Zilla, Pabst, and Jose

If you’re new here, you might want to meet my alter-ego before proceeding.

Channeling her inner Houdini, she managed to escape some time ago.

Evidently, she roamed all over God’s creation with a supply of Pabst, a friend of hers, and my temperamental time machine.

They also stole a bottle of champagne, but at this point, that is neither here nor there.

She’s been in my ear all morning attempting to explain herself.  Twiggy arms flapping in excitement, stomping her tail to provide the occasional soundtrack, miming the actions of what is either an ancient tribal ritual or a story about being trapped in the middle of an Hermes sale (I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually)-regardless, she’s got a long way to go in describing her whereabouts these past months.

She wore herself out in the middle of a tale about Jose (the buddy of hers I mentioned), and so in an effort to get her to quiet down a bit, I asked her to write you all a note about how this adventure got started in the first place.

As you can see, the handwritten explanations leave much to the imagination.

Just thought you should all know that I have verified the expiration date of her rickshaw license.  Early 16th century, though it looks like she could have extended if she hadn’t missed the deadline.

She’s slowly piecing it together for me, but I’m sure I’ve just hit the tip of the iceberg.  I’m debating giving her access to my password on here, so if you see an occasional drawing sans explanation, rest assured, it’s Zilla.

Rawr.

Flashers, ovaries, and my elbow

I saw another penis on the metro last night.

Paris has more rogue wieners than tourists this time of year.

The owner of this particular specimen was wagging it around like a helicopter blade whilst screaming profanity.  There was an empty bottle of something at his feet, and by the looks of things, he was not leaving the station anytime soon.

I’m a little curious as to why he was so fascinated by his own member, as one would imagine he’s been attached to it since birth.  I suppose their connection is his greatest life accomplishment to date, and this is why he felt the need to share it with the world.

Regardless, there it was, wagging around like a sad limp sock attached to a sad limp guy.

As I walked by, it dawned on me that I rarely see the naked bits of ladies down in the underbelly of the city.  Once I saw a large woman’s breast when she heaved it out to show me (an action I still cannot explain though this too was related to alcohol), but that’s the only time I’ve ever been flashed by a lady.

Comparatively, quite a few male flashers have crossed my path in various locations around the globe.  I’ve seen seen male flashers in the US, the UK, Grenada, Tanzania, Switzerland, and of course-France.

There must be something exciting that flashers get from their dirty deeds.  I wonder what it is, and I wonder if it could be replicated by flashing random bits of body normally not associated with sex?

An elbow, for example.  If I just started intently staring at people on the metro, holding eye contact whilst my arm slowly curled up to reveal a little piece of bow-candy?  I wonder if I’d get a thrill out of it.  Maybe a knee pit now and then?

Though I guess people wouldn’t realize it was something they weren’t supposed to see, so I’d probably have to tattoo the words “Do Not Look At Me, I Am An Erotic Elbow” onto it.

Yea, that might work.  Or I guess I could tattoo some naughty bits onto my elbow and flash them.

Penises are too mainstream though.

I’m thinking ovaries.  Yes, I think if I tattooed ovaries onto my elbow, stared people down on the metro, and flashed them a little ovarian bow, I could probably replicate the feeling accomplished by your run-of-the-mill flasher.

You know, really bring it more into the contemporary art scene.

The tattoo would probably hurt a bit though.  Plus there’s the cost.  And for what?  At the end of the day, I’d just be that girl on line 4, flashing tattooed elbow ovaries at people.

Maybe they’d sell little statues of my elbow in the tourists shops next to the Eiffel Tower pencil sharpeners and baguette pens.  Maybe I’d get silkscreened on a few tshirts before Urban Outfitters caught wind, mass-marketed the shirts and sold them to hipsters for 30 seconds until the fad ended-thus erasing my mystic underground image.

Still, there’s always henna…..

A splash of ethnic flare, a hint of cross cultural flashing relations.  Western white American meets Indian art in unconventional location, in one of the most artistic cities in the world-and it’s temporary.  Flashing continues only as long as the henna-ed ovaries remain on my dedicated-to-the-cause bow.

Yes.  Yes, that’s the key.

Limited. Edition.

With any luck, I’ll make it into the Centre de Pompidou.

Fame will be mine.  Mwhahahahahaha.

If you need me, I’ll be on line 4, mingling with the locals.

I’m dying to find out what all the fuss is about.

Besides, someone’s gotta give these sausages a run for their money.

This Menace is that someone.

Flying cars, feline-revolutions, and reaching 101

In 2082, I will be 101 years old.

My flying car (if Hollywood has taught me anything, it’s that the future always contains flying cars) will be yellow and I’ll use it to pick up men.

