Sunday, April 29, 2007

Machinations of My Mother-in-Law

My birthday was nearly 4 weeks ago, yet my devious mother-in-law had decided to throw me a party, ostensibly to celebrate my holy birth, but in reality, to create yet another reason to gather her brood around her and tug on those apron strings.

In the five years that Brian and I have been together, I had kept my birthday a closely guarded secret, primarily because I hate being reminded that every year is another year closer to the gay retirement home, the place where we shunt off the elderly: the ones who are infirm, we poor homos over 25. Because I am Asian, I am able to disguise my real age with a bit o’ concealer. But I truly fear the day that I am found out, then my fellow gays will toss me aside, like a crouton from a low-carb salad.

But my mother-in-law, that sneaky woman, managed to get a hold of this classified information from an unsuspecting Brian. Of course, Brian was thrilled, because to him, this indicated that I was finally being “accepted,” being brought into the familial fold--I was being integrated into the Borg.

That’s what so sweet about Brian--his heart is pure and innocent. He can’t imagine that there was an ulterior motive here: this was a ploy to add another date to his mother’s calendar of tortuous womandatory family events.

All holidays and Pulaski Day must be spent at my mother-in-law's house. Her children, though grown in their 20s and 30s, must be nestled at her bosom, a size 50, triple-D. Never mind that the children's spouses had families of their own--she called dibs on those holidays while the children were in utero.

But she must’ve felt her influence waning as the children had started negotiating these dates. There were requests to split the holidays, leaving early or arriving late. These requests were ultimately abandoned by the requestor as their mother’s tears fell. Such powerful ammunition. If we could somehow control Barbara Bush’s tear ducts, the war in Iraq would certainly be over.

Now, my birthday, while not a holiday, was seized upon as another excuse. “I’m throwing a party for Paul’s birthday,” mom exclaimed, “how’s next week?”

I protested of course, but how do you refuse your mother-in-law’s largesse without turning your spouse against you? Do you think that you have bound your spouse to you with your vows, your wedding rings, your blowjob technique? But remember, your wedding ring is but of soft gold; those apron strings are of steel cable.

Then the woman asks how many candles she will need for the cake. Mother wins again. The cake might as will be my tombstone; the candles, the nails in my coffin. The entire family will be summoned to watch me age before their eyes, candle by candle, withering to nothing, despite Kiehl's Cryste Marine Firming Serum, Oil of Olay and the battery acid I use to keep my skin beautiful.

So today, in a few hours, we will be headed towards my mother-in-law’s house, Brian still oblivious to his mother’s machinations. My only consolation is that one day, maybe, I will be able to exact revenge on my daughter- or son-in-law.

I relish the thought.


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Birthday Nookie - On the morning of Brian's birthday, I gave him the gift of nookie.

Something's Gotta Give - Yeah, especially your knees, your ankles. Ruminations on aging and a movie review.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Ask Matt



Matt's notorious column returns.

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Matt--

How many holes do girls have...um...down there?

Brian


Brian--

Good question. First off, I would suggest you forward me your age and location. This will aid me in determining whether you were failed by an antiquated Southern Baptist public sex education curriculum or if you are just an idiot.

Girls, in fact, have three holes “down there.” One for pooping, one for peeing and one for the purpose of procreation. Personally, I like to refer to this phenomenon as "the three P's." From back to front, they are arranged in the following order:

1. Poop
2. Procreate
3. Pee

So, if you and your lady friend are on the verge of becoming intimate, the one that you want to aim for is in the front. Unless your paramour is of the sexually liberated variety, at which point you may suggest an entry from the rear. Believe what you hear, it really is tighter.

Good luck and happy humping!

Matt

PS - Please don’t ask me where the clitoris is. I really have no idea.



Matt--

Do girls have hairy assholes?

No Milk Please


No Milk--

My tongue says "yes."

Matt




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Matt will answer any stupid question. Ask yours by sending us an e-mail or putting it in the comments.

Ask Matt - His previous column. Dare to ask our illustrious Matt a question? Check here.

How Does It Work? - Matt can answer any question, including Annie's about those mysterious things called 'tampons.'

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Deep Relaxation Techniques

I have an effective relaxation technique that works really well in extremely stressful situations like when I have to get a root canal, or have my blood drawn, or whenever I have to visit my mother-in-law.

