I have to tell you something upsetting—I almost died last Wednesday night. That's right. I stared into Death's cold, soulless eyes and saw no mercy. I choked on his icy grip and gasped for air. More importantly, I fought back like a Babylonian Warrior and I lived to tell the tale. (Specifically, I was really high and choked on a sandwich, but let's not mince words.) So who's to blame for nearly ending my precious little life? A little television channel called TLC. For it was the shock of seeing a commercial for their new documentary My Monkey Baby that lodged a shitake mushroom square into my windpipe and sent my life flashing before my eyes. And there's no way in hell I was going to let the last thing I see in my lifetime be a capuchin monkey in a Victorian parlour dress being spoon fed in a high chair. So I had no choice but to survive.
But really. My Monkey Baby. That really happened. Last night. And it will happen again tonight at midnight EST, so I recommend you set your DVRs to stunned! Because did you know that there are over 15,000 monkeys in the United States who have been adopted by couples looking for an alternative to human adoption? Did you know that these monkeys are called monkids and cost upwards of $5,000? Did you know that the statistics I just shared with you make me want to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich until I cease breathing or society becomes less appalling, whichever happens first?
My Monkey Baby follows three couples who have chosen to adopt and raise a monkey as their own child. And I can't stress how literally I mean that statement. These aren't helper monkeys or service animals of any kind. And the people who have adopted them aren't obsessed pet owners either. Mostly because they don't consider their monkeys to be pets—they consider them to be their adopted offspring. Which is apparently a uniquely American "craze." That's what the documentary calls this, by the way. A "craze." To which I say, the fuck?! Because The Twist? That was a craze. Crystal Pepsi? A craze. Nickelodeon's Gak? A craze. Being so disillusioned that you honestly think a pet monkey is your child? That's called being mentally ill. And frankly I don't want to live in a world where people this sick are rewarded with their own light-hearted TLC documentary, comically titled My Monkey Baby.
I think my favorite couple of the night was Indiana's Jesus and Carmen. Gather ye 'round children and let me tell you a tale about Hay-Zeus and Carmen: Hay-Zeus really, really, really doesn't want kids. So much so that when he was 22 years young, he scoured this great Nation to find a doctor ethically questionable enough to give him a vasectomy. Which bless his heart, he did. Now he's left fillin' up Carmen, his girlfriend of one year, with blanks and a burning desire for something more. *~QuIz TiMe!!~* Should Hay-Zeus and Carmen: a.) Get a dog b.) Have a sit-down about the direction of their relationship and consider reversing Hay-Zeus' vasectomy c.) Take up ball room dancing or d.) Drive to Missouri, buy a monkey for $5,000, name it "Butters" and raise it as their child
If you chose D, you are possibly clinically insane, but more importantly correct! For that is exactly what the J-meister and Carmen do. And then they swaddle it in blankets, pop it in a baby carrier and take it to Target where they buy it infant clothes and a pint-size Swiffer Wet Jet at a very reasonable 15% off. God I love this country.
Next up we have Bob and Mary Lynn. Mary Lynn is somewhat recently divorced and desperately misses her ex-step children, whom she no longer sees. Although happily married to her third husband, Bob, Mary Lynn sadly can not bear children of her own. *~QuIz TiMe!!~* Should Mary Lynn and Bob: a.) Get a dog b.) Get a better attitude c.) Adopt a human baby in desperate need of a loving home or d.) Adopt a wild monkey in desperate need of a jungle
If you chose D, you might live in Tennessee, as that is exactly what Bob and Mary Lynn decide to do. Mary Lynn is now a "stay-at-home mom" to her monkey daughter "Silly Willy," who at one point refuses to wear her bloomers, causing Mary Lynn to shriek "DID YOU TAKE OFF YOUR PANTIES?!" an ungodly number of times. Which is when I lit a q-tip on fire and shoved it in my ear to burn the pain away. I'd say the highlight of the entire program for me was when Mary Lynn loses one of her hormone pills and fears Silly Willy ate it. *~BONUS QuIz TiMe!!*~ If you were concerned that the monkey you believe is your honest-to-god child ate one of your hormone pills, would you: a.) Assume she'll be fine and continue on to Dress Barn b.) Tear your car apart until you find the lost pill c.) Take your monkid directly to the vet or d.) Call an animal psychic to read your monkid's thoughts
If you chose D, congratulations—you are now the proud parent of a rabid monkey baby.
