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London, trains, and boogers

17 Nov

There is a man across from me on this train with his finger so far up his nose I’m worried he might accidentally nip brain matter.

From the looks of him, it wouldn’t be the first time.

He clearly thinks lifting the Tom Clancy novel high enough covers this semi-scandalous activity.

There’s a wedding ring on his finger.

That’s a lucky lady awaiting him at home, that’s all I can say.  I bet she’s prepared some dinner, got a big smile on her face, and probably has no idea her husband digs for nasal gold on public transportation.

Wait, I bet she knows.

Maybe she just doesn’t care.

Maybe that’s what marriage is.  Not caring if your partner pokes around in various orifices in public, provided the holes in question are on their own body and not somebody else’s….

I wonder if he does that in bed.  Laying there next to her, flicking his crusty friends off the side.  Inevitably, they pile up in the carpet, a carnage of days past.  She lies there, next to this, engrossed in episodes of reality tv.

She’s probably not innocent in this either.  Any woman who lets her husband think that Tom Clancy can hide his booger fest 2012 probably has quite a few questionable habits lurking on her end of the dining table.

Maybe they do it together.  Maybe they were having problems, nearing divorce, and they decided to hit up counseling.  Maybe the counselor suggested team-building activities.  Sitting up late one night, they got to talking.  Ideas flowing, their interest in finding an activity they could share sparked something they’d thought lost.

The thought of breaking social convention via nose-picking seemed exciting.  Relatively harmless, yet still frowned upon.

Yea, I bet they discovered picking their noses together.  A secret revolting ritual no one else understands.  Maybe he’s going to go home and announce he managed to pull one over on the blonde girl sitting across from him on the train.

He’ll proudly tell the love of his life that the mystery girl across from him had no idea what he was up to.  Working like a spy, he managed to unhook the little devil from the depths of his nose from behind Clancy.

A regular 007.

She’ll tell him she got a good one in the cereal aisle of the grocery store.  Oh the stories they’ll share, this married couple.

I guess I’ll just let him keep thinking he’s pulling this off.  If it’s for love, after all, why bother interrupting.  Not to mention I can’t identify a bonus to announcing to someone that you’re aware of their activities.  It’s not like I’m the booger police after all.

Now, if he was free-farting, I might have a problem.  God help the couple that does that on public transportation for the sanctity of marriage.

Oh good, I just got to London.

Maybe I’ll let Zilla out of the suitcase to roam a bit.

Hopefully she won’t tell this guy she saw his activities.

I’d hate to break up a happy marriage after all.

Remember remember the 5th of November, zombies, and my potential viking master

17 Nov

Today I’m hoping to see a zombie.

I flew from Paris to Manchester yesterday with my boss.  We’re staying in Huddersfield, and according to a brochure I found in the hotel lobby, the Dungeon of York promises ghosts.

Ghosts, and potentially zombies.

The ghosts have been lingering around York since 1551 when the putrid plague brought forth pussing boils, rotting corpses, and the lingering scent of all things horrifying.  Creatures and items which fall under this category include (but not limited to) ghosts, snakes, witches, bigger ghosts, vampires (the real kind, there will be no mention of that series here dear readers), Lord Voldemort, Hannibal, anyone dedicated to killing in the serial fashion, beets, and of course, zombies.

What better method of zombie creation than a horrendous plague?  The bodies are already there, and I don’t imagine zombies hump, so their reproduction must somehow be linked to disease.

Hence, my assumption there is such a thing as the zombies of York.

Also a logical conclusion is that they are lingering just outside this hotel room in the woods across the street.  I can practically hear them shuffling through the leaves in search of innocent blood.

Ok, so if it was really innocent they were after, maybe I wouldn’t be their girl.  Let’s say-American blood.  Yea, I bet those York zombies can’t wait to take a bite out of a Yank.  Which would ultimately make me a Yank-York-Zombie, and last time I checked, that’s not on my to-do list.

Also, I’m on the ground floor so they wouldn’t have to climb to find me or anything.  They’d basically just have to cross the street (crosswalk provided for their safety), break my window, and create a whole new monster for their clan.

Great.

The York Dungeon evidently also hosts an exhibit on something called the Bloody Vikings.  Next to the blurb: “Keep your wits about you as the Vikings go bersek in York-where will you run when the Vikings raid?”, is what looks like a bloody gladiator with a really mean face.

This is not the face you want to sit next to on public transportation, that’s for sure.

Still, he’s far more attractive than the plague-zombies, and I’m guessing if he bashes in my window, I’ll probably have to be some kind of gladiator-slave-wench.  If that happens, I hope Hollywood is involved in the costume design because I am going to need some serious hair and makeup maintenance to pull of that look with any kind of dignity.

There is also a labyrinth of shadowy mirrors.  I’m not entirely sure what this entails, but it claims to be from the lost Roman legion, and judging by the screaming child in the image, it is either related to murder, or David Bowie invented spandex in the Roman era.

It’s a shame I don’t have time to go to the museum itself to do more research.  I’d like to be properly prepared for all of the horrendous horror which may quickly find its way to me today.

There are a lot of gruesome shenanigans that have occurred in York at one time or another.  It’s amazing anyone would choose to live here.

Maybe I should purchase binoculars to search f0r the zombies from the treetops.

You know, for anthropological purposes.   I wouldn’t want to get too close, but I can hardly pass up the opportunity to go zombie-watching.

Flashers, ovaries, and my elbow

10 Nov

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.