Alternatively, I could use it to buzz around with my pack of wild, free-range french bulldogs (you know, in case by that point I have no interest in the opposite sex-having outlived all seven of my husbands-mwhahahaha).

Though I suppose it would have to be an SUV version to accomodate myself and the pack…..

Who doesn’t love the image of an old lady in a cape, her imaginary Zilla friend, and a pack of snorting hogdogs buzzing around Paris in 2082?

Oh yes, did I mention, I’ll be living in Paris at that time.

Not a huge stretch really, considering I live here now, but whatever, a lot could happen between then and now.

No wait, a lot will happen by then.  Such as:

-My sandwich-chain shop Zilla’s will start in Paris, but then spread rapidly like a global plague, enticing individuals regardless of race, religion, gender, or sexual preference….scents of the delicious snacks will permeate the atmosphere.  This will be the reason aliens come to earth, uttering “take me to your deli”, in a trance-like manner.

-Reruns from the nineties will still be playing endlessly on television to numb the brains of children, but they will refer to the shows as “AFTY” (archaic funny from times of yore).  They will only speak in abbreviations by this point, as there is simply not enough time to formulate comprehensive sentences.

-Pet goldfish will be a long-lost thing of the past as a result of the great cat-cultural-revolution lasting between 2056-2065.  Also, cats will be severely monitored for suspicious behavior and it will take until 2089 for people to discover the UFA (underground feline association) – a terrorist operation spreading miles deep within the belly of the Earth.  Fortunately, I will be dead by then, so this doesn’t particularly matter for me, but figured I’d give a heads up.

-Plastic surgery will become known as TYWWLLR (those years when women willingly looked like robots), and anyone carving into their own face to change it completely will be considered an outcast.  The switch doesn’t happen until 2038 and is a result of a gas leak, silicon, and something called GYNRYM “grow your own nose, remove your own in minutes-as seen on tv!!”

-Also, I will have my own version of monopoly.  As should we all, dear readers, as should we all.

There’s more, but I don’t want to spoil it all for you.  Just figured I’d give you a little peak at some of the great things to occur in my 101 years.  Something tells me you all have plans of your own…..

Happy Birthday Great Grandma, I’m not sure how you’ve managed to deal with us all for this long, but here you are, 101 years later….

Gotta run, Zilla’s burning breakfast.

Rawr

 

 

 

 

 

Near death experience in a Parisian airport

A peanut-butter m&m tried to kill me in the Charles de Gualle airport.

I refer to it as one of my near-death experiences, though the only human witness to the event claims I am ridiculously over-dramatic.  Easy for him to say, the m&m never clawed its white gloved-hands into his esophagus while performing variations of River Dance with its tiny bright shoes.

But before I get ahead of myself-allow me to set the stage for you.

Picture this guy.

Picture me.

I think we can agree-someone was gonna go down.

As I sat innocently waiting to board my flight to the Dominican Republic, then-fiance at my side, I decided to enjoy a few m&m’s, not realizing of course-that the yellow assassin huddled eagerly in the package.  Plotting his demise of my throat he patiently planned his attack as I eagerly thrust my hand into the bag, and attempted to chat with my companion.

For his part, Luka was reading a newspaper and clearly wanted me to leave him alone after I had insisted on twirling the wheels of our check-in luggage whilst he explained his visa status to the Air France woman.  They had rapidly debated in French and I had taken the opportunity to sing the theme song of a French cartoon from the seventies about a love-able seal while spinning the wheels on the upturned suitcase.

Not loudly-mind you, more like humming to pass the time while the visa situation was under control.

So, for his part, the companion was eager to read the newspaper and ignore the antics of one very excited-about-vacation-menace.

I munched away on a few sleeper candies while he read the sports page.  I asked him a few questions, receiving mumbles and deep sighs in return.

His evident desire for peace and quiet resolved in my determination to entertain myself and eat my candy.  Silently.

But it was not to be.

For just at that moment, the stealth-choco-covered-peanut and my fingers were to meet for the first time.  I gotta give it to the little devil, he remained motionless and peaceful when I grabbed him (I suppose it’s part of his melt-in-your-mouth-not-in-your-hand contract), but then cleverly launched himself past my mouth, directly into my throat, and began performing the aforementioned jig.

Quickly losing oxygen, I attempted to get Luka’s attention.  At first with a tap on the shoulder, followed by a punch to the knee.

When neither of these tactics were successful, I thrashed around on the floor as if being attacked by Jaws.  Fearful that my soul might too eagerly jump into the light that was sure to appear at any moment, I frantically mimed out that an m&m was kicking his poofy white Reeboks up and down the interior of my throat-sure to bring death swiftly.

My hands went from the bag, to my legs as I tried to jig-to my throat.  Eyes bulging out of my head, cheeks turning bright red I chose interpretive dance to communicate my distress.  Hoping against all odds that Luka would understand, which thankfully-he did.

