Forty-One Forty-One’s

The more practical of the two suggestions for me was located at 4141 Saint Charles Avenue, which may have had something to do with the club’s name. If I timed it right, it was only about a ten-minute trek by streetcar from my dorm at Tulane. The other selection for NO, Park Place, was actually in Metarie, which might as well have been Chicago for a car-less student. They also required their patrons to be twenty-one years old, despite the fact that the legal drinking age in Louisiana was eighteen at the time. It was my good fortune that Forty-One Forty-One’s had no such restriction, because at eighteen I was more likely to pass for sixteen than twenty-one.

Forty-One Forty-One’s did have a prohibitive three-dollar cover charge on busy nights, but that wasn’t enough of a deterrent for a sex-starved near-virgin. The term “near-virgin” or “never-lay” applied to me because, while I had been fortunate enough to have had sex, my prospects had completely dried up, triggering the condition. I knew it was only a matter of time before the stories of my past sexual achievements—consisting of sex with one ex-girlfriend—lost their potency in the retelling. If I didn’t act fast, none of my friends would want to hear me talk about sex at all.

I desperately began seeking out a new sex partner, or even partners. Ironically, in a city that is renowned for its brothels, bordellos and burlesques, I considered myself too skilled of a ladies man—despite all evidence to the contrary—to partake in the fleshpots. I recall loudly boasting to my friends that I simply did not have to pay for sex, but never actually explained why that was. To be honest, I should have probably paid anyone who was willing to put up with my awkward teenage stabs, even if they weren’t asking for money.

“Oh that probably didn’t feel too great. Sorry. Can you break a twenty? You know what, just take the whole thing.”

But that thought never entered my mind because, despite my limited experience, I believed that I was incredible in the sack and probably desired by many. As I saw it, that left me with two choices: I could try to make something happen with one of my classmates, or I could go off the reservation and try to fulfill my needs away from the college scene.

It’s not like I hadn’t already tried to make things happen on campus, but my approach was way too elaborate and inelegant to net anyone but the truly desperate (who also managed to elude me). For instance, because my mother had always told me that waiting until the last minute was disrespectful, I would ask women out a minimum of ten days in advance.

“Hey Millie-Beth [an actual name], do you want to go to the Camellia Grill and get something to eat?”

“Sure, Chill. When?”

“What’s today? Wednesday?”

“Yeah.”

(Mumbling) “Thursday, Friday, Saturday plus seven, would be—”

“How about tonight?

“No, no. Come on. You know you’re better than that. What about next Sunday?” (Touching her cheek)

I would often walk away wondering why a girl like that didn’t have more respect for herself and thinking how much she would appreciate the fact that I was going to drop by unannounced and give her spontaneous gifts. Thanks for the great tips, Mom. The other problem with campus girls was my eggshell thin ego and the effect that a rejection would have on it. I was certain that if I asked a girl out and she said no, everyone on campus would be talking about it for a month. This of course was ridiculous. The only stories about me that lasted a month resulted from when girls would actually decide to go out with me.

That made a club like Forty-One Forty-One’s all the more attractive. It had a certain degree of anonymity that I subconsciously believed could help me overcome my lack of confidence. Maybe it was consciously.

The club was actually a converted maison with most of the interior walls removed to provide a large, open social area. The original molding, wainscoting and fixtures had been restored or left intact so that the building retained its nineteenth-century Big Easy feel. The molding was painted white to contrast a dark plum wallpaper with a subtle floral pattern. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling amidst track lighting and dim vintage wall sconces spotted the walls. The floors were unpolished, unstained pine, with the dance area being established by the absence of tables and chairs. Although the club didn’t overdo the disco lighting, it was the 80’s, so there was an embarrassing amount or neon on the walls. There were objets d’art scattered about the floor, walls and surfaces, which I assumed were all excellent pieces because a nightclub owner had selected them. Behind the bar, encased in plexiglas, was a sculpture that always fascinated me. It was called Alice in the Garden of Fingers. It featured a gothic looking Alice—from Wonderland fame— being supported on her back and hindquarters by a sea of giant gloved fingers. I thought it might be sexual, but I wasn’t really sure. In 1985, I assumed that this was all so very chic and believed that the avant garde atmosphere would have been lost on my more pedestrian friends.

