Resurrection is Easy; Figuring Out What to do With Your Life is Hard

I have never been much of a fan of organized religion. The only time I would consent to attending church when I was younger was to harvest the abundant supply of donuts that awaited my younger brother and I at the finale of worship every Sunday (and no offense, Jesus, but donuts taste way better than the Body of Christ…and they don’t stick to the roof of my mouth either. Have you ever considered upgrading your “Body” to strips of bacon instead?). Although the majority of my time spent during mass and Gospel readings was dedicated to grappling with inner moral dilemmas like sprinkles or glazed, I did enjoy learning about Jesus’ early life, that is to say because there is nothing. Between the ages of 12 and 30, there is no record of the life of Jesus. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, nada. While scholars contend that “historical evidence suggests he was probably studying under Jewish scholars” or “he’d often sit at the steps of religious buildings and listen to them debate their religion,” I’d like to believe those were some of young J-dog’s (that’s what his friends called him) toughest years.


Perhaps J-dog spent a summer working in a funeral home, preparing deceased corpses for burial. But to his bosses’ dismay, every dead body the new kid touched came back to life, thus getting fired because having the power to bring people back to life is bad for business when you are a mortician. Perhaps J-dog then decided to work as a bartender, but yet again his employment was terminated due to customers taking advantage of his flair for transforming water-to-wine. Or perhaps J-dog sat at home plagued by his own thoughts of the past, present, and future (“Well, everyone said I was going to be the savior, but I really can’t find a job I’m good at, so what am I suppose to do?). One thing is for certain, he did not want to be a carpenter like dad for the rest of his life. So WWJD (what was Jesus doing)?


Now while I am no messiah on biblical history (all I know is Joseph had an amazing technicolor dreamcoat that he liked to sing and dance about and Jesus was actually Jim Caviezel in a beard…Di Vinci Code eat your heart out!) and lack the scientific prowess to raise someone from the dead (I did, however, once dumbfound my lab partner in biology class by sketching a penis and balls on the bottom of a leaf and claiming out loud: “Hey, I thought plants don’t have reproductive organs”), I like to believe that, like myself, Jesus was struggling with the puzzlement that accompanies 24-years of age. But Jesus Christ! I don’t have the DNA genome makeup of God and cannot walk on water for the life of me. So what the hell am I supposed to do?

My recent career uncertainty is due to the fact that I have never been much of a risk-taker in life. I was the child bubble-wrapped in padding and helmet who rollerbladed down the driveway with the dexterity of a retail-store mannequin on skates, having to be pushed back to the top by my grandpa afterwards. You’ll never see me put my hands over my head while dancing. And if I’m stuck at a red-light that refuses to change in the wee-hours of the morning with no cars in sight, then I will just sit and wait it out like after taking a laxative. But as any halfway decent psychology major would do, I blame this on my inflexible upbringing.


After emerging from my mother’s womb, I have felt like I have been placed on one of those moving walkways at the airport. Just stand. Hold on. And life will take you where you need to go. From private Montessori schools where I received high markings for my ability to color in the lines with the precision of a seismograph recording after a tumultuous earthquake, to high school where I was worshipped as a demigod for my ability to score 20-points a game, my life has felt very much scripted. As expected, I attended a small, private college up the peninsula for the next four years until graduating Summa Cum Laude in 2007. I regret to say that my college years were not filled with robust excitement, but instead, it felt much like trying to have a conversation with my girlfriend at Red Robin with televisions dispersed amongst the background: I spent so much time looking ahead into the future and getting good grades and bolstering my resume that I did not engage the present moment right in front of me. Then suddenly…BAM! The walkway comes to an end and you are left standing there with a degree in your hand feeling much similar to the first time you have sex (okay, I found the hole…now what?).

But thank god for those career counseling classes and Princeton Review career books I purchased in college! Ah yes, the career courses where you complete personality exams that condense your persona to a word jumble (are you ESTJ or INFP?) and leave you a massive scope of selections from President to priest. Or the contradictory career textbooks with jobs characterized by animated icons of money (average salary level) and angels with wings (social benefit of the profession); with certain jobs distinguished by stacks of money piled high alongside an angel with training-bra size wings, while others possess angels with mighty wings next to the currency you bring to a strip club. Oh, and don’t forget the career counselor/psychic friend my mom suggested. The one who looked into her crystal ball and informed me that I have a super-power that will aid me in my career search (Superman is indestructible, Incredible Hulk has superhuman strength, and me…super sensitivity. It means I cry with the strength of 10 men when I see Titanic. Great)!


Even though at times all may seem lost like the sperm that doesn’t make it to fertilize the egg, I, too, have been swimming around exploring different venues looking for a match. I have tried sales, politics, writing, acting, manual labor, accounting, coaching, psychology, law enforcement. But alas, no luck. My most recent adventure was applying to law school, a noble endeavor that many people advocate as being “honorable” and “prestigious.” However, law school, or not going to law school, has taught me a lot about who I am and what I want out of a job. 1) I am creative. This became apparent during law school orientation when teachers elaborated on the methodical practice of “briefing” a case (or what I like to call “writer anorexia”…writing starved of imagination and creativity) or when classmates walked out of class entranced by the lecture on legal writing and analysis, while I sat the entire time perplexed after my teacher revealed she used to be a gymnast even though she was in a wheelchair (I kept envisioning two balance beams side-by-side).


2) I don’t like fighting. One of the orientation exercises emphasized classification and demonstrated this through the use of fruit and vegetables. The teacher had an assortment of produce that students were meant to organize based on size, shape, color, and fruit versus non-fruit. While I managed to complete this task instantly by placing all the green in one category and colored in another (does that make me some kind of shrubbery racist?), the rest of the class was in an uproar like the tomato had raped the banana (Ah! My super-sensitivity is beginning to act up!).

3) I’m not dumb; I am “divergent.” One final examination that was doled out was a convergent versus divergent test. A convergent test is where you sort through a list of possibilities and converge on the right answer (signified by answers of A, B, C, or D). A divergent test requires you to use your imagination and take your mind in as many different directions as possible. Take the word “brick” for example. While the majority of my colleagues summed up a “brick” as “building things” or “throwing,” I consummated a list including: used to karate chop, put under car to steal tires, used to wipe dog poo off shoe, 2 bricks stacked=missionary, 2 bricks in L-shape=doggy style, finishes sentence to sh** a _____, Rocky Balboa’s dumbbell, if had cement=method of ensuring celibacy for my future daughter, if had 2 connected with rope=poorly constructed nunchucks, when placed up=Earth with an erection, rhymes with my d***, and is somewhere in the top 10 of Things I Don’t Want Dropped on my Testicles.

Now while you may be unsure as to how this all pertains to anything remotely significant (or perhaps you are still flabbergasted by my brick/penile humor fixation…it’s a gift, what can I say), what I am trying to allude to is that being 24-years old is a crappy time, but it is also rich with opportunity and exploration. It is a period to discover what makes you uniquely you. It is a stage of venturing from the ordinary into the unexpected, undergoing many triumphs and defeats along the way. You may work some unfavorable jobs here and there and get rich. Or you may fall in love with a career that earns next to nothing. Who knows? One thing for sure is much like the first time J-dog walked on water, the hardest part is taking that first step into the unknown. And that is the nice thing, because you don’t have to be a savior to do that.

