Stucco

Now I usually don't consider myself an authority on wall textures, but my friend Steve recently made me painfully aware of the material that covers my surroundings. I have known Steve since I was very young; however, until about two years ago we only spoke infrequently at family gatherings. College served to renew our friendship. Living in the same city, we often met at the bocce courts or the local meat distributor.

After his father's symposium on public health in Estonia, we were cruisin' the sidewalks all hopped up on the fall air when he stopped, suddenly. He immediately buckled over in pain. While I was concerned for his well-being, I could not determine what exactly prompted his pain. Furthermore, there was no visible area of concentration; his whole body seemed to be pulsating in pain.

There was a man selling sno-kones down the street. I figured if anything in the world could help my friend Steve at that particular moment it would have to be a sno-kone. The glorious union of ice and sugar-syrup was enough to brighten up even a bathroom attendant at a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike. I assessed the situation and decided on sno-kone.

When I returned with the mound of colored ice he was briefly relieved and thanked me repeatedly for the gesture. Then he took the kone and inserted it directly into his rectum. The insertion was done with such force that the syrup at the bottom leaked onto the sidewalk. The paper was severely punctured, and his hands were stained with syrup and ass juice. However, his face immediately fell back to its normal form. His legs stopped twitching, and the color returned to all his appendages. I was pleased he was better and didn't really need an explanation for the outburst, but halfway down the sidewalk he turned to me and said, "Sorry, but I always get hemorrhoids when I pass stucco walls. It's an affliction I inherited from my great uncle."

My Feet Don't Talk, but They Should

When I was nine years old I had a chance encounter with a schizophrenic shoe sales man. He worked at Nickel Cent Shoes on the corner of Thompson and Hill Street. I initially went in for a new pair of thong sandals, the kind that have the flimsy rubber soles and squeek when you walk on linoleum. My foot has an awkward arch that seems to plateau in the middle and jut violently down toward my toes. Usually the inexperienced salesperson assumes I have a high arch and emerges from the backroom with a Dr. Scholl's insole.

However, the sales man at Nickel Cent immediately identified my unusual foot structure. He slowly massaged the arch, letting his pudgy fingers ride the curves of my flesh. Even for a nine year old his touch was quite sensual, and I admired the way his fat Polynesian stomach rolled over his polyester slacks. Of course our mental intimacy was violently interrupted by Bertha, a forty-seven year old retired actress currently auditioning for an informercial. My husky salesman dove headfirst into a speech detailing the three speeds of a vacuum sealer. While the sealer provided a useful accessory in the kitchen, its capabilities were literally endless. I had never even heard of vacuum sealing a dog's leash, but apparently it is one of the most neglected items.

While my knowledge of mental disorders was quite limited at age nine, I did know one thing: the salesman had an obvious knowledge for the contours of the underdeveloped foot. In fact his knowledge was so clear by our brief encounter that I would have easily accepted his suggestions to any of my other appendages. I knew I had to seize the moment.

As soon as Bertha left the scene in favor of a craft services employee I bought the shoes my friend recommended. While I never saw the man again, his memory has become a breathing extension of my soul.

Door to Door Ultimate Fighting

Yesterday, halfway through the an intense fourth round of the men's 400 meter backstairs I heard the doorbell ring. I wasn't planning to answer the door because I believe the doorbell is a primitive device representative of the deep distrust that lies latent in American culture. Not only are they condescending to the visitor, reducing the entirety of his character to several taps on the xylophone, but it also creates an inaccurate measure of status. For some reason most people acquiesce to the notion that the more intricate a doorbell sounds the higher a person sits on the social ladder. This same philosophy has been transferred to cell phone use. Despite my strong convictions, the doorbell ringing was relentless, and I decided to meet this mysterious visitor.

My visitor was a skinny dark-skinned man with shoulder-length hair. His pastel tie did little to distract from the wrinkled white shirt tucked loosely into his faded blue jeans. I noticed that he was gripping a stack of pamphlets, but before I could ask him about the papers he began to speak.

"Hello sir," he said, his voice cracking on the last syllable. "Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior?"

Wow, what a question. I mean I never thought that Jesus would be a savior.

"Holy shit man," I answered. "You mean to tell me that the Mexican guy down the street with the funny looking five-year old is my savior?" I could hardly contain my excitement. To think that a guy in my very own town could save me.

The man looked confused. He raked his hand slowly through his dark hair as if to catch something in the soft thicket.

"No sir, I believe you are mistaken. See I am from the Church of the Immaculate Conception, and I would like you to join me in religious devotion." He was speaking quickly, and had I not poured whiskey into my morning coffee his words may not have been so potent. I saw through his pretentious civilities to reveal the true motive. He wanted to rumble, and I sure was ready.

"I see, sir," I said, backing my words with a raw sting of sarcasm. "Well I say my God is the savior." He wasn't shocked by my statements. He wasn't even disgusted. Instead, he smiled and threw the stack of pamphlets to my feet.

The next seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds were probably the most physically draining of my entire life. He began with a quick jab to my lower back. I countered with a kick to his shin, then grabbed him by the shoulders. We rolled on the floor for a few minutes and then began eye gauging and biting. By the end I had a road map of black and blues leading to a cracked incisor. He was equally "tore-up" to the point that he couldn't even think about getting tipsy in the club later.

After the initial fighting was over, we realized the futility in continuing the hand to hand combat. Without any words exchanged we shook hands, made sweet love, and waved goodbye. I watched him drive to the next house still soar from his half-nelson.

Conventions=Boobies

With the success of Girls Gone Wild, it was only a matter of time before every sexually frustrated college student with a camcorder and a six beer buzz was making documentaries about the female form.  We all remeber the subpar spinoffs such as Girls Gone to McDonald's, which included a strangely erotic scene with a tub of Big Mac Special Sauce.  Of course, this voyeuristic artform reached an all time low with the DVD reality series, "Which One is My Sister?" in which unknowing young men were tricked into uncomfortable and socially unacceptable relationships.  I do not feel the need to elaborate on this sac of cinematic vomit. 

However, it seems the latest offering from our young filmmaking friends is rather promising: Girls Gone to the Conventions.  Let's get serious, convention is a fancy word for weeklong alcohol binges in the comfort of like-minded individuals.  Would it be unreasonable to assume that at some point during the debauchery there was the occasional congressional titty-slip?  Whether it was voluntary or simply the result of a poorly tailored business suit, delegates can easily revert back to drunk college girls when they're in front of the camera lens.  With the such high profile names making appearances on the $9.99 DVD, it should be no surprise to see a variety of lawsuits spring up in the next few months.  Bill Clinton was even in the house on Monday night.

I am completely in favor of hedonistic, multi-day events to celebrate allegiance to a particular person or organization, and I think it is only necessary and arguably part of one's civic duty to document and capitalize on the exploits of these "political parties."   

dr. jew