Passports, sandwich-wrappers, and monster love affairs

7 Nov

She’s baaaaaaaaaack…….

That’s right.  After sending me on a wild goose chase that would have given Sam and Frodo a run for their money, Zilla returned this morning.

She’s been snoozing since eight, but I suspect I’ll get an answer as to her whereabouts later this afternoon.

Here’s what I know:

-She’s wearing parachute pants that are neither worn out enough to be vintage, nor from this decade.  I suspect foul-play with that busted up time machine of mine.  It would also explain the armor on her right arm, which is either from a Gladiator television prop chest, or the real-deal.

-Her passport has stamps from various countries, including a short-stint in Pakistan earlier this year, which I can assure you-I have some questions about….

-She appears to have acquired real-estate, scuba, skydiving, pilot, taxi, and rickshaw licenses.  Two of which expired in the late nineties.  One of them appears to have expired at some point in the early 16th century, but the bite marks make it hard to tell for certain.

-She has a tattoo indicating a romance has transpired between herself and what appears to be a mythical creature yet to be identified.

-Her backpack has sandwich wrappers from at least five different airports.  There is also an unopened bottle of pickles inside.

-I can’t be certain, but I think she’s lost weight.

-Her journal is hard for me to read (those twiggy branch fingers of hers to blame), but it seems she has either won the lottery in the past, is planning to do so in the future, or has drawn up an assassination plan for JJ Abrams.

I’m going to be having long chats with her in the upcoming days to get her stories and find out why on earth she found it acceptable to leave for such an extended period of time.  Unacceptable, I assure you.

Regardless, I wanted to let you all know as soon as she got in.

Obviously, we have much to discuss.

I’ll be traveling around to your blogs in the next weeks to catch up on your news.

Feels good to be back.

Rawr.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

2 Mar

It looks like Zilla has escaped.

One of her friends showed up, and my little alter-ego is now roaming the blogosphere in need of sandwiches, spelunking gear, and fortune cookies.

I know this because they left a to-do list in her cage.

It was sitting there beside an empty bottle of champagne, a carnage of Pabst cans (also empty), and what may or may not have at one point been a pizza.

They leave big teeth marks, so until forensics gets here, it’s hard to know for sure.

I believe the friend in question is this guy:

he's been after her for years

 

Needless to say, I am going on a hunt.

Well, first I’m going to go sweat my guts out in yoga, and then I’m going on a hunt.

If she stops by your blog, please don’t mention either Dave Matthews Band or beets.

Her epic hatred of these two topics can cause some serious damage.

The great Auntie-Anne’s pretzel stand incident of ’07 is still a fresh memory for half of Washington state.

Rest assured, I will catch her soon enough.

Godspeed dear bloggers, Godspeed.

Sweat, testicles, and my inability to move gracefully

21 Feb

Last week a stranger’s naked testicle came alarming close to my face and I found myself thinking:

‘Is this really worth it Menace?’

But then I reminded myself of Jennifer Aniston, and why I started this in the first place.

Allow me to elaborate.

I think we can all agree-that body is incredible

A normal person may stumble across this advertisement and think to themselves:

1. She’s hot

2. I’m thirsty

3. She’s hot

But what do I think when I stumble across this?

1. She’s hot

2. I could look like that (seriously?!)

3. Yoga.  Yes, I should take a yoga course.  No wait, I should TEACH yoga.  But first I should take a course.  Or maybe a few.  Or maybe try out the various different kinds of yoga and then I will look like that and people will pay me to stretch about and teach my moves so they too can look like this.

4. I need to buy a book on yoga.

So it was in late January that I set out to the bookstore.  Fifteen minutes later I was reading a novel written by a woman from Seattle who fell in love with yoga.  Approximately two hours after that, I had located a hot yoga studio down the block from the apartment.

I’m fairly certain that a normal person who stumbles into a hot yoga studio would not agree to sign up for something called the 30 day challenge in which one agrees to complete 30 courses within 30 days.

But by now I’m sure you know how normal I am when it comes to grand ideas.

So without hesitation, I agreed to complete the challenge.

In order to really understand my genius in this decision, let me explain hot (bikram) yoga to you.

90 minutes of Hatha yoga stretches conducted with strangers in a room that is heated to 104 degrees F.

They really aren’t kidding about the heat.

Also, there are a lot of rules.  These include sobriety, coming in hydrated, and staying inside the room for the full 90 minutes.

To recap, I pledged my allegiance in the basement of a Soho studio to maintain the willpower to remain sober, H2O soaked, and dedicated.

For 30 days.

Twenty minutes later I found myself lying half-naked on a mat in an ungodly hot room awaiting my first session.

Two minutes into it I looked like this:

Yes, sweat actually drips of one in this fashion during a session

I’m blue here to emphasize how incredibly soaked I was during the first breathing exercise.

Basically I’ve been blue for the past 30 days.

Against all odds, I completed the challenge.

I got used to the heat.  I did not get used to some of the outfits chosen by my peers.

Hence, the naked testicle.  Uncomfortably close to my mat.  Granted, it being in the room at all is uncomfortable.

But come on man, no one needs to see that.

Rogue genetalia aside, I’m hooked.

Though I now want to study other forms.

Preferably one in which I appear graceful, stoic, and stealth.  While practicing bikram yoga this red-tomato wet girl with horrendous hair kept reflecting back to me in the front mirror.

I assume it was faulty.

The mirror, not the girl.

Regardless readers, this is the latest in my serious of ‘Greatest Ideas Ever’.

Stay Tuned, only a matter of time before the next one strikes.