OhMy!caridal Interruption

I graduated from Notre Dame de Namur University with a bachelor’s degree in psychology and received the department of science award at graduation. To this day, I am still uncertain as to why I obtained this honor since I did not compose very meaningful research papers. While the majority of my colleagues tackled life-altering topics like major depression and schizophrenia, I chose to investigate more obscure matters like masturbation and bestiality (clinically termed: “I think I have a crush on my dog” or “is it wrong to smear peanut butter on my body and have my pet lick it off?”disorder). However, one area that did intrigue me that was not quite as crude was dream interpretation. Now while there is much debate as to what certain images signify, I was always fascinated by dreams where someone is caught sitting on the toilet, because nothing could be more humiliating than that (except for killing your dad and having sex with your mom…Freud, you sicko). According to researchers, to see a toilet in your dream means: “You need to release your emotions or get rid of something in your life that is useless. To dream that you are watched…signifies your frustrations about not getting enough privacy.” But thank god getting caught on the toilet is an unfathomable encounter reserved for your unconscious psyche…right?


I am currently a gym member of the Jewish Community Center, a modern facility home to soccer moms, rambunctious kids wearing yamakas, and Jewish Rock socials (I assume somebody plays the Dreidel Dreidel song on the electric guitar?). I love the JCC; however, the other day I happened to open the door to my favorite stall (we all have a favorite, right) and there was a 90-year old man sitting on the toilet staring back at me. Now I have been in this elderly gentlemen’s shoes before and knew what he was experiencing, because getting caught on the toilet is much similar to experiencing a heart attack (also known as myocardial infarction): first, there is an initial moment where you don’t know what’s going on; second, you begin to experience a shortness of breath and chest discomfort as a feeling of helplessness encompasses you; and finally, a sudden panic overpowers your body, leaving you dead, or wishing that you were.


Stage 1 of the OhMy!cardial Interruption is the B&E (breaking and entry). I can only liken this to the time when I was younger and I had to go to the bathroom before a Pop Warner football game, so my grandfather escorted me to the shabby bathroom with no doors on the stalls situated in the middle of the locker room. “Pop! I can’t!” I pleaded. “Don’t worry, no one’s around,” he safely replied. The next thing I know, the entire opposing team comes marching through. There is a split-second there where you make no sudden movements, like you are being hunted by a Tyrannosaurus Rex, and pretend to be an extension of the porcelain you are sitting on. However, after you make eye contact (or in my case, eye contact, then eye contact, then eye contact…), you realize the gig is up, and thus move onto phase two.

Stage 2 of OhMy!cardial Interruption is the sensation of vulnerability that cripples your body. Perhaps this arises from the fact that you are arranged in a defenseless position, looking more or less like a baby deer with your knees abnormally close together and your ankles spread wide apart, while your shoes, trousers, and underwear reside below you resembling a deflated totem pole. You sit there, exposed, weak, open to attack, like Luke Skywalker after having his arm severed by Darth Vader’s light saber or when you get pantsed in the swimming pool (oh really?! That never happened to you, lucky mother…). By the time your consciousness slowly begins to make its way back into your mind, your natural fight or flight instincts have already taken over (but since you ain’t going nowhere with your pants around your ankles, it’s basically just fight).

The final stage of OhMy!caridal Interruption is panic. Panic can be summed up as the mad dash you make for your pants comparable to a fumble recovery in football. It’s a sudden grabbing and pulling and tugging of your slacks to conceal your privates. However, due to your cumbersome positioning, you usually manage to get up to a certain point before conceding defeat like in a game of Sudoku. This leaves you feeling in a state of embarrassment, somewhere between getting caught masturbating to porn by your grandma and realizing that it is not okay for your mom to kiss you on the lips anymore in front of your friends when she drops you off at school. And while a typical heart attack is capped off with a final gurgling noise as you make your way to oblivion, OhMy!caridal, too, is summarized with a primordial grunt of “Oh” (chimpanzee for: Oh sh**).

But like any form of social interaction, there is a beautiful rebuttal by the intrudee, sort of like a unique mating ritual that only a high-powered lens can capture at a moment’s notice. The standard procedure includes air being snatched from your lungs like when you get an unsuspecting wedgie from your younger brother after destroying his Lego’s, averting your eyes back and forth as if you are watching a tennis match on TV in fast forward, and the classic inaudible dialogue where you try to conjugate “oh,” “whoops,” and “excuse me,” into the single phrase of: “ohoopscueme.” This is ensued by the bowing gesture you make in the presence of Japanese royalty, followed by the delicate shutting of the door as you make your way out of the stall (an ironic symbolism since you have already disturbed, and most likely traumatized, the victim).


Now although I may appear to be the leading expert in the field of not only masturbation, bestiality, and dream analysis, but bathroom etiquette as well, the interaction with the 90-year old man that resulted due to my surprise access into his stall can only be regarded as: huh? The gentleman that I barged in on did not display any of the typical symptoms an OhMy!cardial Interruption patient exhibits under such circumstances. While his bowel-relieving form might have been a bit of an oddity, looking thereabouts like an offensive lineman about to defend his quarterback from being sacked by his walker (a posture I call the Porta-Potty technique: just close enough, but you don’t want to make contact), his face is what frightened me. He was smiling! Smiling! Like: “Hello there, I’ve been expecting you.” No frozen motion. No sensation of vulnerability. No panic. Just “Hi.” Seeing that he had blatantly disregarded the “getting walked in on” procedure, I, too, defied the rule and offered him no polite bow or “ohoopscueme” and just walked out.


I was quite befuddled by this bizarre exchange, but my mind had yet to be blown. The following day, I changed into my workout clothes, grabbed a towel, and went to my stall and BAM! Guess who is there. And again, no customary reaction. The only thing missing this time around was a candlelit dinner table for two set before him and his welcoming grin. While I refused to have a Lady and the Tramp moment with this senior citizen involving a roll of toilet paper instead of spaghetti, I marched off to the front desk to make my complaint. Now don’t get me wrong; by this time anger was the least of my emotions and I would never protest a gym infraction like not locking the bathroom door…but I had to share this hilarious coincidence with someone. Unfortunately, the woman who worked the front desk that day was devoid of all humor (I explained my “complaint” and she asked me to fill out a complaint card that she could pass on to the proper authorities…although she did advise me to look through the crack of the stall door before entering in the future. My response: is that really my responsibility?! For the rest of my time on this planet I will be known as the pervert who goes around looking through the crack in bathroom stalls. No thanks).