And finally, there's old Lori and Jim Johnson from Bumblefuck Nowhere U.S.A. First and foremost, let it be known that I think I'm 78% in love with Jim Johnson and would be more than willing to get married to him on the back of his John Deer mower. Unfortunately for me, Jim is married to Lori. And unfortunately for Jim, Lori is insane. Prior to marrying Jim, Lori had six human children of her own who selfishly grew up and moved away from home to pursue "lives of their own." After her last child moved out, Lori fell into a deep depression and ended up in the hospital. *~QuIz TiMe!!~* Should Lori: a.) Get a dog b.) Continue seeking medical help for her depression c.) Mentor an inner-city child or d.) Leave the hospital and adopt a monkey because a monkey will never leave you to go to college, fall in love, get married or try to have a life of it's own in any way, shape or form
Thankfully for capuchin monkey Jessica Marie, Lori chose D. And then she married Jim Johnson. Bitch. You'll notice in that photo that Jessica "Jessy" Marie has quite the gummy primate smile. That's because Jessy kept "nipping" at her mommy and daddy, so mommy and daddy had all of her teeth ripped out. Which makes it even more pleasurable when her daddy Jim Johnson tongue kisses her. And I'm not making that up for effect. He literally french kisses his monkey daughter.
Which leads me to my problem with this "craze": I can understand being obsessed with your pet (cough—Evie—cough). Likewise, I can understand pets in outfits are adorable. I can even understand that there are people bat-shit crazy enough to consider their pet as their child. However, it is complete and utter bullshit to demand that the rest of the world recognize that a monkey is your child and must be treated as such. Because you don't fucking tongue kiss your children. Nor do you have their teeth removed when they "nip" at you or put them in cages when they lose their "panties." It's just asking far too much of us. If we have to play by your ass-backwards rules then you have to play by a few of ours.
For example, when Lori and Jim are kicked out of a restaurant for bringing Jessy, Lori throws a shit fit at the audacity of the manager to not only kick them out, but also to call Jessy a "monkey" instead of her "daughter." "WELL I'M CERTAINLY NEVER COMING BACK HERE AGAIN!" Lori shouts. Madam, your daughter has a tail. A rat-like tail protruding straight out of her ass bone. She also has fur. And starred in the 1995 movie Outbreak. Because your daughter is a fucking monkey and monkeys are not allowed in eating establishments for good reason: they're unsanitary. Just because you put an ironic wedding gown on it does not mean it's been soaked in a vat of Purell for a week.
All I'm trying to say is the day we have to accept monkeys as legitimate forms of children dining next to us at the Cracker Barrel is the day I'm allowed to call Child Protective Services to tell them that you just went to first base with your daughter and put her and her panties in a cage. God bless America.
I have this funny habit of picking up a trend when its too late. Like I’m the world’s father and once I start doing something, it’s no longer cool. Like in 5th grade, I was the last person to get a Starter jacket (Dallas Cowboys, like I even cared) before they went south.
But there are a few things that I have gotten in on the ground floor on. Track jackets (you’re welcome, men aged 13-28), the RZR phone, the following Rachel Zoe video (thank you, reader Patricia!)and Facebook. Remember back in the day when Facebook was only available to college students because it started in college? My school was one of the first colleges (after Harvard, because Lord knows I was not smart enough to get in there) to get Facebook in March of 2004. I can distinctly recall walking out of the dining hall and hearing everyone talking about this new website called “The Facebook”. Because, if you remember, you originally had to go to "thefacebook.com”. And like a true freshman, I talked about it with my friends to make sure they were going to join before joining myself.
And while there were only a few colleges online at this juncture, that still added up to a sizable population of co-eds to stalk. Who is that cute guy in your Intro to Econ class? Find him on Facebook. What about the total bitch who sits next to you in World Civ? Facebook. I was frequently up until 4 AM accompanied by all my new friends on Facebook. And whenever the homepage updated with new colleges added, I’d see if I knew anyone who went there so I could friend them right away. Which would always be followed by some witty “Welcome to Facebook! Say goodbye to your social life!” wall post.
