On Valentine's Day & RPC-II, Sightings Of...

CALL ME OLD-FASHIONED but I always thought that an elbow-macaroni encrusted heart cut from construction paper, still gooey with the always tempting edibility of Elmers, was considered The Bar for Valentine's Day gift-giving. After a hard day of getting it up the poop chute on Betamax for diet cracker endorsements and exercise, it had always been customary for me to come home to find said-Valentine sitting on the floor where our coffee table would be if we had one. This was OUR tradition and, really, it is the nature of tradition itself that so enriches these holidays, is it not? But I digress. It's the 90s now. Times are ticking and the clock is a-changing. And my husband, "Jamal" (he asked me not to use his real name and shit but he's only 13 and has to ask me for permission to use the stolen internet on our fake computer anyway, so I'm pretty sure he wouldn't ever find out if I told you that his name is really J'mall. Sidenote: He's still in 4th grade and his teacher says the window of opportunity for him to learn to read is closing faster than that raccoon's jaws around her left ankle. His strengths are in microbial diagnostics and egg hatching. Something tells me he's going to be a hugely successful famous world leader or money glutton like Donald Trump...or a really enthused volunteer pornstar like me. Shoot for the moon, I say. Even if your rocket crashes, you can get high off of the fumes.) Where was I?

NEVER PEE IN A PUBLIC RESTROOM BELOW THE MASON-DIXON LINE or you're libel to become infected with RPC-II (Redneck Peehole Critters, Second Strain). My neighbor and best friend, Black Velvet, went on a camping trip this past December, during a blizzard. (She claims it gives your body something to hate other than itself.) She went it all alone. I didn't think that was a good idea by any means. She tried to get me to go. I told her I'd rather die in the non-comfort of my barely-house. She spat on me. I tied her up and left her in my basement (*which is really somebody else's house's basement--that's the genius of it) for two nights. I meant to do it for just an hour but I fell asleep for those two days, and when I woke up, she had left for the wilderness. She's been alone her whole life. Legend has it that she was born without any parents and raised herself since she was a 0 year-old. Now, it's damn hard to believe THAT, but what I do believe is that she was raised by a pack of old Chinese ladies who made her watch the same Sesame Street tape four times every day. (It wasn't even a real Sesame Street; it was bootlegged look-alike puppets with fully developed pubic hair chatting about how to replace lost teeth in Vietnam.)

Here's a photo I've got of her (In this particular picture, she is watching the last member of the pack of Chinese ladies that raised her being burnt to death, as is tradition when you turn 101 in our neck of the woods. RIP Hester Chen. "Jamal" actually took this picture. He's a genius of light and shadow. Actually, I take that back. I took the picture.

So, this being Valentine's and all, I do miss Black Velvet and I hope if she made it to Antarctica, she'll at least eat some penguin for me. I got a postcard from her last Tuesday:She seems hunky dory despite the RPC-II; my degree in handwriting analysis tells me that she's found love with a fair-but-ill-tempered man (Sean Penn?)--as you can see she dots her "i's" with hearts. She remembered her cursive, which is important. And the postcard smelled like a Dunkin' Donuts dumpster, so she must be getting plenty to eat. But she also broke my heart, as she must still harbor a grudge against me for telling her I'd rather die than accompany her, and then locking her up in a well for two days, as she writes "we still (symbol for not equal to) friends."

Alright, so speaking of dotting one's "i's" with hearts and what-not, let's get back to the tricky business at hand--the changing tide of our nation's Valentine's Day. As mentioned, for the past six years, J'mall and I have exchanged homemade valentines (in his case, schoolmade--and graded), and then exchanged bodily fluids.(Last year, he told me that when we move somewhere big and fancy when we're super rich, he's gonna pork me in each room of the house. Right now, I told him I'd settle for each corner of the room we live in.) So, simplicity has been love's beacon of hope...

...until Jennifer Hudson came along and fucked it up. This year, you see, my husband wants not only my love and my thick diamond encrusted bosom to lay his head across. He doesn't want a card from Hallmark, candy, new shoelaces, chairs for the ping-pong dining room table, not even a cute gigantic stuffed animal. (I just had a major craving for penguin; man I hope Black Velvet comes around to seeing things my way and hauls some delicious Emperor penguin blubber back across the Mohabi for me...) NO. What does J'mall want to commemorate our years of love and semi-devotion and blackmail? A 'capelet,' that thing that J. Hud wore to the Count Chocula Festival. What really upsets me is that our love has never been about material things, because we have (a) never owned anything or (b) just stolen the things that we pretend to own. I know a shimmering metallic capelet is different than all that; he wants it to be HIS. It's not enough for me to make one out of tin foil, like fancy food, folded into a swan. And it's sure not gonna be right if I lift the item. It has to be new, store-bought. The designer's name has to end in a vowel, he says. Like a dumb-ass, I said 'If you wanna look like Elvira, why don't you just wear some fake vampire teeth?' (you know, the wax kind...). He stabbed my chest with a fork, and then ATE MY NIPPLE. We took pictures after we got high and made up and it was funny. It was actually taken by Hester Chen, right before her 101th birthday and live cremation:

I told J'mall I was going to tie him to the toilet and feed him Dran-o until he shat out my poor nipple. But the next morning, it hurt a whole lot again. And then, we hatched a Valentine's Plan! We are suing Jennifer Hudson, as well as the Count Chocula Festival, and with our winnings, we indeed plan to buy a wonderful capelet, and for me, something special. No one ever really thinks they're going to hit the jack-pot, make it big, sue the living capelet out of a celebrity for inflicting unprecedented damages upon undiscerning gradeschool husbands. But this is our day. It is our United States of America. Some people dream of driving a speedy Corvette should they ever have the dough. Or travel the world. Or space. Or bite the head off a living bat (that's Black Velvet's dream).

What do I want? Oh, I'm pretty modest, I suppose. But, with these supposed funds we may or may not receive, I am going to buy a beautiful magenta Taser, 11,000 volts of hot pink lady sex. I'm going to see if I can cook a pork chop with it. Or if I can get J'mall to hit puberty faster. But mostly, I think I'll just attack rich women with it and steal their purses, so that we may buy more and better capelets, bigger tasers, and tastier penguin blubber, should the chance arrive!!

In the end, Valentine's day isn't just about love. It's about loving what you want to get your hands on.

And, as of this posting, I'm still waiting on J'mall to shit out the remainder of my nipple. I've sort of given up on it...but I learned something about giving up--it's for the retarded. Real people will fight and take Jennifer Hudson's money and really make something of themselves. Never give up on your dreams. You never know when you'll be able to get the money to buy yours. Here's a picture of mine:



Love, Lidet.