But like all things in life, this came to an end as well. Whenever I opened the stall door, I was no longer greeted with a warm smile but by the toilet’s lifeless face. Having not seen him in over a month, I realize that perhaps he discovered the world was not ready for his jovial bathroom greetings. Or perhaps he relocated to the stall at a retirement community where the victims would not be as quick to flee (I imagine getting out of a stall when your older is much like making a 3-point turn in a car). Or perhaps, like dreams, there is a hidden meaning to these encounters. A masked metaphor. A symbolism that while you may not know what resides behind the doors in life, and while you may be expecting to see more sh**, someone will be waiting there with a smile on their face letting you know it’s okay to come in. But then again, that stuff only happens in dreams.

What Economics, Road Rage, and Rectal Exams Have In Common

Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner are the authors of the critically-acclaimed book Freakonomics, which is a collection of economic articles that apply economic theory to diverse subjects. A common theme presented throughout the novel is the concept of incentives, or “how people get what they want, or need, especially when other people want or need the same thing.” The authors delve further into the notion of incentives by partitioning it into 3 categories: 1) economic, 2) social, and 3) moral. Of these three groupings, I found social incentives to be the most intriguing. Social incentives account for why people don’t cut in line, smoke cigarettes in restaurants, or run around with no pants on (excluding my 3-year old cousin who subtly managed to remove his trousers and undies at my grandparents 50th wedding anniversary and had to be corralled like a rabid raccoon just to put them back on…bravo little man!). But with all these social incentives governing how our society functions, I ask: Why the hell does it not apply on the freeway!

Ever since my girlfriend moved to San Francisco from San Jose, I have become quite familiar with the freeway system. Although I spend the majority of the hour drive picking my nose and desperately trying to flick its remnants out the window (looking more or less like a man trying to learn how to snap his fingers…sticky buggers), I have had ample time to psychoanalyze the freeway “culture” and its inhabitants. What I have come to realize is that today’s freeways are crowded with characters from The Island of Doctor Moreau; half-man, half-beast adaptations that pillage the roads in their fuel-efficient automobiles, devoid of all emotion like Darth Vader’s face when he’s constipated (Luke, Luke, I should not have eaten that burrito).

This is none more apparent than in the driving lane hierarchy, a personality test devised of white lines and cars traveling 70mph. On the far right you have the “slow-laners,” a gathering as exhilarating as a 90-year old stripper (hey baby, you ever had a woman who could tie her boobs around your head) and daredevil-ish as the man who opts for abstinence as his form of birth control. These minions seldom venture from their exit lane paradise with the hopes of never engaging in any form of discord (they are typically the ones who reside in the middle seat on road trips and prefer to sit down on the toilet instead of using the urinal).


Similar to Goldilocks and the 3 bears, I prefer the middle lanes, or “just-right” lanes. This way I can avoid the slow-lane feeling of produce moving down the conveyor belt on the checkout stand, while eluding the fast-lane’s demeaning and cutthroat lifestyle. It is like having the best of both worlds (like a recliner converted into a toilet), and I am not forced to check my rear-view mirror with the frequency an inmate does in the prison showers to see if a car is barreling up on me.

However, there is no more humbling experience than riding in the fast-lane. Folks who dwell in the fast-lane are tricky to classify; they could be a Wall Street executive, retired NASCAR driver, a guy who likes punching himself in the testicles so he can post it on YouTube…or it could be your first-grade teacher, a baby heart surgeon, the purple Teletubby. Who knows? But one thing they all have in common: they are ruthless and drive like they have a 400-pound gorilla backing them up in the passenger seat that devours infant children and small woodland creatures from Bambi. Even their cars come across as menacing, with headlights shaped like Bruce Lee’s face about to sever a board in two and license plates situated right above the car’s grill, essentially looking like Hitler’s moustache.

These soulless individuals will cut you off sooner than an overly-anxious Mohel, and squeeze their SUVs into spaces tighter than the middle seat on an airplane between two Sumo wrestlers. I once tried shifting into the fast-lane, but after managing to assemble an angry mob of drivers behind me like I was the Pied Piper of Hameln playing his Prius flute, I descended back over to my nurturing, middle-lane womb, as dejected as the man in those ED commercials. But “fast-laners” might even be someone you love. When my girlfriend takes to the helm, we effectively prove my G.P.S.’s predicted time-of-arrival wrong time and time again. This is not due to an ease in traffic or unbeknownst shortcuts, but because she drives much like Jerome Bettis runs a football. We don’t tailgate so much as give the car ahead of us a colonoscopy.


But this leads me back to the initial question of why? Social incentives, according to economists Levitt and Dubner, are supposed to trigger something in our minds to prevent us from acting like heathens on the road. But we treat our cars as fortresses detached from the real world, allowing us to make maneuvers reserved for the Blue Angels and mouth inaudible dialogue like “truck poo” (or is it “duck stew?”). However, much like the Emperor and his New Clothes, we can all see you. You may think we cannot, but trust me, we do. So I ask you fellow drivers out there, in my best economist lingua franca: please supply a little more love on the roads and stop demanding people to get out of your way.

Nelson Mandela Never Went Paintballing

Nelson Mandela has been quoted as saying: “Our worst fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.” Franklin D. Roosevelt stated during his First Inaugural Address: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” And a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, Yoda said: “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” While these progressive minds present us with transformative quotes that relinquish our souls from fear, I have duly concluded that none of them have ever gone paintballing.

This past weekend, my girlfriend informed me (with as much advanced notice as when an alien erupts from one’s chest cavity in the Alien trilogy… “Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you about the alien in your chest”) that we would be going paintballing for her girlfriend’s birthday, because this was one of the events on her bucket list. Other endeavors included working in a bakery for one day and horseback riding, a list as bizarre as Hannibal Lecter’s dating profile (I am smart, I like to read, and eat people’s brains). I had been paintballing once when I was younger, and while I remember my friends possessing the determination and fervor of a tiger stalking its prey, I would liken my skills to a pigeon sitting perched up high discharging paintball droppings from my wooden shelter. Feeling this was an opportunity to restore my manhood to maximum strength and show my girlfriend that my talents exceed holding her purse while she goes to the bathroom, I agreed to this undertaking.

But similar to a dog being neutered, all my dreams of heroism and testosterone flaunting were abruptly removed as we pulled up to the paintballing parking lot. What one does not realize about the paintballing world is that it is structured much similar to the Indian caste system. Seated at the top of this hierarchy are the ex-Navy seals and Marine commandos, who miss the adrenaline rush of combat and have enough free time to convert AK-47’s into paintball guns. You can identify them easily with their camouflage jumpsuits, ammunition draped around their necks, and girlfriends who retain the charm (and facial hair) of a lumberjack.

Positioned below the “professionals” are the F.P.A. (Future Paintballers of America). These are not your average youth who inundate shopping malls and Hannah Montana concerts on weekends, but kids who get sent to the office at school for setting things on fire (I once got sent to the office for forgetting my sweater on picture day). If Rambo was artificially inseminated and his offspring were raised by wolves, this would be them. Finally, at the bottom of the totem pole, are your “bucket-listers” or “untouchables” (which is slightly ironic since we will be anything but “untouched” when we enter the playing field). These are yuppies who pull into the parking lot, get out of the car in their Lulu-lemon workout pants and sweatpants with elastic bands around the ankles (I don’t want to get my “nice” sweatpants dirty!...a sad fact that I even have enough sweatpants to place them in categories of “nice” and “not-nice”). These individuals walk around with rented guns in one hand and Starbucks coffee in the other.

