The Broad's Side

I’m not sure that many people will be able to appreciate the tirade I’m about to launch into. With the state of the economy and the current heartbreaking situation in Haiti, the things that set me off are probably ridiculous. Let me qualify that by pointing out that un-employment gave me the opportunity to stew over this issue for much longer than can be considered healthy. I needed a place to channel my anger and frustration… at the expense of Disney. It all started innocently enough with a trip to the local cinema to catch a matinee of ‘The Princess and the Frog’ with my three year old. In a nutshell, the story centers around a hard-working young black girl with one main goal in life. She has always dreamed of running a restaurant of her very own. This was a dream shared by her father who spends his entire life working and never gets the opportunity to bring it to fruition. In typical Disney fashion, dad croaks and leaves Tiana to realize her goals on her own. WTF, Disney… what’s with the dead parent obsession? You’d be hard- pressed to find a two parent household in Walt’s world. Snow White, Cinderella and Belle were all down at least one. When it gets to the point where we’re even killing off animal parents, there might be an issue. Think Bambi’s assassinated mom or Nemo’s mom who ended up as shark bait. Really?

But I digress… back to the frog story. I won’t bore you with the specifics, but through an unfortunate chain of events both Tiana and her supposed prince are turned into frogs. Prince Frog is kind of a dick. He doesn’t appear to be all that fun to be around, but when you’re a frog I suppose your options are limited. The stupid broad ends up falling for the douchy frog… don’t they all? Enter evil villain who gives our fair frog princess the divine chance to have everything she’s ever dreamed of. She can go back to being a human and have the restaurant she’s been hoping for her entire life. Where’s the catch, you ask? Simple… leave the asshole frog behind. No-brainer as far as I’m concerned! What is the lifespan of a god-damn frog? Three years max? When faced with financial stability in these uncertain times, who takes the ‘stay a frog’ route? Are you fucking kidding me? At this point, my version of the story would have ended with both of these retarded frogs being consumed by an angry gator. Of course, the sappy Disney spin has everything work out in the end. I can see what the lesson was supposed to be, but here’s what I took out of it: You should let a guy be a total douchebag and treat you as if you were beneath him. After putting up with his shit for a while, you should just deal with it because chances are there’s not anything better out there. Most importantly, you should make all kinds of insane sacrifices for this jackass because what good are you without a man? Congratulations to Disney for finally giving us a black princess, but I’ll tell you right now… not ONE of my black girlfriends would tolerate that crap.

Let’s revisit some of my other favorite Disney tales. There’s the one where a young girl’s step mother puts a hit on her because she’s smoking hot. The hitman thinks she’s a hot piece of ass too, so he aborts the mission. At this point, she naturally ends up living with seven really old and very messy midgets in the forest. These little dudes are perpetually drunk little diamond miners who unsuccessfully try to nail Snow White. As if being three feet tall isn’t enough of a bitch, they’re all trying to impress the same chick. Step mom eventually comes back and gives hottie a jacked up apple that puts her into this insane coma that somehow requires no type of medical attention. Not to pick on Terri Schiavo again, but clearly comas wreak havoc on one’s physical appearance. I’m not sure one would still qualify as ‘the fairest in the land’ after such a traumatic experience. Oh… and then a normal sized man comes and saves her.

One of my other favorites is animation’s tribute to Stockholm Syndrome, ‘Beauty and the Beast’. I can remember discussing this one with my friend Shelley over shots of Tequila. A beautiful young woman’s father is captured by a disgusting, hairy and most likely smelly creature. In order to save her father, she volunteers to take pop’s place and become this prick’s prisoner. I have dated some assholes, but this dude takes the grand prize. He has absolutely no redeeming qualities. The meaner he is, the harder this dumb broad tries to win him over. She’s clearly emotionally crippled. Obviously, if your man mistreats you, you should kiss his ass and maybe put on some lipstick to be prettier for him. Once again, my version would have ended much differently… a post-escape 911 call and maybe some mace.

