Olfactory Hoppiness and Audible Obscenities

I suppose there are things more disconcerting than having a grown man wearing a giant block of synthetic cheese on his head pour beer on you.

(…being urinated on by a miniature Dachshund, for instance, or having your shirt collar straightened by a wino wearing splashes of decomposing haggis cologne…)

But, being a virgin to the arena of live American Football, I didn’t know such things were par for the athletic spectator course. I didn’t know that a culture existed within which it was acceptable to spew volcanic, garlic-cheese-fry tephra into the faces of those around you, and I’d never heard of any club that invited its members to scream obscenities into each other’s ears and shove stale, under-fermented malty-hoppy yeast aromas up each other’s nostrils.

This club, however, does in fact exist. They are most commonly known as “football fans”.

And, I was among them last night at the snowy Seahawks-Packers game in Seattle.

When my private student, Makoto, invited me to join him in his section 310, season pass seats, he probably thought I knew and cared more about football than I actually do. He probably thought, for example, that I knew what a “down” and a “red flag” were and that I understood why non-inebriated men would line up to wrestle with each other to the dissonant screams of shirtless, chest-painted cat-callers.

But, I disguised my ignorance well.

Having lived in quite a few different countries where strange happenings were the norm, I was able to adapt quickly to the new stadium environment. When others wearing my color (blue) jumped up to wave flags and holler enthusiastic obscenities, I did the same. When natives boo-ed baritone beer breath indecencies, so did I.

And, I think I did all right. (At least…, no members of the Club potato-sacked me or pulled me back into a dank locker room for questioning. And, the rumors of water board-supported quizzes on QB and runningback statistics… well…, nope- luckily never happened.)

And, actually…, I have to admit that the fans won me over. There’s something outstandingly special about the type of primal screaming, hysteria, emotional excitement and touchdown-determined disappointment that comes with watching a live football game;

something we don’t get to experience everyday in our humdrum lives.

Yeah, it’s something alright…

Something like competition-strummed cacophony and oral malodor.



*Edit/Update: Honestly, I had an awesome time at the game, and can’t wait to go to another one!! (I’ll just bring along my supplemental vocal chords and face mask next time!)

Web-schlong Winks

I've finally added blog links.
Most are my real-life friends.
Some are real-life blog buddies of a few years.
And the other two... well..., I don't know who they are.

If I've forgotten you, talk to my editors.
They are lazy luddites, but are very kind.

Poultry as Passage

Discreetly wrapping up your first pair of blood-stained panties and burying them at the bottom of the campground dumpster…

Getting your first pocket knife and carving your name into a picnic table… Hearing, for the first time, that giving birth is like squeezing a razor blade-adorned watermelon through your throat…Writing your first poem and reading it to a mirror… Divulging, on your knees, your first Jaegermeister to a receptive porcelain ear... Boarding a plane alone, for the first time, to a foreign place… Learning to finger unknown Beethoven movements on your own smooth corpora cavernosa glans… being poked in a sensitive zone where no pocket knife has been before…

These are true Rites of Passage.

And, well…, I thought since I’d spelunked these passages before, I was pretty much done with the Coming-Of-Age ritualistic nonsense.

I mean…, What other silliness could there really be left?

I’ve already ridden without training wheels, navigated my first munchies, slept on cardboard boxes, signed soul-claiming contracts, and braved the consumption of VeggieMite…

There couldn’t possibly be more ticket-checkers, waiting to negotiate my passage into adulthood, could there?…

Yes, there could.

I learned yesterday, that there is a dude (who also works minimum-wage security at the rio of Stix border) standing at the gates of Adulthood, checking to make sure that all United-states-of-Americans have cooked their own Thanksgiving meals (without the help of their families).

I learned that if you are a USA passport-holder and have not yet a)burned a witch, b)been a CIA snitch abroad or c)baked a bird bitch for the holidays, you will be denied passage to the Land of Grown-Upedness.

Fearful that we wouldn’t make it past the frontera and would remain perpetual stag-party brothers of Peter Pan, Mr. E and I decided yesterday to roast an innocent winged beast, stuff her with tasty potions, and give her company on the plate.

After six hours, our meal turned out great (despite our many outspoken exclamations of “What the hell is this globby thing?!”, “Are her legs supposed to be limply flailing like that?!” and “What?! You have to cook a casserole?!”).

We are both ecstatic.

But…,

Both of our Visas are still mysteriously pending at the border…

Of Teet-sharing and Dear-Diarying

I’ve never been much for the I-went-here-today-saw-this-felt-that kind of blog post.