Similar to the animal kingdom, I realized that paintballers can smell the fear of their prey (a.k.a. “us”). So while the members of the F.P.A. sat like a pack of hungry hyenas on the picnic tables surveying their meal, I made sure to strut about with my eyes fixated on them like the lion at the zoo that meanders back and forth, never averting his eyes away. It is too bad that while I was putting out the vibe of “death,” my girlfriend and her friends were snapping photos with the rented guns like Paris Hilton posing for the paparazzi, sprinkling in ominous and threatening comments like: “I hope I don’t break out from wearing our masks…do you have any Purell?” Jesus! Do you think these paintballers care about germs! It’s like a suicide bomber saying, “Does this C4 make me look fat?”


As fear began to saturate my mind (either because I knew we were about to experience the “serious bodily harm, paralysis, or death” mentioned on the waiver form or because I saw one of the kids put something in his mouth “Was that a mouth piece or a retainer?”), I tightened my drawstring on my sweats and made my way to the battlefield. Once on the hallowed ground, the referee divided up the teams…while I stood aside holding my girlfriends gun and tightening her mask for her, a sight comparable to a parent situating their infant child once they get off the gondola to go skiing (side note: if I’m not holding my girlfriend’s purse, it is her rented paintball gun).

Now I would love to tell you valiant tales of my conquest on the paintballing field, where I sacked the opposing team’s base single-handedly and pulled wounded teammates by one arm back to safety while discharging my weapon in the other, all I can tell you is that paintballing sucks paintballs. One: for the fact that I left that day with my torso riddled with pink welts, looking more or less like the underside of a female dog or a playing board midway through a game of checkers. And two: there was a moment where I was engaged with one of the enemy in a fire fight and he ended up sneaking up on me and eliminating me from the game. However, my girlfriend managed to gun him down right after shooting me (it is kind of like me trying to twist the lid off a jar and then my girlfriend trying and popping it right off…I totally loosened it for her!). So while Mandela, Roosevelt, and Yoda may all exude loads of knowledge about fear, none of them truly know what it is like to fear forever being indebted to holding their girlfriends purse for rest of eternity.

Men Who Wear Makeup

Many famous people throughout history have adorned their faces with makeup: Gene Simmons from KISS, William Wallace from Braveheart, and Bozo the Clown. Simmons’ “Demon” makeup reflected his character’s cynicism and dark elements, as well as his love for comic books. William Wallace decorated his face as an intimidation technique, inspired by a dream he had that the Virgin Mary visited him and painted the blue and white flag of Scotland on his face. Bozo the Clown, on the other hand, covered his face with paint due to an unfortunate early career accident involving pulling a rabid cat he found behind a dumpster out of his hat (thus opting for more passive and unassuming rabbits in the future). However, there is one thing all of these persons have in common—I’ve never wanted to be any of them. But as fate may have it, I, too, would fall into the ranks of men who wear makeup.

I am currently in a community theater production of Romeo and Juliet, playing none other than the role of Gregory (who is kind of like a hemorrhoid on the play’s derriere…you always keep him in the back and never let people see him in the light). I must admit that I am inexperienced when it comes to theater, which is why I was so taken aback when I discovered I would need to not only purchase makeup, but put it on myself as well. After accumulating a list of items that I would need to procure before next rehearsal (a list as familiar to me as my fetal pig dissection instructions in high school—Pinna? External nares? Nictitating membrane? I don’t know about that but I can pick my piggy’s nose with my needle probe!), I sent my mom to the store to buy the appropriate tools, for the same reason I don’t go to the store and buy my girlfriend tampons.

The following evening, I cautiously made my way into the men’s dressing room with the same amount of discretion I would during swim class when I was little and I would inch my way to the pool in my parent-bought Speedo, while everyone else splashed around in their swim trunks (and at that age, it looks more like a G-string… “Just blend it,” I’d recite as my mantra). To my surprise, every guy was at the counter putting their makeup on! And they had makeup kits! More like makeup fishing tackle boxes…not a CVS bag of mommy purchased makeup. So I nestled myself in between two of my cast members and got to work (still reciting to myself “Just blend it”).

But wait! I don’t know how to put on makeup. So I kindly ask cast member number one on my left, Stephen, what to do. Now Stephen is what you might consider a theater veteran. He is tall and lanky, with long hair that drapes down over his shoulders. He commands a certain amount of respect due to his theatrical experience, kind of like the tenured pirate that has wooden pegs for arms and legs. As Stephen continues reaching into his makeup kit/RV parked on the counter, I pummel him with makeup 101 questions, until he turns to me and says: “You know, I hate it when people sit and ask others questions about makeup.” What?! Is he talking about me! How dramatic…well, he is an actor.

I then turn to cast member number two on my right, Bill. Now Bill is quite the opposite of Stephen. Bill is one of the older cast members (but not quite a veteran), with patches of white hair scattered about his cranium like someone tried to glue cotton balls on his head. He spends his days as a painter, and previous to that career, he was a goat seamen collector (during intermissions, Bill would narrate these vivid and gripping tales, much like I imagine ancient storytellers would recite back in the day where characters like Hercules would slaughter men by the thousands…but instead of a metallic sword dashed with blood, I would have to envision Bill wielding a goat’s penis and trying to insert it into a homemade goat vagina replica. As you can already tell, I love Bill).

After tapping Bill on the shoulder for help, he turns to me, and instead of the immaculate makeup application I expect to see like Stephen, Bill looks…well…interesting. Instead of a modest base, Bill looks like someone farted flour on his face. The clear-cut shadowing performed by Stephen looks more or less like Bill got in a fist fight with a turd, his cheeks splotched with little brown markings. And Bill’s worn-down eyebrows have been colored in with brown eye-liner with the same precision a kindergartener does when trying to color in the lines. All I can do is crack a grin when looking at Bill, and he fondly replies, “Shut up.” Bill instructs me on what he is attempting to do, but then again, Bill looks like a two-bit hooker, so I take his advice with a grain of salt.


The time had come. The director lets us know we have ten minutes to be on stage, so I decide to just take a crack at it. Step 1) lay all my makeup out before me. Step 2) figure out what everything is. Step 3) take what is before me and put it on my face. Simple, right? At this juncture, I feel similar to the astronauts on Apollo 13 having to assemble an air purification system out of a rope, a Styrofoam cup, and a pair of dirty socks. Now while we all may have suffocated and died on Apollo 13 if I was the astronaut in charge, I did manage to make it out on stage in time with about a inch of makeup protruding from my face. More is less, right. Or is it less is more? Anyways, when the curtain went up and the lights hit my face, everyone had to turn their eyes away because my face resembled that of Iron Man’s, with the same reflective qualities (imagine how it feels when you look God in the face).