Because it was true. I gave Facebook an inordinate amount of my time in college. Granted, my life in college consisted of about 12 hours of class a week and 156 hours of God-knows-what-but-usually-Facebook. But still, not only could you stalk people you’d never met, you could make groups, see what parties people were going to, etc. It was amazing.
But that was the thing about Facebook way back when. It was like a club that you had to wait to be granted access. Like Studio 54 without the AIDS. And everyone knows word of mouth is the best publicity (see Season 3, Episode 7 of Ugly Betty, namely “The Roof. Be there.”) so if everyone on campus is talking about Facebook, you aren’t going to want to be the only one who has no idea what they are talking about. “What do you mean it’s now just facebook.com? I never even knew about thefacebook.com” See? It just sounds like someone waiting for their lunch money to be taken.
For a while, Facebook was my number one most visited non-adult website. You could enjoy all the stalking you wanted in the privacy of your dorm room. 99.9% of colleges were online, so you were guaranteed to have already found everyone you knew from high school and were able to laugh at the misfortune of some and feel overwhelmingly jealous of others. As long as you had a valid college email address, you were welcome to stalk your little heart out. (Sidebar: I was always personally opposed, however, to the pre-frosh who joined Facebook with their college emails before they ever set foot on campus. Sure, you have a college email, but unless you’ve already skipped a class solely because you were too busy stalking, you can’t have more than 100 friends yet. I’m sorry but you just can’t.)
And as if that wasn’t bad enough, they went and let the riff raff in.
When I heard from the gossip mill that Facebook was expanding to high schools, I was in no way pleased. What right do high schoolers have to be on Facebook? Shouldn’t they be studying specifically so that they could get into college so they could thus use their school email address to join Facebook?! Isn’t that what America is about?! Then came the first Facebook facelift which did not go over well with the general populace, myself included. Then applications started to be added. Then another facelift. More applications. And ads. All of a sudden, anyone can join. Studio 54 just opening its doors to homeless men off the street. Now Studio 54 has become Times Square. All glitz, no glamour, and certainly no exclusivity.
What really put the nail in Fbook’s coffin for me is the sudden influx of my family members online. First and foremost, my Facebook marriage has already caused a problem with one of my cousins, who believed she was left off the guest list to my wedding. Secondly, I don’t know how comfortable I am with my aunts and uncles looking at pictures of me drunk at numerous parties over the years. This could lead to a variety of awkward Thanksgiving conversations, including, but not limited to “How exactly do you play flip cup? You seem to be very good at it.” After graduating, I thought I’d spend a lot more time on Facebook than I have. Those friends that I want to keep in touch with, I can Gchat with (God willing, barring another unfortunate server overload). Anyone beyond that, I’ve got their phone numbers. For me, the novelty of Facebook has worn off. “Facebook me” is no longer a cute way to make friends. It still happens, but it’s a lot harder to bump into your new Facebook friend in a city full of millions of people than it is on a campus of 1,000. In short, what I’m driving at might seem like a crazy idea to most of you, but I think I might be quitting Facebook. Is this as crazy as it sounds?
Excuse me, (used as a polite expression, as when addressing a stranger, when interrupting or disagreeing with someone, or to request repetition of what has just been said.)
Also, I beg your pardon, pardon me. Forgive me, as in Excuse me, please let me pass, or Pardon me for asking, or I beg your pardon, I don't think so. These phrases are used as an apology for interrupting a conversation, bumping into someone, asking a speaker to repeat something, politely disagreeing with something said, and so on. The first dates from about 1600, the first variant from about 1800, the second from the mid-1700s.
Oh wait a minute, that's right; I didn't coin this term. It's existed for hundreds of years and can be translated into virtually any language:
En Français: Excusez-moi!
En Español: Perdón!
AufDeutsch: Entschuldigung!
Italiano: Mi scusi!
In Nederlands: Mag ik even uwaandacht!
In het Japans: Shitsureishimasu!
In Swahili: Samahani!
...to name a few. So why doesn't anyone say "excuse me" anymore? Honestly, I would love an answer.
