Acid Trip

Just a quickie, here (snicker). My mind is very...unique. It's a strange combination of super fast thoughts combined with total randomness, spiced with my own blend of cracking myself up. An equation of it would look like this:

my mind=v(c)+ k{(yrd)}

where v= the magnitude of the speed of my thoughts at the point time

c= the velocity of light in meters/second, so we get a cube of velocity because I'm not afraid to push the boundaries of theoretical physics, in theory

k= randomness constant, approaches infinity at times

y= sarcasm quotient   

d=inverse of the inherent hilarity of the situation

I calls this Susan's Theorem of Crazypants, or SToC, and the units are mJ, or mind Joules. Anyway, before I lose control of myself and start inventing physics for everything (hey, there, real life blog reader who has already witnessed a fairly crass equation!), the point of this post is proof of the theorem.

Last night I had a dream. My dreams are insane, not like just weird, but incredibly outrageously weird. I'll spare you the agonizing weird details of how weird my dreams are. But as an example:

Picture it:

I was in this hotel-morphing-into-animal-shelter in Florida (it just had that Florida feeling, you know, fucking ugly). A whole bunch of random shit happened, and then my mom and I started looking at the newest shipment of animals (it's in the animal shelter permutation here, if you didn't get that). My mom was simpering over a cute dog, but I was looking into the stack of cages that just arrived at a mini-donkey. It had bright patches or stripes all over its back. We asked the animal shelter lady what was up with that. She said, tut-tutting,"Oh, that's Brian Orser's donkey. They took it from him because he won't stop coloring on it." We also tut-tutted, because coloring donkeys is wrong.

That was my dream. How in the hell is that analyzed? A brightly painted donkey, an 80's figure skater, a morphing Florida venue. I don't really want to know what this says about me. I think it says that my inner donkey needs adopting, and that I feel oppressed by a gay figure skater, and that Florida interiors are often ugly. Or maybe something more sinister, like that I hate donkeys and am glad that Brian Orser is so mean to them in Florida.

I don't know. Ideas, anyone?

Neglectful, I am

Like the homeschooled spelling bee geek who just can't look at another goddamn word origin, I, too, am having a hard time firing up my computer for anything other than schoolwork, because I'm firing it up for school almost constantly.  (And hey, sensitive fuckers, I have a shitload of bee trophies from my early years of incredible spelling prowess, and also I homeschooled my own kids. So stuff it up your righteous bum.) As a result I have neglected my blog, my sweet blogarific blog.

But tonight, oh, tonight, a post happened to me. And I apologize, sweet baby angel son of mine, for sharing this with the world. It cannot be lost, though, so here goes:

As I sat down for a much needed end of the day pee, my littler boy called out to ask me why his penis sticks up when he touches it. Obviously he was wanking away in his bed. Nothing new, he usually is. I called out that it fills up with blood! If you leave it alone it will get soft again! Fat chance, right? He was satisfied with that explanation, and carried on I'm sure. Handy thing, that penis.

Older son waited until I finished washing my hands and then called out, "Mom? Why does it do that, though?" I sighed, knowing what I was about to do to him, which was gross him out for life to a degree that is just grosser than any other degree of grossness. I stood next to his bunk bed which put me right at eye level, because parenting books say you should do that, and said, "Well, because when you are touching your penis, it gets full of blood so it is ready for mating." (He seems to do ok with sex talk, well kind of, if it's referred to as mating. And he knows the basics, male female sperm egg penis vagina. We are easing into saying "having sex". Because evidently it is just so awful, saying that. I digress.)

"Well, why?" he says, not knowing what is about to come.

"Because the penis has to be kind of stiffer than usual in order to fit into the woman's vagina."

Dead silence, arm goes over head in horror, gagging ensues.

Horrified, gagging son: "That is so gross."

Highly entertained, yet serious and down-to-earth me:"Well, that's why eight year olds don't have sex."

Averted-eyes son: "Well, do people have to sleep naked to have sex?" I weigh the cost/benefit ratio of telling the truth here about adults not always waiting to get naked all the way, because of the steamy sex-having passionate moments. No, I think, this is already bad enough. Also, a parenting book would frown on that.

"Well, yes. Because in order to have sex, the man and the woman have to put their private parts right next to each other." He gags more, while kind of snickering. I sympathize. "I totally get that you are grossing out here. It's pretty much the worst idea ever when you're eight."

He giggles,"Yeah." Then it hits him, the thought that will divide his life forever into before he knew and after.

 "You've had sex, Mom!"

"Yes, I have. Your dad and I have had sex."

"Oh my god." (snicker, gag, snort, giggle)

"I get it, it's totally the worst, right? I mean, I'm 33, and I still just about hurl when I think of my parents doing it."

"Oh god." (hurl, puke, giggle, snort) "Yeah, this is pretty bad."

"I know." He gags, giggles some more. "You having a heart attack?" I say.

"Kind of."

I then let him know about the code of not telling everyone all about this, because it's better if kids learn it as their parents want them to, not from a little hooligan like him. He looked at me like I was fucked in the head for thinking he would ever revisit this in his mind, much less suffer the extreme embarrassment of talking about it. I make sure to point out that it's not because it's shameful or anything, just, you know. Not for casual chat, is all. But of course, we can talk about it whenever he needs to. *insert look, part horror, part lawn jart*

Then I kissed him goodnight, through the arm and around the gags. And sat down to think a bit, hoping that I did okay.

Ain't ain't in the Dictionary

So I was watching TV the other night, Anthony Bourdain and his traveling sarcasm. It was just kind of background, you know, where you tune in and out as you carry on. Well, Tony (that's what I call him now) was on some island full of hot sulfurous bubbling springs where people would put food into pots and cook it in the hot springs. He tried something and did not like it, and his way of expressing that was, "tastes like it was scraped off of someone's taint." 

It was like the world stopped and angels sang at this most perfect use of both hyperbole and crassness, blended together harmoniously into possibly the best phrase I have ever had the privilege of hearing. Shock value, clear descriptive language, imagery--he had it all at that moment. And the extra bonus of using one of my top 8 favorite words, taint.

For those of you who do not know what the taint is, I will define it for you as I did earlier today for my innocent parents when I recapped the show for them. T'aint your balls, t'aint your ass. It's the stretch right in between. See? Pretty much the funniest body part ever, except maybe the armpit which is 100% funnier than most other body parts. Well, scrotums are kind of funny too. Scrota, maybe, in plural? Not sure.

But again, scraped off someone's taint is the new phrase that I'm watching for opportunities to use. I'm thinking if I'm ever eating something that sucks in a room full of 22-year-old man-boys, that would be a good time to say it. Describing dinner in the cafeteria to my sons, no, not then. That's when I fall back on my other excellent standby catchphrase for the more delicate members of society. My 5-year-old, bless him, can use it well already. We walk in somewhere, he catches a whiff of something not so enticing, and his little voice proclaims, "Smells like butt casserole!"

That's my boy.