So it’s been a little while…

Since I last blogged, I’ve filmed my first music video, I took a shot of Vietnamese liquor that was seasoned with cobra and scorpion venom, and we (thankfully) elected our first African American president. For those of you that are Lindsay Lohan fans, that’s the socially acceptable way to say your word “colored.”

I also was the roastmaster for John Fierro’s 30^th birhday roast. For those of you that couldn’t be there, it was fantastic. It turns out that although I’ve lost weight, I’m still fat. Also, it has occurred to others that no one really knows what I do for money at bars. I have DVD proof if anybody wants to see it, but I’m gonna need at least 37 more views before I give it up.

After doing that rosat, I’m fully convinced that I need to get back up and start doing comedy again. It’s so addicting, hearing that laugh. People talk about the first time they do heroin feeling this intense, beautiful warm glow wash over them. That is how getting your first big laugh feels. I can only hope now that I’ll become a prolific comedian, delve deeper into my need for laughs, become a self-loathing celebrity because of it, and end up blowing my head off in my Seattle greenhouse with a shotgun my wife and best friend bought for me. Listen to me now class, laughter is harder to kick than cigarettes DIPPED in heroin.

So in the past month, I’ve found out that more than one friend of mine is in an open relationship/marriage. It’s weird. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t do what makes you happy, and I know that all of my desires are not of the purest kind, but I think it’s weird when you bring your friends into the openness. Your friends are there to talk to, get advice from, hang out with, and say the offensive thing to that could normally get you arrested in 17 states and Puerto Rico. But there’s a layer of stuff you share with your spouse and your diary and your confessor. That is it. When you bring friends into it, things get weird…because once something is out there, as Eddie Vedder said, “Some words when spoken, can’t be taken back.”

My Sex And The City ladies will know this as the butt sex quandary (Yes guys, I’ve watched every episode of Sex and the City, and it wasn’t bad. Fuck off.). When a boyfriend throws the “let’s try anal” question out there, if it doesn’t go over well it will remain a dark cloud looming over a relationship until one of them breaks. It remains that card-up-the-sleeve that either person can play when they’re out of points in a fight and want to go for blood. She can play the “You’re just mad because I won’t…” or the even more dreaded “Well you’re the  sick freak who wanted to…,” and he can also bring the pain with a “If you weren’t so repressed maybe I wouldn’t be so sick of you…”

So as a friend, when you tell me that you and your husband are in an open relationship so you can sleep with anyone you want, I don’t want to be around you anymore. It’s not that I think I’m that unstoppably desirable (even though I totally am), it’s more that I don’t feel the same. Now when you’re shitfaced and you put your arm around me and say “I love you so much, Ben!” It’s not the platonic, safe kind I hear. It’s the “I’m sad and need someone else’s penis to take that momentarily away,” kind. The kisses on the lips that used to be friendship pecks now seem gross, all of it.

I can go on about how I think that “open relationships” are usually only open for one person and it’s the mix of codependence and emotional abuse that keeps it together, but I don’t really want to go on about it. To put it best, it’s like our friendship was a steak, and your open relationship admission was a big, steaming poop on top of it. You can eat around it if you really want, where it’s not touching, but you’ll still know that you’re kinda eating poop.

For the record, I don’t like eating poop.

That does remind me, I got to overhear another one of the greatest sentences ever spoken last week. I was walking through Block E in downtown (site of the most beautiful visual ever, “The Fat Girl Crying While Eating Delicious Ice Cream”) and two VERY heavy African American women were eating. One pulled out a big piece of cake and, sans silverware, just grabbed it and started stuffing it in here cavernous jaws. As she forcefully two-fingered the cake into her mouth like she was shoving a pillow into a 20 oz water bottle, the other woman exclaimed, “Ooh Ida Mae! You eat dat cake gurrl!!!”

Ahh. For all the Ike and Tina (nee’ Ida Mae) jokes that my friends and I have made, it just felt so right to hear in that situation.

“Oooh Ida Mae!!”

Sometimes I wish I was a morbidly obese black woman, just so I could say things like that correctly. Sigh.

The premiere of the music video “You’re The Terrorist Pilot Of My Heart’s Airplane (My 9/11 Girl)” by my band Schaivo Hungry will be on Thanksgiving Eve at the Ugly Mug/Dive Bar 10pm CT. If you cannot make it to the Black Wednesday party that night, search it on youtube.com, break.com, or funnyordie.com on Thanksgiving Day. Show your family, send the link to friends, then tell everyone you know.

 I’m gonna need about 15 minutes…

BQ