Don’t even try to tell me that ‘Pinocchio’ isn’t about the creepiest story ever. A lonely old man builds a little boy out of wood for his own pleasure. Something tells me that Pinocchio’s nose wasn’t the only growing wood in this fairy tale. Sure the old perv was longing for a ‘real boy’. The splinters must have sucked. I think I saw Gepetto on FamilyWatchDog.com while researching neighborhood pedophiles. If not, some old dude in Lakewood bears a striking resemblance. Last but not least is Disney’s resident whore, ‘The Little Mermaid’. Obviously, by the way she dressed there was no maternal influence. Evidently, even sea dads have trouble controlling their daughters. This girl essentially sells out her father in order to become human so she can get it on with some land dweller. By the way, this also wins the prize for worst prince name… ERIC. It just doesn’t sound right, does it? Prince Eric? For once, I want to see a Disney movie that ends with a princess drinking margaritas with her girlfriends and posting a twisted personal ad about her ‘prince’ on Craig’s List. Is that too much to ask?

My New Year’s Eve this year is being spent on my couch… voluntarily. I’ve only done that one other time in the past twenty years, and that was only because I was a giant, fat pregnasaurus at the time. I put some thoughtful consideration into my evening and had some pretty tempting offers, but I’ll be honest… I’m just not feeling it. My ex-husband tried to call bullshit on me, and he even had the sitter booked. I love going out and being social, but there’s something about New Year’s Eve that drives me bat shit crazy. Maybe it’s all of the once a year drinkers that storm the town or the fact that you have to basically commit to one establishment since there’s always a cover charge. If you’re responsible, you have to rely on a taxi. Good luck with that shit show on the busiest cab night of the year. When it’s all said and done, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.

Maybe I’m still having flashbacks from my experience two years ago. I was newly single and was dragged kicking and screaming to a place named ‘Corky’s’ for the most ridiculous experience of my life. My friend was dating the douchebag who manned the door, so I was essentially a third wheel at a place named after a retarded person. How could that go wrong? I’m a huge fan of the hole in the wall bar, but there’s a definitive line that must never be crossed. This place made the cantina scene from Star Wars look like a Hollywood hotspot. I was trying to be a good sport and take an enormous bullet for the team. For the record, this was one of those bullets that explodes on impact and rips your innards to shreds. I was barely a beer into my evening, when something terribly alarming occurred.

It was karaoke night, and a small Hispanic man was next on the mike. I hate people that give commentary before launching into whatever ear rape they’re about to subject me to, but this was well worth the price of admission. Check that… I think we avoided the cover charge because my friend was banging the ultra cool door douche. I hope that was worth the $10 we saved. But I digress. This dude starts rambling in extremely broken English. All I took out of it was something about a green card and ‘the most beautiful girl in the world’. Naturally, I turn to look for this Pamela Anderson look-alike (pre-hepatitis). What I witnessed that night will forever haunt me, and it left me visibly shaken. It was fortunate that gazing upon this monstrosity didn’t turn this poor little immigrant to stone. I was expecting Perseus to show up and lob her head off for use as a weapon. You could definitely use this broad’s head for one hell of a crime spree. Seriously, what a great modern day Medusa story! You could rob a bank, jaywalk, get out of any number of traffic violations or simply scare your friends. She was at least 6 ft 5, with about four inches of feathered platinum blonde hair. She was wearing those gross acid washed jeans with the lace cut-outs down the side. Her milky white thigh fat was oozing out… like someone stepped on a container of Yoplait. She had the jet black eyeliner with the wings out the side. I’ve never understood the objective of that makeup trick. What illusion is that supposed to create other than ‘I’m an asshole’? As I looked around for Ashton Kutcher and his gaggle of comedic sidekicks toting cameras, the little man dropped to one knee and proposed to the wildebeest. She giddily accepted as I looked for a penile bulge in her Merry Go Round jeans. Could this really be a woman? As she hugged her future groom, her boobs rested heavily on his little bald head. He then wiped a tear and launched into a very moving rendition of ‘To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before’, singing both the parts of Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson.