Now that I look back upon yesterday’s adventure, I am proud of myself…and humbled (due to the fact that everyone else looked normal and I stood out). But I was raised of the mindset: “Go big or go home,” which is probably why when I asked my parents to buy me a cup for little league practice, my dad came home with one designed to protect King Kong’s genitals (so embarrassing when I haven’t even hit puberty yet and I walk up to the plate looking like I swallowed a jar of Viagra…I think my cup stuck out farther than my baseball bat). But I was also raised of the mindset: “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” So tonight I strive to land somewhere between Stephen’s professional MAC counter skills and Bill’s someone poured all my makeup in the toilet then gave me a Swirley-expertise. Mr. Simmons, Mr. Wallace, and Mr. Clown, wish me luck!

Sit, Rollover, and the Occasional 3-Point Turn

It has been said that “Dog Is Man’s Best Friend,” a statement that resonates for any of us that has had the pleasure of being a dog owner. This intangible bond that exists between man and animal is undeniable, with doctors and psychologists citing numerous benefits to their companionship: loyalty, unconditional love, humor, and even the reduction of blood pressure.

Now even though my cardiologist has not seen any drastic declines in my blood pressure, probably due to the fact that my dog drools worse than one of those extraterrestrial creatures that Sigourney Weaver torches in Aliens (but instead of an acidic burn, my dog prefers to leave a shiny, gloss-like feature on my pants as if my Dockers came embroidered with a patent leather crotch…kind of a difficult explanation when you get to the office. “It’s…uh…toothpaste?”). Or perhaps it’s because when we have company over, my dog’s nose persistently finds its way to my intimate parts like I’m hiding a Tony Romas restaurant in my man thong, I mean, underwear, and for the rest of the night I struggle with his snout as if I got the vacuum cleaner hose caught on my genitals. Or perhaps it’s because when we go for a walk, my dog sees a chipmunk and runs in the opposite direction as if a psycho killer waving around a chainsaw is chasing him (which makes me worry about the time a psycho killer waving around a chainsaw comes into my home…I’ll probably have to grab my dog’s tail and wave him around like a nun chuck in self-defense to fend off the intruder). Now even though my pooch and I have a very unique relationship, I have come to notice lately that people in the Bay Area love their dogs…perhaps maybe a little too much.

The other day while waiting for my girlfriend to get off work, I went for a run along the waterfront in San Francisco by the ferry building. One thing you will realize about San Franciscans is that they really, really love their dogs, more so than the Eastbay or South Bay populations. Everywhere they go, dogs come along. Every little shop has dog bowls in front. There are stores dedicated to dogs. People dress their dogs in sweaters, cardigans (for more formal occasions or doggy interviews), and parkas (as if they might be leading a trek into the Himalayas). I’ve even seen the two part water fountain where the top is for humans and the bottom one is for dogs (and if you’re dog has realized how to operate the mini-fountain by himself, you better put him to sleep or something because that dog just blew his cover. It’s just a matter of time before you wake up in a dark room with a milk bone in your mouth and a video camera in front of you and your dog speaking and the only two words you can decipher between the barks are “payback” and “castration.” You’re pretty much screwed).

But I’m not here to talk about doggy testicular grudges, because what I saw the other day along the water front was just shocking. There was a pack of little dogs running around, and then tailing behind the doggy soiree was this miniature bulldog that had strapped on its hips a futuristic form of a doggy wheelchair. No joke. But it was not like the dog was sitting upright in the wheelchair, chasing the herd like “You little kids, come back here with my tennis ball,” it was more or less like the dog had been transformed into a drag racing car. Because it was not a dog of sizeable proportions; it was little runt, so the wheels looked like someone salvaged them from a monster truck, and the dog had a little red belt lifting up his hind parts, and he had kind of a forward lean to him, like when you’re in PE class in elementary school or at a team building event and you partake in the wheel barrow race where someone holds your legs up and you walk on your hands. That is what this puppy looked like running around chasing these other dogs.

Now that I think about it, the other dogs were probably running away from wheelchair dog, because they probably assumed it was a car. I mean how many dogs have lost companions in the field of duty due to a big, hunky wheel plowing over them? You need to put yourself in the dog’s shoes (or paws…especially the Chihuahua’s since he was freaking out), because these dogs being pursued by a dog equipped with wheels is like us being chased by the indestructible, shape-shifting T-1000 in Terminator 2. You know, the robot with limbs that possessed the ability to morph into liquid metal spears? Because I see a dude running towards me with blades for arms, I’m running my little butt off too. I don’t have time to mosey over and sniff the T-1000 derriere to verify. I just run. But that is where dogs lack the intellect that we humans possess, because all the dogs needed to do was just relinquish the tennis ball, then life would return to normal. Could you imagine if that is all the T-1000 wanted to do was get the tennis ball? He comes barreling up on you, prods his arms in to your car with his daggers, and you just toss the ball out the window. He goes running after it. You’re like “Ha! Let’s neuter his liquid metal testicles and put him in a kennel when he gets back.”

After further reflection, I believe the whole tennis ball throwing routine for dogs is just kind of a psychological dominance over their species. We feel superior when we throw the ball and they bring it back, and then we really let him know whose boss when we fake throw and they go running off and end up looking around like my grandpa with Dementia “How did I get here?” How befuddled would you be if when you threw the ball, and your dog looked you straight in the eye and shook his head and pulled out another tennis ball from behind his back, saying in his best Al Pacino-voice: “Youse been hiding this from me huh? Forget about it. Give me some bacon we calls it even.”

Then there are certain issues with the doggy wheelchair that cause me apprehension. For starters, how does he pee? Is he like one of those older obese men using the urinal, with his hands on his hips allowing his urine to shower everywhere like a unmanned fire hose, or does the owner bring out his car jack and hike up a wheel just to make the dog feel normal again? And what about pooping? Dogs usually prefer a Sumo wrestler attack posture before relieving themselves, but those wheels can present a problem. I imagine when the dog defecates it is analogous to that of a gold fish. The turd most likely tails swiftly behind him like toilet paper stuck to a shoe. But how embarrassing is that for the dog! It would be like having food embedded in our teeth. His fellow peers are probably like: “Hey Rover, you, uh, saving that string of poop for a snack later or what?” I could just imagine the wheelchair dog trying to disconnect the dung off him by shaking his doggy booty…but then again, this all depends on how good his shocks are or if he has hydraulics in his doggy hind wheels to help him waggle it free. .

Other matters that trouble me include if you are throwing the ball in the backyard and the ball falls in the swimming pool. Do you witness Fido scurry after it, jump in and just sink like an anchor to the bottom of the pool? He’s is probably like: “Oh well, at least I die with you tennis ball,” clasping his circular-shaped lover to his chest like the elderly couple in the finale of Titanic. I image you would be inclined to encircle your pool with those reverse spikes rental car places and SWAT teams use to immobilize automobiles. Wheelchair dog goes hounding the ball then PSSSSSTT! Stops dead in his tracks.