A few days ago, I went to see visit my dentist to get my teeth cleaned and get some dental work done. I had noticed that in the past month or so, I woke up grinding my teeth and I am at a loss to explain why. Very likely, my previous dental work have shifted, or at least I hoped so, because I’d hate to think that I was grinding my teeth because of the window treatments my boyfriend installed without asking me. We agreed that for major life decisions like this we would always consult each other.

But until I developed this relaxation technique, I always dreaded going to the dentist.

When I was growing up, my mother took us to Chinatown to see Dr. Wong, who is this old, grizzly dentist with yellow teeth, sparse eyelashes and a mole on his chin that had a few thick long black hairs that grew out of it. His office was very dusty and grey. Old Chinese newspapers were stacked in the corner and white rings were permanently etched on the worn and faded coffee table, no coasters in sight.

That waiting room was definitely not designed to be conducive for relaxation. I mean, how can you when there aren’t any fashion or entertainment magazines to read in sight? Couldn't he have at least put in an old Mirabella, that mainstay of dental offices, in there? Plus, in his office, along with his dental implements, he had a pair of long-nosed pliers and a mallet. That didn’t really inspire ease in a patient, especially since he didn’t seem the type to play croquet. And I kept thinking of those rings on the coffee table. If he didn’t care about his coffee table, my teeth were doomed.

I told myself then and there, that when I grew up, I would find a modern dentist who used the latest techniques, the latest equipment and had the latest magazines in his waiting room. No more freakin Mirabella.

My current dentist, Dr. Murray, had a tasteful waiting room in the fashionable Lincoln Square neighborhood in Chicago, had flat screen TVs installed and used dental implements sealed in plastic to insure sanitation. Dr. Murray inspired confidence in his professional appearance, his carefully swept hair and his wolfish grin.

However, until I was able to choose my own dentist, until Dr. Murray, I had to perfect my deep relaxation technique which I used in stressful situations. It involved clearing your mind of all thought, regulating your breathing and then imagining having sex with the person inflicting the stress.

Perfecting this deep relaxation technique takes time. You would think that it was easy imagining having sex with a stranger--ok it is, he is a dentist after all, and if he was also single, my mother would have already married me off to him. And if he wasn't single, then let's just say that my mom knows which setting to use on a chainsaw that inflicts the most damage on his wife.

But, I am old school in the sense that I can't really imagine having sex with someone until I have taken the time to at least get to know them a little bit by possibly calling their house a few times and then abruptly hanging up. But trust me when I say that this gets easier. It does, even when you do get served with a restraining order.

But you know how almost intimate it feels when a dentist is working on your teeth, their hands on your face, in your mouth, their face dangerously close to you that if you even just pucker your lips, your lips could accidentally touch? How if you peer into your dentist's eyes, you could almost see a reflection of yourself? It's easy enough to imagine him without the rubber gloves, the protective eyewear, or his white dentist shirt with his name Dr. Murray, DDS, sewn in italics, over one pocket. Easy enough to imagine him naked, on his knees, offering you a 2-carat engagement ring. What? I won’t be a cheap slut, even in my imagination, unless you pay me $50 first.

When your faces are that close, it's easier to ignore the actual physical realities of your dentist. You could focus on their eyes, the bridge of their nose and imagine the rest of him to your desires.

For me, I have even perfected this technique such that it works even on the petite, blond, female dental hygienist that works for Dr. Murray. I focus on her pretty blue eyes and imagine her thick beercan cock rubbing against me as she polishes my teeth, and then I am relaxed as can be.

I just wish I had perfected this skill when I was younger so that I could've avoided all that dread and fear that I had at old Dr. Wong's dusty office. I would've been relaxed, calm, even as the long black hairs on Dr. Wong's mole brushed against my face as he worked on my young, innocent teeth...

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Let's Get [a] Physical - My once a year hypochondria and addiction to a poke in the rear.

The Model Minority - Old Chinese dentists aside, Asians are the Next Top Model Minority.

Monday, April 02, 2007

Shalom!


(c) 2005 The New Yorker

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Cartoons - The New Yorker cartoons slay me. These are ones which have appeared in this site over the years.

The Deep South - My comic strip blog that rips off works of art. Now on haitus coz I'm lazy.