I was walking around Georgetown Saturday afternoon running errands and I had one of those moments where for a hot second you think it's completely possible that you've died and become a ghost. Because only being a ghost would justify the lack of courtesy your fellow man is showing you. So you try to walk face first through a wall and you're all, "Oh wait, I am alive. Just nobody respects me. K. Good to know."
All day people were cutting me off left and right, bumping into me, letting doors slam in my face, allowing children to dance around my feet like rabid Chihuahuas. Kid, I can punt you from here to next Tuesday; I suggest you learn how to say "excuse me." Actually, it's not the kid's fault; he's new and simple. His parents are the ones responsible for teaching him the importance of saying "excuse me." But no! Mom and Dad think it's just adoooooorable that little Taylor darted in front of me and almost broke my ankle! HE'S A PRECOCIOUS LITTLE DEVIL IN'T HE?!
Sunday morning I was strolling through Dupont, minding my own business, getting some coffee, when a random guy walked directly into my personal space and in an incredibly hostile tone asked, "So is this Connecticut Avenue or what?!"Woah, woah, woah, sir: 1.) I am not your campus tour guide. Don't ask me for directions like it's my job. 2.) I don't recall volunteering for a kissing booth today; kindly take one giant step back. and 3.) I understand that being lost is frustrating, but that attitude isn't going to get you anywhere.
This was a perfect example of an appropriate time to say "excuse me." Had this man said, "Excuse me, is this Connecticut Avenue or what?" I would have gladly said, "No. One street over," instead of giving him the stink-eye and sending him in the wrong direction. You are interrupting me. Therefore you say excuse me. Right? I mean, I feel like I'm sniffing glue here. You just say excuse me to people. Common courtesy; it's what separates us from the animals. Or something.
This whole "excuse me" business has been building up for a while and I kind of lost my shit this morning. In my defense my hair was frizzing, I was running late and hadn't had coffee yet. I can't be held responsible for my actions under such harsh conditions. Anyway, I was in the metro (which was delightfully comfortable and not nearly as packed as it is when I'm on time) standing, holding the pole next to me for balance, as you do. At Farragut North, a woman walked on and stood in front of the pole I was holding. And that's cool; it's a tall pole, plenty of space for us all to grab on. But she didn't grab on. She leaned her entire body against the pole and her disgustingly long pony tail draped over my hand. (I've re-written that sentence like 500 times. I don't know why I'm having such a hard time putting this into words. Please see helpful stick figures below:) Gross! Don't drape your creepy stranger hair all over my clean hand! Then when I gruffly moved my hand up the pole, she turned around and gave me an irritated look. Oh, I'M sorry! Was my hand in the way of your horse hair?! My mistake! Want a scalp massage while I'm there? Well blokay! NO! That's not the way that things work, sister! My hand was there first and how presumptuous are you to come in and lay your physical person all over the community pole, nevertheless directly on my hand! And when you realize you're on my hand, say EXCUSE ME! You invaded my space, not the other way around! My hand was there long before your horse hair was! I had vested real estate on that pole! And shame on me for giving up so easily and moving my hand.
As I stood there staring at the back of her head, I couldn't stop fuming about her lack of an "excuse me." It was just so unbelievably rude. And she'll probably go through the rest of her life being just as rude and never realize what a drain she is on society. And then I noticed that the sunglasses perched on her head had multi-colored hearts running along the frames. Hearts. Hearts are the universal symbol for peace and love. This woman was rude and hostile. She was the anti-heart. How dare she don hearts?! I could just see her at Jones New York all "Awww, these sunglasses have hearts on 'em! That's so me!" But they're not you. Hemorrhoidsare you. Youryearlygynecological exam is you. Hurricane Katrina is you. Hearts are not you. And suddenly it became very important to me that she know this fact.
So I punched her in the head as I got off the metro. Not hard. Just hard enough to let her know what was up. As clearly illustrated above, instead of simply letting go of the metro pole before exiting, I slid my hand down and knocked her in the back of the head with slight, yet ample force. And then I ran without looking back. Because that's the kind of girl I am.
What I want you to take from this story is the following: 1.) It's important to say "excuse me" 2.) Don't take shit from anyone who wears sunglasses with hearts on them 3.) I am not the most stable table before 9 am.
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