At this point my friend was making out with door guy, who was clearly doing the best job ever. Who the hell was he denying entrance? There was a bearded lady, two midgets, a KKK member and a mule. Ok… so I’m making up the mule part, but the rest is all true. Usually I try to be relatively nice to people who make awful attempts at hitting on me, but I just wasn’t capable in this joint. I pretended I had a nervous tick at one point and I’m pretty sure the one –armed man trying to nail me liked it. A sweaty fat man grabbed me in such an odd place, that I was all but certain he was scoping out the viability of my kidneys. “Jesus, I’m gonna end up in a bathtub full of ice”, I muttered. Who taught you that for Christ’s sake? Grab some tit or a handful of ass like every other pervert. I broke my all-time Jaeger record that night. I was secretly hoping that these people would start to get a little more attractive. I’m not talking ‘doable’, just worthy of any type of human interaction and basic conversation. I rang in the New Year sitting next to a guy wearing a bicycle helmet that kept blurting out, “I Love Pop-tarts” every few minutes. Thank god he and the bearded lady shared that common interest, because I was about to commit suicide by looking directly at the blushing bride after several hours of this crap. When you love your friends, you’ll do some pretty amazing things for them. My girl knows who she is and that I’m going to expect a bone marrow donation or bail money somewhere down the line. As for me, there’s very little chance that I’ll get puked on, stranded in a gross bar or pillaged for my internal organs tonight on my couch. Genius move on my part. Good luck to the rest of you suckers.

We all have stories of cell phone usage gone horribly wrong. Who hasn’t looked at their text message history the day after a booze binge in sheer horror? From personal experience, I can tell you that my Blackberry should have a breathalyzer application. On one occasion, I was trying my hand at dirty texting and decided I’d attach a sexy boob shot to the message. I explicitly described the masturbatory techniques that should be used, and promised more pictures to follow. Unfortunately, the adorable picture of my three year old in her bathing suit I accidentally sent wasn’t exactly erection worthy for the recipient. On another occasion, I accidentally dialed a former boss from inside my purse after tailgating for six hours. I’m pretty sure he overheard my drunken plot to murder him. A co-worker and I concluded that death by icicle would be the way to go, since there would be no usable prints. A melting murder weapon… how genius is that? All I know is that the call lasted eighteen minutes.

The single best cell phone horror story ever led to a ridiculous chain of events. It happened the night of a rehearsal dinner for a wedding my two best friends and I were bridesmaids in. There was a superior level of intoxication from all parties involved. At some point in the evening, the group split up. The guys stayed behind at the bar, while the girls decided that puking in the church the next day might be ill-advised. My friend Shelley was visiting from Vegas and was staying at my place. In hindsight, I’m sure she’s glad she didn’t opt for the Days Inn. My husband at the time attempted to reach me on my cell phone a few hours later. He dialed, and was absolutely furious when a man answered. He asked the male on the other end of the phone if he was having a good time tagging his wife. This line of questioning was met with a sarcastic, “sure… best sex ever. What’s wrong with you?” The dude assumed it was a joke and made the regrettable choice to laugh at my drunken hubby. My man was now on a mission to uncover my illicit affair, but not before hurling his phone against the wall and busting it into a million pieces. He used a friend’s phone to dial home. He was screaming incoherently about getting the guy out of the house before he made it back home. I had no clue what the hell he was talking about, so I hung up on him.

A few minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was my brother…still laughing. It appears that my hubby had dialed ‘Jeff’ instead of ‘Jen’ and accused my little brother of banging me. I only wish the story ended there. We lived in a row of identical brick town houses at the time. This guy was so hell bent on catching me in the act that he stormed home to interrupt my imaginary sex fest. He burst through the front door like a crazed mad man, with his buddy at his heels trying to calm him down. He bellowed, “Who’s fucking my wife?” to the five stoners sitting around in the living room doing hits off a water bong. As one of the dudes exhaled his smoke, he inquired “ Depends… who’s your wife?” followed by a few coughs from his pot-filled lungs. At this point, my husband’s buddy taps him on the shoulder and whispers…. “You know this isn’t your house, right?” The stoners continued smoking and listening to the Grateful Dead without flinching. My husband was not about to give up now. After being directed to the right house by his friend, he stormed into the intended residence. He came flying up the stairs in a pathetic attempt to catch me red-handed doing it… with my freaken brother, evidently. It seemed he may have lost a little bit of steam on the second try. He was panting and his whole face was red and sweaty. I could hear Shelley’s muffled laughter in the spare bedroom as she called her husband and put it on speaker. She claimed it was more entertaining than anything Hollywood could produce. He was very resistant to admit that he might have been mistaken. It’s not like he could check his call history, since his phone had detonated.

