Head in the Bowl

Sometimes I get a little crude. I dip my head in the muck and gargle, I squat over a spinning fan and shit. I do it all in jest though, an innocent ribbing, trying to get a rise. Its tasteless and adolescent, sure, but it makes me laugh. Anyone that takes offense at what I said can fuck off. And they can tell me to fuck off too. I don’t care.

Yesterday Alex and I were joking around on IM…

[OMG! LOLROFLMAO!!!! A/S/L? PIX PLEAZ]

...and later on in the evening, as I was chasing Frisbees in prospect park under Brooklyn dusk with my good friend Paul, I thought back on our chat and giggled. But there were still a few points left up in the air. Why DO cam whores call all the perverts bb? Who decided to call that porno “Rim My Gape,” and why didn’t anyone point out, before the cover art went to print, that the name had no ring to it? How can I make AIDS jokes and live with myself, and how can I make AIDS even funnier?

The truth is, there is no answer to those mysteries, but I still felt there was more they could offer. So I wrote an email.

From: jonsaid@gmail.com
To: Alex@dontoutmyaddy.com
Subject: In Conclusion…

Dear Alex,

I'm in the kitchen with lea and she’s digging in the freezer, smiling
wildly, telling me she has a surprise. Its mad hot on that end of the
house because we got the air conditioner on the other side, near the
bed and the tv, where we spend most of our time. I already know what the surprise is, she's experienced a vocal hankering for them the past few days: Klondike bars. But I still smile and clap like a greedy little kid when she pulls them out cause I know that’s what she really
wants [even more than the actual treats, maybe] and I like to keep my bb happy.

On a side note: they weren’t really Klondike Bars, they were some hippy dark chocolate organic shit. Taste the same though, it’s just more expensive.

Then she asks the question. And it’s the only question that could be
asked really, now that I think about it. In this situation, in that
hot kitchen where sweat was everywhere, on the walls and on our skin and on the pots and pans in the sink, what other inquiry could be
uttered, what topic proposed, but: What would you do for a Klondike
Bar?

In that sing songy voice, from the commercial.

I sprang to action, ceasing the opportunity. "I'd sell my mother into slavery!"

She eyed me, smirking, "what?"

"I'd rape a small amphibian!" I yelled. She chuckled but stared at me
curiously.

Though I wanted to say, "I'd rim my Fathers gape!" I thought that
might be to racy for the crowd, not being "in on the joke," might make that sound a little awkward.

And then I got it, the coup de grace. I paused dramatically, then
threw my head back in triumph.

"I'D GET THE AIDS!!!!"

Then I snatched the hippy late night candy fix from her hand and tore
into the box with my teeth, snarling and frothing at the mouth, eating it all in 24 monstrous bites. The vanilla ice cream, the dark
chocolate outer covering, the stick, the cardboard, and her fingers.


your friend,

-jon

I know, its cheap. Posting a letter that I wrote last night? That’s cheating, without a doubt. But this post is disposable, like a porno clip after the second blast. So eat it, tricks.

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Check out this hipster humor. Some of it is spot on. I think. I dont know. Ask the guy at Last Nights Party. Whoa, if this doesnt make you want to get clean than damn, you a dirty motherfucker!