Even back then, I knew the importance of making sure that I was noticed, but I had no idea how to do it. I couldn’t dance, my conversation was awkward and I was physically clumsy. I would often trip and spill drinks. Sometimes when I would take a sip of a cocktail, the plastic swizzle stick would go into one of my nostrils and remain there when I pulled the drink away. For years, I actually thought that it was just one of those embarrassing things that occasionally happened to everyone, until I realized that I never saw it happen to anyone else. Acknowledging these shortcomings, I decided that my best bet was to establish a look, assume a pose, brood A LOT and turn myself into a still-life masterpiece.

I achieved this via a well-established routine. After being warned by the doorman that he didn’t want any trouble from me (which happened every time I went there), I would walk in, stand about four feet inside of the entrance and remove my jacket. Then I’d drape it rakishly about my shoulders and dig my wayfarers, a cheroot and a lighter from my pocket. I would then advance to the edge of the dance floor and light my cheap vile cigar in a way that would draw as much attention as possible. Once it was lit, I put on the sunglasses, making sure that they hung low enough on my nose so that I could stare over their top edge like Pete, the coke-flinging candy man in Ralph Bashki’s American Pop. I’d scan the room wearing an expression that I learned from watching Mr. Frank Langella in the 1979 cinematic interpretation of Dracula, and then swagger to the bar with a sense of confidence that I didn’t really feel.

I would order a brandy. The bartender would ask me what kind. I would ask her to name some types of brandy. When she got to cognac, I would tell her that I would most certainly like a cognac, please. She would ask me which brand I wanted. I would tell her to serve me the finest in the house. She would roll her eyes and pour me the second cheapest and charge me for the second most expensive. If she tried to put it in a plastic cup, I would insist on a glass snifter. After all, I wasn’t a philistine and I had seen my parents drink cognac before; I knew what time it was. I would throw a crumpled bill on the counter and tell her to keep the change, which generally had to be made with coins.

With my final prop in hand, I was now free to walk over to a space on the wall, lean back and kick one of my sockless, jazz-shoe clad feet up against it, as tried to make eye contact with a population of women who were more likely to ask the manager to look over the dishwasher than take me home. I would only remove the cheroot from my mouth to flick the ashes from the end. If I wanted to sip my cognac, which I didn’t enjoy in the slightest, I would use the drinking hand to hook the cigar from my mouth and take a sip. I would immediately return it to my mouth before lowering the glass back to my side. The whole move was practiced and I thought that it made me look sophisticated. Occasionally, to change things up, I would face the wall, and place the palm of my hand against it. It may have appeared natural if I had someone in front of me—like I was having an intimate conversation with someone—but it must have looked like I was being punished or possibly shunning the room.

On one occasion, I told my roommate to pick me up from the club on his way down to the French Quarter. Because Forty-One Forty-One’s was about halfway to Canal Street and the streetcars ran fairly regularly, it wasn’t too inconvenient for him to hop off, collect me and return for the next one. No one had cellphones or even pagers, so this was a practical option for the situation. When he walked in and saw me, it was as though he had been shot in the gut by an unseen assailant. He doubled over at the waist, staggered to a chair, actually knocked it over, picked it up, sat in it and then buried his face in his hands. When I walked over to him—a completely improvised move—he appeared to be crying. I asked him if he was all right and he replied, “You look like such an idiot. This is classic. Put your jacket on. I’m not getting on the streetcar with you looking like that.” I began laughing too. I bought him a beer and tried to suggest that the whole charade was done for his benefit, but he knew me too well. Fortunately, I generated some sort of other embarrassment that made him forget about my posturing.

My success rate at Forty-One Forty-One’s was less than stellar. After maybe twenty such excursions, fifty or so snifters of cognac and countless failed attempts to mesmerize women with my sulking, Forty-One Forty-One’s finally came through: I obtained a phone number. This lead to a single date with a physically unattractive woman that resulted in intercourse in my dorm room. Ironically, I denied the sex to my friends, because I was afraid that they might have seen her come in with me. I naturally assumed that they expected me to be with nothing but models, and didn’t want to disappoint them.