I also imagine it would be quite a feat walking your dog around the city with all the colossally steep hills that unexpectedly drop with verticality comparable to my grandma’s breasts. I conceive that you’re not so much as walking your dog as pulling him like luggage with wheels on it. Then there must be times when you unexpectedly make a quick turn while walking your wheelchair dog, and the next thing you know (as it always happens at the airport with luggage outfitted with wheels) you are getting admonished with incriminating stares by passerby’s because you turn around see you’ve been dragging your dog on its side for the last two blocks. What about getting a flat tire with your doggy wheelchair? Do you put a spare under his belly? And when it occurs, do you briskly stop the walk, get out the flairs and cones, and direct people away from the scene while you mend your poor animal’s tire? I know it must be a real inconvenience during the winter time to take your dog on a walk because your dog’s wheelchair must be concealed with snow chains. How irresponsible would you feel if you are walking your dog behind you and he just starts sliding into the middle of the street, then bum bum, bum bum…whoops!

I could muster up 101 possible outcomes that could go awry, but my biggest concern is for the dog’s self-esteem. I mean this dog I saw in the park did not have the coolest get up ever. You never saw James Bond roll up in an electric wheel chair and say, “Martini…shaken not stirred…but in a to-go cup please.” Because honestly, how many cool things have two wheels? You’re probably like: “Well a mountain bike or a motorcycle is pretty cool.” Ok let me re-phrase the question: how many cool modes of transportation have two wheels parallel to one another? I can only think of one and it’s the Segway (you know, what mall cops and dorks at hi-tech companies use to maneuver from their desk to get water cooler). Seriously, not cool. You don’t see Hell’s Angels being like: “On second thought, maybe we should opt for something a little more ergonomically correct.” Because this is what that dog resembled: a doggy Segway.

Now just conjure up that feeling you get when you see someone gyrating around pedestrians down the sidewalk on their Segway. You kind of despise them and think un-Jesus-like thoughts to yourself like: “What an idiot,” because their not only being lazy, but they stand like two feet higher than the crowd, like Yao Ming walking around in China (plus tack on an extra foot for the helmet). Now take that image of the Segway man and then add a leash around him. Anything with a leash around it knocks coolness down 95%. Kid with back pack on. Kid with back pack on with leash attached to it. Giant, man-eating lion. Giant, man-eating lion with a leash around it. Man staying at hotel. Man staying at hotel with a leash around him getting paddled by a Dominatrix. Cool. Not cool (or just borderline disturbing). And to top it off, the wheels of the doggy Segway are not trendy, off-roading wheels but resemble something you might swop from your kids red wagon. If my dog needed wheels, I would go on EBay and purchase the wheels from the Batmobile. Huge, gargantuan, overly obtrusive wheels, like when I would take my dog for a walk people have to step off the curb so as not to get their toes amputated.

But this still leaves one question unanswered: what about the owner? I just want to know when it goes through your mind that: “Hmm, my dog has had an accident and it cannot walk anymore. Maybe I should put him to sleep because I don’t want him to suffer…OR maybe I should throw some wheels on him.” You’re like: “Oh, my poor goldfish can’t swim anymore. Maybe I should flush him down the toilet…OR maybe I should put a propeller on the back of him?” You can probably go to this guy’s apartment and all his animals are suped up like an Asian chop shop. His pet bird has a jet propulsion pack on it. You walk in and have to duck to avoid being decapitated, while his bird continues to fly around into walls like a pinball machine. All the while the bird is just trying to get to the food bowl, and you proceed to army crawl out of the apartment so as not to get riddled with bird poop like an old WWII movie. I think the only animal that would not mind physical alteration would be a turtle. He would be like: “Alright, not too shabby.” But he would probably have the reaction time of an old Chinese woman behind the wheel. He would want to make a left turn get to his hot rock, then hit his little turtle turn signal, run into the wall and start trying to turn afterwards.

Now even though I may jest at the obstacles this dog may incur during its lifetime, I am sure the owner of the pet was acting out of compassion and unconditional love. A meaningful attempt to return the same amount of love that this puppy has brought to its owner’s life. This speaks volumes as to the importance our dogs play in our everyday lives and what makes them ‘Man’s Best Friend’: because although we may not speak the same language, or share the same fascination with butts (unless you are Sir Mix-a-lot), or even embarrass them by putting wheels on their bodies, our dogs love us no matter what and will always greet us with a smile, a lick, or a good old-fashion crotch sniff. Perhaps it is us that could learn a thing or two about love from them. So I take back what I said earlier about loving your dog too much, because I’d rather you give your pooch too much love than no love at all. Oh, I forgot to mention there is one benefit to the doggy wheelchair: is if he is ever humping your leg, all you have to do is push him backwards.

N.A.A.C.P.--The National Association for the Abolishment of Circumcised Penises

An article found on Wikipedia 20 years from today. Search topic: the American Civil Rights Movement…but after you click on it, you’re going to have to scroll down to the bottom of the page where there is a link to another site; click it, download the appropriate file, hit okay, then click “No” (or else it will take you to a website where a midget plagued with Elephantitis of his scrotum poses in female lingerie…gives camel toe a whole new meaning), then you will get to a site where there is a highlighted portion entitled: “The 2nd American Civil Rights Movement,” and click it and you will read the following (oh! And don’t forget to go to the History tab on your computer and delete the web address for the disturbing yet slightly ironic pictures of Mini-me rocking King Kong’s testicles, or else you will have hell to pay with your parents later, or, if you are currently running for a highly influential political position, the CIA and Homeland Security…but without further ado, the article):

“The Second Civil Rights Movement (2009-2022) refers to the reform movements in the United States aimed at abolishing discrimination against uncircumcised penises and restoring the foreskin to the penis through various methods intended to return the penis to its prenatal form (for further information on Penile/Foreskin Restoration Methods and its setbacks in regards to Velcro-ing foreskin onto the head of the penis and the usage of super glue for foreskin repair and the misfortunes of accidentally gluing the foreskin shut and its effects on impeding urinary flow, please continue to the appendix of the article). Systematic disenfranchisement of uncircumcised penises (which I think translates into uncircumcised penises could not be picked up by professional sports teams, but I’m no English major so I am not one-hundred percent sure) took place in states across the country, especially in heavily populated Jewish communities, and lasted until national civil rights legislation was passed in the early-2020s.

In contrast to the African American’s Civil Rights Movement, where blacks “could not vote, could not sit on juries, could not take part in the justice system or law enforcement, were denied economic opportunities, experienced widespread employment discrimination, and individual, police, organizational, and mass racial violence,” the men in possession of an uncircumcised penis were, in fact, allowed to do all of these things (although if they weren’t, uncircumcised penis owners would have had a legitimate complaint!). Uncircumcised penis holders (not individuals who actually would physically hold the uncircumcised penises in their hands but had an uncircumcised penis) and other foreskin fanatics rejected this regime. They resisted it and sought better opportunities through an assortment of means: lawsuits (although obviously no lawyer in their right mind would take their case), new organizations (like the Apple foreskin iPod, where iPod owners could pull a protective layer of skin over the iPod when not using the device), political redress (where foreskin faithfuls would don pink ribbons with an actual severed, dried-up foreskin that had been circumcised pinned onto it, as well as flaunt signs and shirts embossed with the famous saying of the movement: Snip, snip, don’t do it!), and labor organizing (but because uncircumcised penises could not actually lift heavy crates or operate dangerous machinery, this proved to be a bust).

