Barbie is having a sex change
©1993 Arlen Lazaroff

 


 

THE CAT THING 
IS GETTING TO MY DOG
©1999 Arlen Lazaroff

Arlen Lazaroff

You want to be some lowlife trailer trash from a town with a name like Viagra, Kansas, but you're not. You have a nice old house to live in. You're too well educated. You play with computers, chat on the internet, check e-mail daily, have access to more web sites than a dozen lesser spiders, you've just had your doctorate on sports medicine for spacemen published, and it's more delicious than orange flavored Tang on the moon. You think the Jerry Springer Show sucks, you pledge at least $200 annually to public television so they can keep documentaries on about dinosaurs that aren't purple, and you can cook, clean, and do tasteful laundry for yourself, just like mother used to make. You know what laundry soap you like the best, what caviar you shouldn't buy because the Japanese are bootlegging endangered species' eggs, and you peel all the mailing labels off your National Geographics before giving them to Goodwill, because someone might put your name on phony mailing lists and before long you'll be getting things like the Focus On The Family newsletter in your mailbox.

You know you should be married but you can't stand the idea of commitment. It costs too much money. It's too big a life change. It's old fashioned. Besides, who's there to marry in a town like Viagra, Kansas? There is, perhaps, old Mary Jones with the big bones, the big pink curlers in her hair and the addiction to junk food. You know she loves Guys potato chips; she never forgets the Guys. In the big potato chip bag of life you think she's like the one weird green mutant chip in the bottom somewhere.

You think married people shop at Wal-Mart and you're right. They spend all morning shopping there and go to the Burger King for Rodeo Cheeseburgers at noon and eat in city parks and throw balled-up cheeseburger wrappers and cardboard fries containers in the duck ponds so the park looks all crappy and the ducks might gag on all that corporate rainforest destructo garbage.

After dark you see Mary Jones in her house playing Pinochle with mother in the pink walled kitchen. The electric bug zapper light is left on near the front steps, the doorbell has a small moon-shaped light, and house butterflies cast a long gloomy shadow. There are three house butterflies: mommy, daddy, and baby sizes. You want to climb the water tower, the tallest structure in Viagra, Kansas, and paint a walrus mustache on the Viagra Vulture mascot. You always have thought the school mascot is oppressive and hideous. You are probably right.

You don't want to have sex with Mary Jones because her big pink hair curlers would poke and hurt you, and her mother wouldn't approve anyhow. She would shake the finger of death at you and curse unmercifully.

You go back into your own house and pull all the blinds down. You take off your sweaty masculine jogging clothes and throw them on the bathroom floor. You love your big hairy image in the full length mirror. You love self-manipulation on your big private parts with a Ken doll and a vibrating massage unit. You love the electric bun warmer in the kitchen you got in 1974 as a graduation present from Aunt Sue from Buffalo, New Jersey. You haven't seen her since the 1976 Bicentennial, when the town of Viagra put up horrible red, white, and blue crepe paper decorations, hired a Dixieland band to play, roasted a couple dead pigs on a spit, and handed out fondue pots to all tax-paying citizens. Sue stuck her fondue pot up her twat and got it all greasy, then wiped it off with a box of tissues and threw it in the back of her 1973 olive-green station wagon with fake wood paneling on the sides. You wonder if she still has the fondue pot and the station wagon.

You love your big hairy carcass. You think it looks like Christopher George in the June 1974 Playgirl, nine years before he died of a heart attack. He had a knife in his hand in the big naked four-page foldout blowup picture. He was attacking a watermelon with the knife. The watermelon was very juicy. It looked like a big pinkish red orgasm waiting to happen. There was a watermelon seed on his leg.

You want to penetrate yourself with something. You find a toilet plunger and put a condom on it. You plunge it into your second most private part. It hurts. You take it out. It's really stupid. You take a shower and wash away a million years of evil filth. You dry yourself with a big sensuous towel, put on a clean pair of underpants, a Kansas Jayhawks t-shirt, and an Irish Creme cocktail with a maraschino cherry on top, and walk over to Mary Jones' porch. You wish she was awake. You wish she had e-mail. You'd type a message to her: the word "penis". You watch the shadows of the house butterflies, and you watch a big nasty junebug do battle with the zapper.

You go back in your house and play side three of your vinyl copy of 200 Motels by Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention and sing along with song #5, which is "Penis Dimension", and you laugh yourself silly. You don't go back over to Mary Jones' porch any more during the night because there's nobody there to see you and nobody cares. You have a big hands-on messy male orgasm all over yourself a few minutes after the record player shuts itself off, and you think about Christopher George in that color photo with the watermelon knife practically hanging off his tongue. Mary ,Jones and everybody else in Viagra can just go to hell A.S.A.P.

You drift off to sleep just as a big yellow moon rises over the Viagra water tower and grain elevators. You know in your dreams you and Mary Jones and mother could live together but you know it would be wrong just the same. You know you should adopt a kitty-cat but it would make the dog jealous. You know you should get some house butterflies, but they'll fly south in winter, and to paraphrase the good prophet Bob Dylan, they're gonna make you lonesome when they go.

 



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