He softly patted my back, listened to me cough for a moment-made sure I was actually breathing, handed me a bottle of water, and said:

‘you ok?’.

Right.  As if anyone who has just won an epic battle against a candy-coated monster can be simply, ‘ok’.

The next ten minutes before boarding passed along in silence as I pictured my conquered nemesis slowly dying in my belly-surely devastated at his own failure to take down his Zilla target.

I haven’t encountered any undercover agents in my candy-bags since then, but I’m sure there’s at least one more.  Next time, I’ll be ready.

P.J., a twin bed, and too much Parisian drinking…

My best-friend P.J. and I once woke up in a Parisian twin bed with a boy neither of us was interested in smashed between us.

Before your minds start wandering towards threesomes, let me just preface by saying that the major concern upon awakening had nothing to do with who had potentially made out with whom.

We had an entirely different battle on our hands.

She and I awoke before the boy, who remained passed out during the next twenty minutes as in fits of hysterical laughter we attempted to piece together the evening before-and properly identify the culprit of the ‘bed-wetting’ scene in which we had found ourselves.

That’s right, my jeans from the night before were wet, the boy appeared soaked, and P.J. was suddenly wearing her p.j. pants-which she had most definitely NOT fallen asleep in.

That’s correct dear readers-P.J. had wet the bed, well-primarily the boy, and myself before drunkenly stuffing her pants in a hamper and then throwing on p.j. pants and crawling back onto the TINY mattress.

So it was we found ourselves in a fit of hysterics as the sun woke up and we attempted to prepare ourselves for morning classes.  I remember laughing so hard that I fell over while trying to change pants.  P.J. couldn’t breath from fit of hysterics as we managed to devise a plan to ‘cover-up’ the unfortunate-urine situation.

So it was that I poured a bottle of Sprite over the boy, and we left him there as we scampered off to class-hoping he would assume that he was covered in only the sugary-sweet beverage, and not-the unfortunate bodily fluid in which he was currently snoozing.

This was ten years ago-and I have to say-to this day I love P.J. so much, were she to do it again-I’d laugh just as hard and come up with some way to fool the boy.

Though it could be more challenging considering that the adorable man she sleeps next to now is about to be her husband-and would likely know something was amiss.

Bob, Robert, and the truth

Last July a tiny snail crawled it’s way out onto the wall of my living room from some lilies in the corner.  He didn’t make it very far in the heat, and proceeded to either a) die on the wall, or b) take a nine month snooze.

Yes, that is how long he has been on the wall, or had been until this morning-but I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

I said he was tiny but I should have said nearly microscopic.  This is important because I don’t want you thinking I would let giant snails continue to live on the wall of my apartment.  He was quite cute, and since I wasn’t sure at first if he was dead or alive, I figured he could just hang out and avoid mingling with Parisian restaurants.  I had no intention of initiating long-term scarring on the little guy.

So instead I named him Bob, but called him Robert (pronounced Ro-bear in French) on Thursdays and Sundays -for no real reason except that I have always liked those days and figured he’d appreciate a little formality now and again.  Sometimes I would pass the wall and see him, raise a mock high-five, and yell out:

“salut Robert’, or ‘hey Bob’ (depending on the day)

Sometimes I would forget he was there.

About three days after I initially spotted him, I figured he was dead.  Still, I  decided he could stay.  It’s Paris, he’s a snail.  Seemed to fit somehow.

Until today.

Today my friend got close to Bob and prepared his standard greeting to my seemingly-shelled roommate, when suddenly, said friend uttered:

‘Ry, are you serious?  Have you ever actually looked closely at this so-called snail?’

So I responded, quite rationally:

‘Well not really, I mean he’s not much to look at, is he?  Too small to really see much of anything’

I continued talking but quickly realized that my friend was gazing at me with a look generally reserved for the long pause before explaining reproduction to children.  He was preparing a biology lecture, just not one involving snails.  Mucus yes, snails-no.

‘Ryan, Bob is a booger.  You’ve been greeting a booger-FORMALLY greeting a booger for the past nine months.  This is disgusting.’

At first I didn’t believe him.  How could Bob be a booger?  My little Parisian friend?  Robert?  Not the mucus I had imagined, but a variety of that only far, far worse?

And then I looked closer.

My cartoonish picture of Bob will never again include a small happy snail with wiggly eyes and a round shell.  Now it will forever conjure images of whichever idiot stood in my living room and chose to pick their nose, then flick the findings onto my wall.

You’ll remember that I utilized the adjective cute in the description of a booger.  A booger.

This dear readers, is truly the life of the unemployed.

Next time I think there’s a snail, I’m grabbing a sponge and re-evaluating the company I keep.