The National Association for the Abolishment of Circumcised Penises (NAACP) was founded in 2009 and it struggled to end penile discrimination through litigation, education, lobbying efforts, and just pulling out their uncircumcised penises in public and shaking them in front of unsuspecting pedestrians (in an attempt to invoke understanding, tolerance, and appreciation, not just to be perverted…even though a federal court happened to rule differently). Its crowning achievement was its legal victory in the Supreme Court decision Brown v. the Shalom Bris Party Planning Committee (2019) that rejected a near-sighted mohel, whom had not passed the eye exam to operate a motor vehicle could perform a circumcision on a child in an air-conditioned room or a facility below room temperature (for fear of amputating an insufficient amount of foreskin, rendering the child in a class of neither circumcised nor uncircumcised, more commonly referred to as a ‘halfie’). And this, by implication, overturned the Biblical doctrine ‘Circumcise the foreskin of your heart [Deut 10:16]’ (which is probably the creepiest image one could muster in one’s mind, and whomever translated that portion of the Bible from Hebrew better have been fired or stoned to death), a doctrine that had been established in Plessy v. Foreskinuson.

Further down the page, the Wikipedia article elaborates upon the “Uncircumcised Power Movement” (signified by a giant black fist punching an circumcised penis in the testicles), stating: “In 2015, Urologist Dr. John Dickfeeler began urging uncircumcised male communities to confront the KKK (simply put, the ‘Kut Kut Klan,’ who were bald men that drew a line down the middle of their heads to signify a circumcised penis and rode around on horseback--which was really dumb and outdated because the uncircumcised victims could hop into their sports cars and catch up with them and beat the poop out of them). The Kut Kut Klan affiliates wielded large scissors, while at the same time throwing flaming circumcised foreskins on people’s lawns…which authorities would later put out by stepping on or getting a garden hose and sprinkling some water on it. Dickfeeler felt it was the only way to rid communities of the terror (and amusement of grown men throwing fiery foreskins on lawns) caused by the Klan.

Several people engaging in the Uncircumcised Power Movement started to gain more of a sense of uncircumcised wiener pride and identity as well. In gaining more of a sense of a cultural identity, several uncircumcised men demanded that urologists no longer refer to them as “Uncircumcised” but as “The Superior Weiner Species” but urologists kept referring to them as uncircumcised because it was the clinical term denoted in medical journals to those individuals who had foreskin, not to mention just an idiotic request. Up until the late 2010s, uncircumcised males has dressed similarly to uncircumcised males (actually…identically) and combed their pubic hairs straight (why? Nobody knows and nobody cares to find out). As part of gaining a unique identity, uncircumcised men started to wear loosely fitting hats that resembled a scrunched down Jazzercise sock on one’s head (for emblematic purposes, of course) that one could pull down over his face in case he was cold or wanted to be rendered blind (cutting holes in the hat for the eyes, nose, and mouth would have been detrimental to the imagery the hat was meant to justify…coincidentally enough, crosswalk fatalities peaked during this period as well as registered complaints by wives that their husbands were peeing on the toilet seat, the floor beneath the toilet, and the wall behind the toilet…sometimes even the ceiling). Also, uncircumcised males started to grow their pubic hair out as a natural afro. The afro, sometimes named the “pubie fro” or “massive bush,” remained a popular uncircumcised pubic hairstyle, until the afro reached a point where it looked like the male had no penis at all and that Don King was playing hide-and-go-seek in the uncircumcised male’s crotch.

Uncircumcised Power was made most public by the Uncircumcised Anteater Party (a poor imitation of Malcolm X’s Black Panther Party; whose members later complained that the mascot of the anteater was not as intimidating as a black panther, however, group leaders insisted that the anteater’s snout was the closest resemblance to the uncircumcised penis). Although circumcised extremists tried to tarnish the uncircumcised penis’ reputation, through hateful propaganda like a foreskin blowing cigarette smoke in a baby’s face or an uncircumcised penis using one of its penis wrinkles to shake hands with Osama Bin Laden, the movement stood strong and brought an end to a legacy of senseless penile oppression. No longer would an uncircumcised penis have to hang it head again (no pun intended).”

Let’s face it people, there is no pussyfooting around what is at hand here. There is a war going on, an unspoken war that lies dormant (or very erect), hidden from the light of day (hopefully…), residing in the depths of our community’s loins, or Calvin Klein boxer-briefs, or tighty whiteys, or male thongs, or--and let us pray not--beneath nothing at all. No I am not talking about the battle between doctor prescribed topical creams and gonorrhea, syphilis, and genital warts (the true Axis of Evil, as far as I’m concerned), but the battle being waged against those constituents with “kosher-meat” and those of us with “unsliced-bologna” (it is truly mind boggling how many synonyms one can locate on the Internet).

This is a war being fought not with conventional machine guns and WMDs (if it were…ouch!), but with hurtful words and slander. Even the other day my girlfriend made reference to my uncircumcised-ness by telling me: “Babe, are you done writing yet? Why don’t you bring you and your hotdog bun back to bed…or would it be a corndog?” Ah ha! Even those whom are closest to my heart do not understand the years of suffrage and misrepresentation the uncircumcised penis has withstood. So where does society go from here? In times where gasoline prices are sky rocketing, the economy is in a bottomless depression where citizens are losing tens of thousands of dollars, and global warming is melting the polar ice caps and threatening our existence as a species, what better time to fight for an end to uncircumcised wiener persecution. Let me put it to you like this: the uncircumcised penis has now become an endangered species, similar to the baby panda that inhabits our planet. So if you saw a little baby panda walking around, would you decapitate the defenseless mammal? You would just let the baby panda go wandering around with no head, bumping into bamboo shoots? In accordance with the Jewish Bible, whenever the biblical patriarch Abraham saw a baby panda, he would whip out his little baby panda-sheering scissors and behead the poor creature as an “everlasting covenant,” you would do the same? You tell me, how much sense does that make? So it is time for people to wake up! It is time to make it cool again to have foreskin. Let us no longer pull back the skin of our pee-pee’s and snip, snip, but instead pull back the skin of our eye’s and see the truth: uncircumcised penises are our friends.