That was a quarter of a century ago. Greg, my roommate died a decade later from a brain aneurism. He remains the closest friend that I’ve ever lost. I went back to New Orleans in 2005, about a month before Katrina. The French Quarter never changes, but the rest of New Orleans is like any other city, and night clubs, no matter how popular, never last that long. 4141 Saint Charles Avenue is a tourist destination for no one, but I went back to see what had become of my old hunting grounds. It had become a place called Cannons that had relocated and turned Forty-One Forty-One’s into a Mexican Denny’s. The wood siding had been stripped to expose the bare concrete. There were large windows cut into the walls so that you could see people dining inside. The exterior was painted some sort of orangish-pink color and the restaurant appeared to have some sort of Southwestern theme.

As I sat there just watching the happy patrons dining, I began thinking of Shelley:

“My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’”

Which applied to the situation in no way whatsoever, but it’s one of the only poems I know, so it’s what I think about on all sorts of inappropriate occasions. It was, in fact, what I was thinking about while I stared at the abomination that stood before me.

When I started writing this, I really wanted to tie my year at Tulane into some sort of significant memory that was affected by Hurricane Katrina, but no matter how much I tried, I could only remember my drunken buffoonery. I lived in New Orleans for exactly two semesters, before I transferred, yet I still feel like New Orleans is my own. The French Quarter is a national treasure. If you’ve ever listened to jazz at Preservation Hall, staggered down Pirates Alley with a hurricane in hand, eaten a beignet at Cafe du Monde, flashed someone or was flashed for a string of beads, or just made an ass out of yourself in a club that no one else remembers, it’s your city. That’s the charm of New Orleans.

Never expected, always welcome, Virus wanders amongst us like a spectral presence who leaves crumbs in the bed so you know he’s around.

With any luck, the 30 quid we raised was enough to entice Julianne Moore to serenade him this evening wearing only her pumps and a sly grin.

As a tribute to this lovely and supremely talented man, I present this lovely and supremely talented man:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=mgXYkF1795o

(Embedding for this video is disabled, so click here instead.)

All day I have been dusting the knick-knacks and polishing the wood.  I shook the rugs mid-m0rning and baked a nice sheet cake that I frosted with flourish.  I’ve finished my toilette and must admit, I am shining like a copper penny newly minted. 

Mr. Shoes will arrive for refreshments at 9 o’clock this evening.  I’ve pulled on – carefully, carefully – my most lovely stockings.  My petticoats are freshly washed and bleached and as fragrant as a field of wildflowers at dusk on a late spring day.  I’m wearing my best dress – the navy fitted one with the sweet peter pan collar and starched white cuffs.  My hair is down this evening, coaxed by a hot iron into loose, gentle curls.

I’ve trimmed the crusts from our sandwiches and a hot pot of Lady Grey is steaming on the sideboard.  Oh, won’t Mr. Shoes be thrilled!  It’s nearing 9 o’clock when I hear the rap-rap-rap of his  knuckles on my front door.  I hasten to great him but stop by the mirror in the hall for one last check.  Oh, good show, old girl.  You’ll have that job back or bob’s your uncle.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, VIRUS!  ♥

image of the book from Fiction Writers Review.

Tonight we’ll work on form with the help of the following instructional video, which has over 3,000,000 hits on YouTube.  My goal is to double that number by tomorrow.  My Zapruderesque analysis follows, but feel free to skip right to the cheerful mayhem and clinical self-delusion.

00:01: This guy could probably cause light bruising.  If you stood perfectly still while he attacked you.  And if you had no arms.  I love the way he celebrates his “victory” at the end.  To paraphrase Bruce Lee’s line to Bob Wall in Enter the Dragon (a/k/a, The Greatest Movie Ever Filmed),¹ “Gratuitously hooded dummies don’t hit back.”

BTW, if you’re wondering why he starts off out of breath, “Barry” had just finished a routine for the judges (captured in a separate YouTube video) demonstrating his familiarity with jiu jitsu, tae kwon do, tae bo, and Thorazine.  You may want to turn down the volume.

0:20: Has this young man ever once stepped inside a dojo or kwoon?  Why is he dishonoring that poor Wing Chun dummy?  Bruce Lee would turn over in his grave.  If he were dead.

00:30: Poetry in motion.  There is nothing more to say.

00:35: Granted, Bruce Lee once said that in a real fight he would never throw a kick higher than waist level.  Then again, Bruce Lee seldom fell over after throwing a kick.