The message here is simple. Be very careful with your phone, specifically if any amount of alcohol has been factored into the equation. If you have a work issued phone, leave it out of your weekend plans. You might not be able to resist the urge to respond to an e-mail with something as well thought out as ‘Suck it’. You should also be extremely vigilant when selecting people from your contact list. Mom and Monica should not be confused with each other. This could get very awkward. It’s also advisable to give people nicknames to prevent you from making drunken errors in judgment. If someone pissed you off, you might forget about it after a few long island ice teas. Save yourself by giving yourself little reminders. Currently, ‘Douche Rocket’, ‘Ass Clown’ and ‘Knocked up the Receptionist’ are all in my phone as contacts. I’m definitely not texting any of those jackasses tonight.

Human sexuality is always such fodder for the gossip columns. Just today, Meredith Baxter of ‘Family Ties’ fame came out of the closet on national TV. Do I necessarily care if Elyse Keaton likes pussy? I don’t think I do. I have never spent one moment pondering who the 62 year old sitcom mom from the 80’s was getting it on with. I actually prefer to think she’s knitting a quilt somewhere in lieu of imagining her doing it with anyone. To her credit, she certainly put a lot of effort into the whole hetero thing. She married three different people with penises over the course of many years and had five children. Three strikes and you’re out of the closet, I guess. Essentially, she admitted to marrying three guys that were total douches on purpose. When the relationships ended, she could blame their douchiness and not have to take any responsibility. I took a quick mental inventory of the men in my past, and was concerned for a few seconds. Oh my god, maybe I’m a lesbian. It only took me a brief moment to realize that I actually kind of like assholes. Alas, I am one too. I made out with that chick in the hair care aisle at Target for nothing….but at least I’m sure that I still love men. That adolescent stocking the Aussie Mega Spritz owes me a thank-you card.

I blame Perez Hilton for all of this. He keeps outing people like he’s building his own army. Knowing who Lance Bass is banging doesn’t affect my life at all. There’s a pretty solid chance that ‘Bye Bye Bye’ from N’Sync will always be my go-to song every time I’m at karaoke night. Neil Patrick Harris from ‘Doogie Howser’ was also outed by Perez. Why do we care? Why are we so fascinated by people’s sex lives? As long as it’s legal and not super-creepy… leave people the hell alone. What you do in your bedroom is entirely up to you…and sometimes the camera guy and lighting crew, but that’s a separate conversation. If people are happy with the partner they choose, regardless of gender, I don’t get why it’s newsworthy. While I was surfing TMZ today, I saw a story that was WAY more horrifying than the Baxter ‘scandal’. Another person has admitted to having sex with Verne Troyer. Jesus… are you kidding me? How does this keep happening? If nailing a Cabbage Patch doll has always been your dream, I guess Verne would be the closest you’d get. At first, I was confused that the woman later filed a restraining order, because c’mon, the guy rides around on the same type of scooter my grandma has. Then it hit me. She must have seen ‘Child’s Play’. That Chucky doll scares the shit out of me. I’ve lost more than a few nights of sleep over that thing. Then again, I wouldn’t fuck it.

Since I’m typically a judgmental asshole, I don’t want all of my friends to see this as the perfect opportunity to divulge all of their sexual secrets. I don’t need to know who chokes themselves, only has sex with people who remind them of their grandpa, or dresses like a giant hedgehog during sex romps. All I’m saying is that two consenting adults should be able to do whatever they see fit. It goes without saying that you should never have sex with someone against their will. Don’t think you’ll go the slick route and call it a date…still not ok. Never have sex with someone who’s been roofied and/or had three or more shots of Cuervo. I’m actually speaking on behalf of the impaired people here. They will undoubtedly be pissed off when they figure out that you’re not in fact attractive on any level. Jose Cuervo has played this hilarious game with me on more than one occasion. There are certainly things that are never acceptable, so I’ll give you a basic set of rules to live by. Please take notes.

1: Bestiality is never ok. To be safe, the first time your dog humps your leg… neuter him. No means no and you can send a very powerful message this way. I can’t say from experience, but I’m sure dog rape is no less painful and certainly more difficult to prosecute.

2: Necrophilia- I realize some guys have trouble meeting women, but waiting until they’re dead isn’t the answer. If you actually committed the murder, it’s even more unacceptable.

3: Pedophilia- As a parent, this isn’t something that I can even joke about. I will say that I have some friends in their forties who are walking a very thin line. If your date wants you to take her to the Jonas Brothers concert, do princess puzzles or make her a giraffe out of balloons… you’re dangerously close to being on ‘To Catch a Predator’. You might as well trade in your Audi for a non-descript white van.