When I was a little boy I went to a sports camp for the summer. My favorite activity by far was swimming. Every day I would be the first one to change out of my clothes, into my swimsuit, and be the first in the pool. However, one day, unbeknownst to me, I dropped my undies (like I had done all my life, but I guess at that age you’re supposed to make sure no one is around for like a mile in each direction, and then with the same amount of privacy as if I were pulling a loaded gun out of my uncircumcised penis, change into my bathing suit) and a bigger boy next to me looked over and clearly bellowed out for all to hear: “Eww, what are you, some kind of Gaylord?” As everyone laughed and made their way to the pool, I looked down at my uncircumcised wiener and he looked back up at me, and a single tear drop appeared on one of its penis wrinkles (or it might have been a pee drop since I had just gone to the bathroom, but I’m almost positive it was a tear drop). From that day on, me and my uncircumcised penis went into hiding, only wishing that I, too, had a life size foreskin to pull over me to hide me from the embarrassment.

However, years later my younger brother and I were riding around in the back of a car on a family vacation, and he was elaborating on how the uncircumcised penis was gaining in popularity once again amongst the female masses. The conversation had begun with me explaining to him that when I went to the toilet, I would inexplicably pee on myself due to the fact that my urine would not come out in an orderly stream but spray out like it was a carbonated beverage that I had dropped on the pavement and tried opening too soon (for those of you thinking, “What a idiot,” I would like to remind you that the foreskin does not come equipped with handy directions printed on its inner layer as if it were a washing/drying label on a t-shirt. Strictly trial and error, my friends). After listening to my brother’s passionate line of reasoning as to why an uncircumcised penis is an ally, my confidence was fully restored and thus began my reign as founder of the National Association of the Abolishment for Circumcised Penises and its C.E.O. (Circumcision Evasion Officer).

What I have now realized as I begin my campaigning for the end of uncircumcised penis tyranny is that men, women, people of all ages and ethnicities, and even mohels and the boy who made fun of me in the locker room, they all lack a significant amount of awareness about circumcision, which is what deters them from accepting the little shriveled up piece of skin that looks like a coy fish with deflated Botox lips into their hearts and minds. In order to better our understanding, we must take the time to familiarize ourselves more on the matter. The male circumcision is defined as the “removal of some or all of the foreskin from the penis.” The word “circumcision” comes from Latin circum (meaning “the skin around one‘s penis”) and cision (meaning “to bite off with one’s teeth”…although I studied Spanish all through junior high and high school so my Latin might be a little off). The editorial continues on by stating: “Early depictions of circumcision are found in cave drawings and Ancient Egyptian tombs, though some pictures may be open to interpretation (which is oddly satirical, because every time I was excused to go to the bathroom in high school, I had a guy in my English class that would decorate my book with various sized penis drawings or penis sketches where a wiener was going into the mouth of William Shakespeare. I guess some things never change).”

It is heavily debated by scholars as to the pros and cons of circumcision, citing that advocates for circumcision affirm: “It has no substantial effects on sexual function (besides some individuals claiming their penis just fell right off…but no biggie), has a low complication rate when carried out by an experienced physician (although some allege that following the procedure their penis came alive like Frankenstein and tried to murder them in the middle of the night by getting them in a choke hold), and is best performed during the neonatal period (as opposed to when the patient reaches his late 80s or early 90s, because by that time gravity has taken place and the foreskin resembles more or less a stretched out tube sock and the physician has trouble estimating where to make the incision).

Opponents of circumcision testify that “it is extremely painful and adversely affects sexual pleasure and performance (meaning that when an individual went to orgasm, he would climax out his butt and fart out his penis), may increase the risk of certain infections (nobody wants their penis looking like one of the dancers in the Michael Jackson Thriller video), and when performed on infants and children violates the individual’s human rights (just imagine right after emerging from your mother’s womb, you see these loving eye’s affectionately gazing down at you, only to be handed over like a lateral in football to a doctor who proceeds to amputate the skin on your little baby penis. It is comparable to aliens making contact with Earth, and right when they step off the mother ship, we cut their genitalia off. Tell me, what would you go home and tell all the other aliens about our planet? Greetings earthlings…snip, snip!).”

The website continues on to reveal an explicit description of modern circumcision procedures (no dialogue or add-lib needed for the following): “With all modern devices the same basic procedure is followed. First, the amount of foreskin to be removed is estimated. The foreskin is then opened via the preputial orifice to reveal the glands underneath and ensure it is normal. The inner lining of the foreskin is then bluntly separated from its attachment to the glands. The device is then placed (this sometimes requires a dorsal slit) and remains there until bleeding has stopped. Finally, the foreskin is amputated (first, it really doesn’t help that is says ‘finally, the foreskin is amputated’ at the end, as if it were a 12-step Algebra equation or directions for putting together an IKEA kitchen cabinet. And second, as the article goes into the specific procedures being used, endearing names that sound like characters from Transformers--Gomco clamp, Plastibell, and Mogen clamp--it uses very “specific” words like “crunch,” “slit,” and “crushing the foreskin,” all verbs that I would prefer not to have in the same sentence as “my penis”).

Ah, but it gets better! “After hospital circumcision, the foreskin may be used in biomedical research (like foreskin cloning in order to produce Fantasia 2: Rise of the Foreskins, where an army of battling foreskins help Mickey Mouse carry endless buckets of water up a mountain set to a melodramatic soundtrack), consumer skin-care products (for ladies to use as an applicator to administer blush or cover-up…or better yet! Foreskin lipstick!), skin grafts (because what could be more appetizing than having some stranger’s foreskin stitched onto your face to hide a burn wound), or Beta-interferon-based drugs (forget cocaine, try snorting a withered foreskin through a rolled up dollar bill). In parts of Africa, the foreskin may be dipped in brandy and eaten by the patient, eaten by the circumciser, or even fed to animals (I prefer mine breaded and deep fried…also gives Meow Mix a whole new twist).”

Now even though I may jest entirely as to the severity of the act of circumcision and conjure up an imaginary uncircumcised utopia just to get a few chuckles, the reason I touch upon circumcision (hee hee, he said “touch circumcision”) is because it is one mental struggle I have fought with throughout my life. Don’t get me wrong, it is not like I didn’t go out and sat at home by myself playing Uno with my foreskin (although he does have an amazing poker face, like trying to decipher if a blind Sharpei is bluffing), but it took me a long time to appreciate who I am no matter what I look like. For me, having foreskin was embarrassing because no one had ever talked to me about it, thus causing me to self-perceive myself as less than adequate. For others though, maybe there is an aspect about you that causes you anxiety--the shape of your body, the mole on your cheek, the Elephantitis of your scrotum (no offense cross-dressing midget)—and I’m here to say this is a natural reaction and you are not alone. But as my mom used to tell me every day when she would drop me off onto the socially-debilitating battlefield known as high school: we are born perfect just the way we are, every little blemish, wrinkle, and foreskin included (don’t worry, I added the foreskin part myself…my mom never gave my foreskin and I inspirational Stuart Smalley-pep talks before school, I’m Wrinkly Enough, I’m Retractable Enough, and Doggone It! People Like Me). So please don’t ever stop loving who you are because you’re perfect, even when you take the chance of revealing yourself to the world and someone just ends up calling you a Gaylord (note: that person most likely had too much snip, snip’d off).