00:49: That little sneer at the beginning really makes you want to root for this dude.  I’m sure Bruce Lee had nunchuck mishaps early in his career, too.

01:02: Did the producers tell this guy that the auditions would be held on Europa where he would weigh 26 pounds and could float?  (To be fair, he did knock the apple off.)

01:20: What is up with all the rolling?  Do you think you’ll disappear from your adversary’s field of vision, all ninja-like?  Not gonna happen when you’re 75 pounds overweight, fella.  Also, grunting does not aid the cause of stealth.  “What kind of wood is this?” indeed.

In sum, don’t do any of these things.  I look forward to seeing all of you here for our next session.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wnjb8Hx76u8

¹In 1973, anyway.

(The scene begins with Youthful Co-Worker stopping by to tell Old Lady Salesclerk (OLS) that she’s given her two weeks’ notice and is moving to Florida to be with her fiancé.  OLS fawns over her for a bit and then Youthful Co-Worker moves on and leaves OLS with Old Lady Customer (OLC), who is waiting to purchase a scarf.)

OLC:  Oh, how I miss Florida.  If I were young, I’d move back in an instant!

OLS:  So you lived in Florida?  Where did you live?

OLC:  Sebring.

OLS:  Seabreeze?

OLC:  No, Sebring, near Fort Meyers.

OLS:  My husband wants us to move to Florida.  Why did you move back here? 

OLC:  I sold the house when my husband died.  (Pause.)  And then my dog died, too, right after.

OLS:  Oh, you lost your dog?  (OLS looks stricken.)

OLC:  Yes, I lost my poor dear.  (Sad face.)

OLS:  What kind of dog was she?

OLC:  She was a Dachsund.

OLS:  How old was she?

OLC:  She was 13-years-old, bless her heart.

OLS:  My pug lived until 14.  (Sad face.)  Oh, I’m so sorry.

OLC:  I can’t wait to run back to show the girl who helped me put together this outfit how this scarf goes with it!  (Pause.)  Yes, I’d move back to Florida in a minute if I were young!

OLS:  Well, have a nice day now!

Finis.

While miners make it possible to shod a horse or throw a Chinese star, ungrateful surface-dwellers pay them very little attention unless they are dead or dying—although in fairness to the surface-dwellers, the miners don’t exactly make it easy to come and see them because they’re hiding underground and whatnot. Still, it’s mostly the surface-dwellers’ faults for not trying to foster a healthy relationship with the miners. For this reason, and so many others, it might be wise to let these miners live out the rest of their natural lives entombed in the copper mine. I realize this is an “outside-the-box” suggestion, but many have espoused these compelling reasons:

The Physical Toll — If my JRRRR Tolkien has taught me anything, it’s that the best miners are dwarves. Or should I say that the best miners become dwarves. The reason for this is that miners are constantly hunching over to prevent their heads from hitting the top of a mineshaft. Eventually, that leads to body shrinkage. Also, because there is little hot water in a mine, and fires suck up the air, hot shaves are rare and facial hair is shaft-fashion de rigueur. Calloused hands, squinty eyes and large noses are similarly caused by environmental factors. As you can imagine, this look doesn’t play well in surface-dweller social settings, making dating improbable. Those miner-come-dwarves who are already married, would find that their wives and children would reject their new appearance, making them long to return to the bowels of the planet.

Endless Supply of Copper — This may seem obvious as they are in a copper mine, but don’t discount copper’s advantages. Copper is one of the most malleable of metals and is an excellent conductor of electricity. With a few basic tools, the miners could beat copper ore into copper chairs, copper tables, copper utensils, copper aqueducts, copper books, copper clock-radios, copper clothing, copper clocks, copper iPads, et cetera. What they can’t make, they could get from the surface dwellers by bartering their beautiful hammer-beaten copper furniture—or maybe just copper, which might be more useful to the surface-dwellers, who already have superior furniture.

Religious Tolerance — Mines are natural free zones of religious tolerance. Imagine this scenario:

Mahja: “Hey, I want to practice my religion. Does anyone care if I build a cultural center with a prayer room inside? Umm, it’s going to be made out of copper, though. Maybe with a little gold.”

