club to meet some guy? I spend money doing that anyway. And these guys know how to fuck, you know. They have big dick. They give you massage. You think some guy I meet in club is gonna do that?”
And to my complete disbelief, the entire staff of girls sat there and agreed. They asked her more questions. They commended her logic. They asked her for the website in plans of doing THE VERY SAME THING.
“But, honey,” one said, lowering her. “I wouldn’t tell anyone else around here.”
“Why?” She asked, dumbfounded. Her foreign accent making her sound exceptionally stupid.
“Cause, some people might not understand. There’re some ignorant people here.”
And by ignorant, I’m sure she meant me.
Like most nights, I wasn’t participating in their conversation. Just like they’re not gonna be able to keep up with one of our covos about Bogusky’s biggest blunder, my US Weekly reading hasn’t ever been exactly up to date. So forgive me if I can’t comment on the pros and cons of Britney be-dazzling her ass with Swavorski crystals. So while they talked, I sat in the same room secretly oh my godding in my head. Call me suburban raised but… a girl. Paying. For sex. If it’s ignorant of me to think this way then perhaps my morals do hail from the Midwest.
I suppose in my fuck-being-a-housewife mentality, I should commend her for her male-like attitude. If guys can pay for sex, why can’t girls? Like she said. She wanted to get laid, but didn’t want to waste time going to a club. Furthermore, these people are professionals. They “know how to fuck.” It’s a job to do and they do it right. If your sink is clogged you’re not gonna call a copywrtiter. (Even though, girls, I’m sure we’ve all had clogged sinks a few times in our lives and have mistakenly called an ad guy to come over and not know what the hell he was doing.) But forgive me for not wanting to be a job. Or it never even crossing my mind that gigoloing it was an option. In fact, I don’t even think highly of a guy paying for sex. When we saw that mug shot of Hugh Grant after his concubinal encounter, did we think, “I don’t understand the fact that he resorted to picking up a hooker. I should brush up on my civil rights and be more understanding.” No. We thought, “Oh my God. Why did a famous guy resort to this? Underneath his Prada, HE MUST BE A FUCKING LOSER.”
Loserness is not gender specific. And paying to get fucked is one of the most vile, pathetic things you can do no matter what your gender. So call me biased, ignorant, or whatever you want. But I still prefer to get my fucking for free.
Even if it’s from a Puerto Rican.
Standing in front of the mirror putting on makeup inside the club dressing room, I almost smeared my eye-liner across my face. The cosmetic equivalent of a record scratching.
“You did what?” another one of the girls asked.
“I went on this website and they have these guys there that you pay to come over your house for a few hours.”
“And he just came over and fucked you?”
“Yeah. I mean, why would I waste time going to a club to meet some guy? I spend money doing that anyway. And these guys know how to fuck, you know. They have big dick. They give you massage. You think some guy I meet in club is gonna do that?”
And to my complete disbelief, the entire staff of girls sat there and agreed. They asked her more questions. They commended her logic. They asked her for the website in plans of doing THE VERY SAME THING.
“But, honey,” one said, lowering her. “I wouldn’t tell anyone else around here.”
“Why?” She asked, dumbfounded. Her foreign accent making her sound exceptionally stupid.
“Cause, some people might not understand. There’re some ignorant people here.”
And by ignorant, I’m sure she meant me.
Like most nights, I wasn’t participating in their conversation. Just like they’re not gonna be able to keep up with one of our covos about Bogusky’s biggest blunder, my US Weekly reading hasn’t ever been exactly up to date. So forgive me if I can’t comment on the pros and cons of Britney be-dazzling her ass with Swavorski crystals. So while they talked, I sat in the same room secretly oh my godding in my head. Call me suburban raised but… a girl. Paying. For sex. If it’s ignorant of me to think this way then perhaps my morals do hail from the Midwest.
I suppose in my fuck-being-a-housewife mentality, I should commend her for her male-like attitude. If guys can pay for sex, why can’t girls? Like she said. She wanted to get laid, but didn’t want to waste time going to a club. Furthermore, these people are professionals. They “know how to fuck.” It’s a job to do and they do it right. If your sink is clogged you’re not gonna call a copywrtiter. (Even though, girls, I’m sure we’ve all had clogged sinks a few times in our lives and have mistakenly called an ad guy to come over and not know what the hell he was doing.) But forgive me for not wanting to be a job. Or it never even crossing my mind that gigoloing it was an option. In fact, I don’t even think highly of a guy paying for sex. When we saw that mug shot of Hugh Grant after his concubinal encounter, did we think, “I don’t understand the fact that he resorted to picking up a hooker. I should brush up on my civil rights and be more understanding.” No. We thought, “Oh my God. Why did a famous guy resort to this? Underneath his Prada, HE MUST BE A FUCKING LOSER.”
Loserness is not gender specific. And paying to get fucked is one of the most vile, pathetic things you can do no matter what your gender. So call me biased, ignorant, or whatever you want. But I still prefer to get my fucking for free.
Even if it’s from a Puerto Rican.
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