…Especially when the places been, the things seen, and the feelings felt are of the pretty mundane, had-orange-juice-and-coffee-for-breakfast-and-am-feeling-kinda-bloated ilk…

But, what can I say? I’m lazy, have been neglecting my blog a lot recently, and I had orange juice and coffee for breakfast today. And yes, I am feeling slightly bloated.

So, here goes the kind of post I usually hate:

My week in a shelled pair of nuts

Taught some English. Took some walks. Had a life-sized, self-defense doll sporting a green belt sit next to me on the bus. Unraveled the mysteries of when to use definite articles with uncountable nouns (mainly when the dry martini well at the party dries up…). Facilitated crude compare-contrast conversation with Japanese students at a bar after visiting a home-grown American sex shop. Hit a surprisingly decent open-mike night (spoken-worders, young-angsters, expired rockers, dark eccentrics and tabla poets). Became an official Washingtonian (the trip to the Department of Licensing was so amazingly stress-free that I might just as well have been getting a teet massage from Buddha himself). Checked out my dad’s recently uploaded site (so much for blogger anonymity!) Watched and was disappointed by Borat (c’mon! a little less drama, and a little more docu!). Was informed by my veiled Saudi Arabian student that humans used to live for thousands of years. Read some of this and this. Ate some burrito made by a white woman (go Seattle!). Drank some orange juice. Took a few shits….

And there we have it: my best attempt at a Dear Diary entry.

Well, the sooner I quit this uninspired post, the better.

(Yes, I’m still practicing my double comparatives!)

And, finally…, here’s a squirrel sucking from a momma dog’s lactating boob.

...yup.

Erection Day Sigh

There are no keys on this laptop that can accurately express the long sigh of ecstatic relief/hope/pride I am feeling and exhaling right now for my country.

(Perhaps, if I were more versed in the young email-cum-text message language of LOLs and OMGs, I could illustrate it with a few semicolons and closing parenthesis, a smattering of custom smiley faces or a long series of dashes, apostrophes and backslashes artistically arranged… but, alas…)

The only way I can describe this feeling is to compare it to the emotions I might feel if I had just learned that my beloved, younger brother (who had been a clown-costumed criminal, crack-burning crony for 19 years and a male-bride-ordering sexaholic with an affinity for building meth labs inside of National Parks) had just finished Rehab and now sported 10 months of sobriety notches on his belt.

Aaahh, yes…. the sincere pride, admiration, respect, hope and love for a dear brother who has moved his chemical drug factories out of the old-growth forests and into the new….

Happy Election Results Day!

The hotter, the better

Last Tuesday was Hallow's Eve, and I've been meaning to post about it for a few days now.

I've got great gaudy, raunchy and sensibility-wrenching raw tales of Japanese students in thimble-sized skirts and wanton, western-French maid get-ups...., detailed descriptions and candid shots of promiscuously-dressed, pecker peek-invoking Peter Pan iron-ons, shamelessly sexy scenes from innocent exchange students in tall stockings, stories of stretched napkin bosom sheaths and high-heeled ruby-studded leather boots...

But..., the time has passed…

The blogosphere has left Halloween behind in its laundry basket.

Used and ready for recycling.

No..., the truth is that I would feel slightly exploitive – if not REALLY WRONG- using my curvaceous, nubile, whore-adorning language learners as blog post attractions...

(... plus, I think it's illegal to post those kind of shots without ethical clearance.

...even if the featured models DO dress and act like the type who would giggle and apologize while saying no and gasping as you stuck an antler up their rear kettle spout....)

Honestly, though…, I have spent the better part of a week disguising explanations of the possible cultural/anatomical implications of dressing like a dirty skag beneath target grammar points.

For example, Wednesday, we studied Double Comparatives (i.e. “The more it rains, the wetter I get,” and “The earlier I wake up, the more time I have to masturbate,” etc.)

So, I tried a few “Complete-the-sentence” games with them:

Me: The more I speak English…,
Students: … the more confident I become.

Me: The more fast-food I eat…,
Students: … the more weight I gain.

Me: The shorter my skirt is,….
Students: …the cuter I look.

Me: The more leg, ass and pubic hairs a bystander can see…,
Students: … the cuter I look.

Now…, I don’t know if I’m just becoming old and over-protective, or if these alleged college graduates are just still that ridiculously naïve…

But, I DO know that the next student wearing a hoola-hoop of fabric ‘round her waist who complains about obnoxious male suitors at the bus stop will get a free double comparative lesson from me:

The sluttier you look, the more slut-seekers you’ll attract.

And the more slut-seekers you attract, the...