Rick: “Do I have to pray there too?”

Mahja: “Only if you want to, but it’s going to have a basketball court too.”

Rick: “Yrd. I’ll bring my copper basketball.”

Mahja: “Do you care where I put it?”

Rick: “Why would I care? It’s not like your one of the people who caused me to become a dwarf.”

Without the surface-dweller media stirring up trouble in the mine, the mine colonists would usher in a new age of religious freedom and tolerance.

Gay Marriage — The miners have to make a choice here, but since they are all men, there will be no heterosexual marriages to contend with. Marriage equality can be achieved through one of two methods. They can either shun the entire institution, which probably wouldn’t serve any purpose whatsoever in a mine, or they can tunnel over to neighboring Argentina, where gay marriage is legal. If tunneling to a neighboring country seems like a lot of work, look at what homosexuals in this country have to go through to tie the knot. Statistically speaking, with a population of thirty-three miners, only twenty-one are likely to be gay, but with no women around, the remaining dozen may want to give it a try. Argentina is also known for its kick ass skirt steak and Malbec.

Illegal Immigration — Because the mine is virtually sealed off from the outside world, the current inhabitants would not have the problem of illegals slipping into their cavern and allowing themselves to be exploited, like they do on the surface. The miners would be free to come in after a long day of mining to pick their own mushrooms, prepare their own meals, wash their own laundry and polish their own mine walls without having to worry about the very real concern that someone may have crossed an imaginary line in order to perform these menial tasks for them at slave wages. However, in order to keep Mexicans from dropping anchor babies down the shaft, they may want to keep a narrow supply hole.

Nuclear Holocaust — There is a no doubt that subterranean-dwellers would fare better than their surface-dwelling counterparts. However, it still wouldn’t be any cakewalk. The Chilean mine colony has been engineered with a symbiotic miner/surface-dweller relationship in mind. In a way, the destruction of either partner seriously impacts the other. In a more realistic way, the miners need the surface-dwellers much more than the surface-dwellers need the miners. Annihilation of the surface-dwellers would make any supplies from up top seem a bit suspect. The miners wouldn’t know if the surface supplies were radioactive or slobbered on my mutants. As a precaution, the miners may want to hoard supplies while times are still good. Also, bartering for a liberal stock of Purell™ might be prudent.

Many of the busybodies in the surface world are sincerely trying to help the miners. If you read news reports, there is a great deal of concern about how thirty-three men can co-exist for four months in such limited space. Their actual shelter is only 540 square-feet, and is attached to a 1640 square-foot cavern. However, because they’re miners, their space can really be as large as they would like it, up to the volume of the solid portion of this planet. There’s also some concern about their psychological state because of the close quarters and isolation. One expert even suggested lowering cell phones through the supply hole to distract the miners before he was reminded that cell phones won’t even work in surface elevators. In any event, having to field phone calls from concerned relatives six times a day while being trapped in a 90°F environment with thirty-two other people is not a recipe for mental wellness. Misfires like these are typical of surface-dweller “my way is the best way” jingoism.

If surface-dwellers really want to know what’s good for the miners, they should ask the miners—or better yet, don’t ask. The miners will tell them what they need when they’re ready. Whatever that is, it sure enough is not going to be surface brand religious oppression, surface brand civil equality… or copper. I’m guessing maybe material to build a distillery will be on the short list.

Manila, Philippines — According to the news website IBNLive, a dismissed police officer, armed with an M16 assault rifle, boarded a bus and took twenty-two hostages. The gunman, who was fired two years ago, is requesting his job back. In a show of good faith, Rodolfo Mendoza, the ex-cop, released nine hostages, which is exactly how one should negotiate when attempting to regain their employment. Fifteen hostages remain on the bus, where gunshots have been fired. There have been no reports of injuries so far, despite the fact that the Mendoza claims to have shot two of the hostages.

As a police officer, I have a concern that non-law enforcement individuals may be tempted to leap to an erroneous conclusion based on limited information. One can’t help but draw comparisons between the strong-negotiation stance taken by this former Senior Inspector and Sgt. James Crowley’s actions in what has become known as “The Cambridge Police Incident,” which occurred around this time last year. In that case, a group of police officers, who were also armed, took Professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. into custody (which is analogous to taking a hostage). As with the current situation, there was a rush to judgment by the media and politicians to “second guess” the actions of law enforcement.