4: Sex with Verne Troyer

I’m sure that you will be shocked to learn that fine dining establishments make me uncomfortable. It’s not like I’m a cavewoman, but I don’t really understand the allure. I recently received a gift card in the amount of $100 for Morton’s Steak House, which evidently is enough to cover two non-alcoholic beverages and a side of asparagus. From the beginning, I felt really out of my element. The maitre d reminded me of one of the Super Mario Brothers if you sucked all the fun out of him and dressed him up in a white tux. He spoke very eloquently and I could tell that he’s probably never been laid in his life. His painful lack of personality left me struggling for conversation as we were led to our table. He paused briefly to pull out the entire table. I thought he dropped his pen or the condom that had been in his wallet for a dozen years, so I stooped down to retrieve it. I felt like a jackass on a huge level when I realized he was actually assisting me with my seating. I’ve heard of pulling out your chair…but the whole table! I did NOT see that coming.

We settled in and had some whispers of conversation, because it didn’t appear to me that you were allowed to speak in this particular establishment. I mulled over my drink selection and found myself in a quandary. Do I order wine in a pathetic attempt to class myself up? Do I really want this tuxedo wearing douche swirling the wine around in a glass and forcing me to sniff the cork? I am no connoisseur, my friends. Do I order a beer and remove all doubt that I fit in? Jesus, don’t judge me. I’d ask for a glass. It’s not as if I’d request a can of Stroh’s and shot-gun it with my car key. I settled on a $20 Screwdriver. Safe, with no sniffing of any kind required. If you’ve never been to Morton’s, when you order steak, that’s all you get. Yes sir, just a chunk of meat on a plate. If you would actually like to enjoy an entire dinner, you must order each piece separately for an astronomical fee. A basic salad is $12, and the cheapest side dish is $10. They actually have macaroni and cheese as a side dish, but they charge you $14! There must be some sort of penalty fee assessed. Who eats Mac n cheese at a premium steakhouse? Not gonna lie… I wanted to. The waiter asked me if I wanted some fresh ground pepper, and I practically screamed at him. I’m sure there’s some sort of per kernel cost for the good pepper. The entire time we were there, I was doing accounting problems in my head. I was attempting to calculate the cost of the dinner as well as the approximate number of times I could go to Taco Night at Merry Arts in Lakewood for the same tab. The answer is somewhere in the neighborhood of 72 times.

I would prefer Taco Night without question. First and foremost, the tacos are amazing. I’m not sure what kind of secret recipe is involved, but they are without question the best tacos I’ve ever had. If you have never been there and live in the Cleveland area, it’s really a must. I love the fact that I can sit in a dimly lit bar drinking my big ass draft beer and watching football. Nobody gives a shit if I’m loud or ‘accidentally’ say the word douchebag. I can wear my baseball cap and jeans without feeling like a homeless person. Shit, there’s even a fireplace. Don’t try to tell me that’s not classy. There is an intricate taco ordering system involved. It’s cash only and you’re required to go up to the kitchen doorway to procure said tacos. It’s kind of exciting… like a drug deal, I would imagine. “psst… I need some tacos, stat!” The taco lady doesn’t have a strong customer service background as far as I can tell, but she can be as ornery as she wants as far as I’m concerned. She can punch me in the face as she delivers my paper plate of delicious tacos… they’re that good. She’s always out back chain smoking, wearing a tie dyed tee shirt between taco constructions. I’m always super nice, although in hindsight that probably makes her want to murder me. I’m actually considering getting her a Christmas present just so that she never cuts off my taco supply. What does one get the taco lady? A sassy apron with jalapenos on it perhaps? My head in a box?

I took a friend to Taco Night a while back and he ordered a plate of hot tacos. For a minute I thought I was watching a scene from Law and Order. At one point he was hunched over in the booth in a fetal position, clutching his stomach and sweating. It was like one of those segments where the drug dealer gets shot, but can’t seek medical attention because he’ll end up in the pokey. He inevitably ends up in septic shock. The tacos are hot, but c’mon! This was a little bit dramatic. You can’t pull off that routine at Morton’s. I don’t think I’ll be headed back to Morton’s any time in the near future. I’d rather have tacos, a burger or a pizza. Besides, I don’t need the added stress of a salad fork while dining.