While Americans are generally “anti-hostage” there are a few things we should keep in mind. To begin with, Filipino culture is quite different than American culture. As certain customs and mores that we take for granted may not be appropriate in the Philippine Islands, the reverse of that is also true. Until we learn a little more about appropriate behavior in that region of the world, we shouldn’t assume that Mr. Mendoza’s actions crossed some sort of social boundary. In Stockholm, Sweden, for instance, it is customary for hostages and captors to embrace after a siege. The bottom line is that it’s a big world and while in some ways we’re all the same, in a lot of ways we’re very different.

Secondly, law enforcement officers are trained to handle these situations. Former Senior Inspector Mendoza is a veteran police officer with decades of weapons training. While the average civilian may never fire an assault rifle in his or her life, Mendoza may have handled an M16 as often as once a day, depending upon assignment. Furthermore, although most individuals don’t care for weapons pointed in their direction, nearly all would prefer to be held at gunpoint by an expert if they had no other choice. So, the level of experience can be important for a lot of reasons.

The third thing that we should keep in mind is that we don’t really know why Mr. Mendoza was fired. Metro Manila Police Commander Director Leocadio Santiago claims that Mendoza was sacked after being accused of various crimes. From Santiago’s statement we can extrapolate that Mendoza was fired without any real due process. If he was improperly dismissed, the Metro Manila Police may have to answer for this incident as well. The fact that the police are actively negotiating with Mendoza doesn’t necessarily indicate that they harbor some guilt over Mendoza’s dismissal, but it is also the behavior that one might expect if they did feel that Mendoza had been wronged.

If the Cambridge Police incident was indeed a teachable moment, then we will all have learned to wait until all the information is in before we form an opinion. Maybe this time we won’t have beers together because we have to; we’ll do it because we want to.

Here’s what I have for the song:

“Smokies… Smokies, they come ’round once a week,

Smokies… Smokies, you never know what’s coming unless you peek,

Smokies… they’re better than Pokies, but not as hot,

Flamethrower… you’re the reward for how hard people fought,

Smokies… Smokies, if you’ve got a silver tongue,

Smokies… Smokies, maybe you’ll win an Iron Lung,

Smokies… Smokies, hope you get a bunch,

Smokies… Smokies read them over lunch,

Yeah!”

Something like that. I’m not married to the lyrics, but I think it may be the most brilliant fucking thing ever written. I’m picturing some guy in a crushed velvet tuxedo or smoking jacket with a name like “Wink” or “Flip.” There may or may not be a woman on the piano wearing a sequined dress. I’ll have to talk to Virus about our sequin budget. Anyway, for now, we only have the idea and this week’s awards:

Smokies:

IrishBreakfast/The Smokies: Double Rainbow Edition:

“That is really pretty. That said, I would have beaten the guy with a big stick. The wonders of nature are best contemplated in silence, or perhaps accompanied only by the soft groans of the guy you just beat with a big stick.”

(Sure!  If you consider light filtered through water mist a wonder of nature. I’m anti-rainbow. I’m hoping that global warming eventually takes care of the phenomenon.)

BookishLookish/Yay! Updo’s Are Back!:

“I am firmly in the evening-only school for the up, though. Showing your entire nape is like showing your entire cleavage. You should only do it when the sun goes down. Yeah, pass the antimacassars, I am old of body and school both. You can see my ankles and wrists most days though.”

(As long as the skirts are short and the underwear absent, you may cling to whatever Victorian standards you wish, my dear.)

PineKatz/2010, You’re a Goddamned Embarrassment:

“But straight up, NO ONE puts stuff into space like we do. All that GPS stuff you take for granted? You think the Chinese or Indians did that??? You think those 28 perfectly positioned satellites that will find you when you are lost is because of those loser wannabees riding on our coat tails? Is that what you think? Know this. It we want to close stuff down off over anywhere, we can. Yeah, that’s right. GPS is over if we want it that way. The US of A. You and me. Our military-industrial complex did this great thing. Deal with it.”

(This whole comment was some real puff-out-your-chest-and-be-a-fucking-American red meat. I needed that, PK.)

MilitantRubberDucky/Eight Down Two to Go: Who Will Be Florida’s Vaughn Walker:

“I’m sorry, but having intercourse with the same sex is the second most absolute way to procreate (or rather, not) responsibly. Then again, if anything’s a product of anal sex, my money’s on fundamentalist Christians. And since when is it the state’s right to arbitrarily determine one’s ability to procreate, especially when no delinquency in parental or monetary support has occurred? I assume then that if this is how the state chooses to conduct themselves in the matter of “responsible procreation”, we can expect to see mobile sterilization units on every street corner, ready and waiting to take care of the surplus of dead beat men and women that can’t or won’t exercise enough sense to use a condom.”

(As has been stated many times, Smokin’ Comments automatically receive a Smokie. Good job, MRD.)

IHateReligion/Mosque!

“Another perfect example as to the divisiveness of religion. Community center yes! Mosque, church, temple, Santa’s workshop no thank you.”

(Good job one time commenter who I’ve never seen before and haven’t heard from after your initial comment. You may be elusive, but I liked what you wrote and how it was stated.)

NinaHagen & Mediahohoho/Mosque!:

NinaHagen: “I’m afraid of this:

Mediahohoho: “Oh come on, Nina, don’t all New Yorkers love to be lectured at by a supercilious twat with a community college education and a goddamn opinion? Doesn’t everyone?”

(Great one-two Palin punch, guys.)

EveryoneWhoPostedAnEmbarrassingPoem/Wordsmoker Anthropology — Your “Oh, Man, That’s Embarrassing” File:

(I was going to pick one particularly bad poem, but everything that was posted is better than the best poetry I’ve ever attempted. It takes a lot to suck it up and post something that’s embarrassing. I know this from personal experience. Well, at least I wrote a great theme song today. Also, count me in the pro-”Evolution” camp. I liked it.)

Pokies:

GerbilsInLove/Yay! Updo’s Are Back!:

“Good to know, as in the summertime, my hair is almost always up. I’ll think of you today, Virus, as I slide into the shower and undo my ponytail. I’ll imagine it is you, unfurling my hair, running your hands, lathered in scented body wash, over my breasts, which are pointed westward, and down my flanks, giving a little slap here and there. Don’t forget to bring your baton.”

MamaPenguino/Mosque!

“I had a “deadly” experience with Islam once. I was shagging a Muslim guy who wouldn’t wear a condom. In his defense, he was well-endowed.”

(Then it’s true what they say, “The best defense, is a large penis”?)

LisaBee/My Year of Living Gimmickly:

“Proposed title: “The One-Year Itch.” This whole notion made me decide to go commando today. No panties, no problems!”

(This was going to be a Smokie, but then when LisaBee said she was going “commando,” I had this sexy image of her moving around the jungle with camouflage, face paint and an assault rifle killing al Qaeda. Even though it had nothing to do with a discussion of underwear, it was still hot.)

The Mechanical Larynx:

Uncivilly “I’m Not Blix” Obedient/Watch This BBC Weatherperson Give His Colleague The Finger On Camera:

The Five Stages of Grief

(Not shown for spacing considerations. View it here.)

The Iron Lung:

I have decided to award The Iron Lung to a piece that I hope will inspire a rash of copycat pieces:

VaQuero/My Year of Living Gimmickly:

“I have decided that I am going to write a gimmick book. I was thinking about those books in which someone eats only local for a year, or uses no electricity, or buys only used goods, or they do all those things and maybe more, AND they get a book deal out of it. So I thought what I would do is wear the same pair of underpants for an entire year.”

(This was short, sweet and wonderful. I could get real used to gimmick book ideas flowing in about once a week. I’m thinking about doing one about wearing a used condom for a year. Latex, not sheepskin. Sheepskin would be disgusting.)

We’ve had a lot of fun this week. What’s not fun is salmonella eggs. Check the expiration date on your eggs people. If they are more than a year expired, they are probably rife with salmonella.

Smokies… Smokies, they come ’round once a week…

I’d like to thank all of the Wordsmoker writers, readers and staff.

Smokies… Smokies, you never know what’s coming unless you peek…

Next up is Mama Penguino. Treat her right, please.

Smokies… Smokies, hope you get a bunch,

Smokies… Smokies read them over lunch…

(fades off)