Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

Maybe it's karma. I've been meat-free and off the sauce for darn near a month now and I've heard a number of zingers with variations on the same theme; the loss of my manhood. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the joke became an accepted truth.

Cut to yesterday, me in the doctor's office for a routine physical. I should note that I haven't had a physical in quite some time, so I sat through a cornucopia of pokes, prods, shots and the like. Shoot, I might get mistaken for a dope fiend, what with the track marks on both arms. All told I parted with seven vials of vampire fuel, had a TB test, a tetanus shot, and MMR and polio boosters.

Or so I thought. Turns out the medical abbreviation for the polio booster is IPV. An abbreviation the nurse read as HPV. As in Human Papillomavirus. As in an affliction that causes cervical cancer. As in requiring a cervix. The vaccine is administered to WOMEN between the ages of 9 and 26. Breaking news: I fall under NEITHER category. All of this could be gleaned after giving me and/or my chart a once over. Didn't happen, and thus, I'm a third of the way to being immune to a virus to which I'm already 99% immune.

The office informed me of this monumental blunder later in the day. They're checking with Merck to provide me with information that might be useful. I've done some research of my own, and have yet to find out said useful information. Probably because it is a VACCINE FOR WOMEN. Not all is lost however. Since there is still no cap on malpractice suits (a genius policy that has done wonders for the health care system in this country) I figure I can cash in eventually. And what are a couple of freshly-sprouted ovaries when you have a hundred mil?

The National Zoo:

I haven't been to a zoo since I was eight or nine. But I went this weekend, and I was excited. The last time I went I saw a gorilla pee in a bowl, and then stick his face in it. Armed with a hope for further primate hijinks, I entered the National Zoo here in DC.

The first thing I noticed was that the zookeepers let the animals out of their pens. There were wild pigs, wildebeests, and water buffalo everywhere. They were pushing around their piglets in innumerable strollers, feeding at their troughs, and slapping on sunscreen by the gallon. I immediately vomited, and rightly so. Rarely outside of an amusement park have I seen a crowd of such nutritional and intellectual degenerates.

Which species eats more?

In between seeing a panda and some cheetahs I ruminated on the fact that walking through the zoo will surpass the amount of calories most of these people burn throughout the rest of the year. Let alone the only natural light these cretins will be exposed to.

I was desperately hoping someone would fall in the pit...

The best was when I was standing next to the sign that said "Wallaby." Clearly, the wallabies were not around, and the only animal there was an emu. A lady walks up with here family, says "Look (insert shitty 'it' name, like Taylor, Dakota, etc. that will get kid beat up in middle school) there's a wallaby!" Husband, by now beaten down and broken by years of trying to love a woman who can barely spell the word 'zoo,' emits audible sigh while groaning," That's not a wallaby." Wife counters, "But it says that's what it is right there."

Now, I'm certainly no Jack Hanna, but I know the difference between a wallaby and an emu. And even if I didn't, the placard which identifies the animal as a wallaby, which she referenced, has a picture of a wallaby. And they look NOTHING like a large flightless bird. But at least her son won't get beat up for being smart.

Unfortunately, I didn't get any pictures of primate hijinks. I did see one gorilla hump another as the female was lying on the ground. She eventually got up, and went into a private room as he followed her. I sympathized with them, because when I mate I really don't like twenty Chinese tourists staring at me either.

An orang utan picked up a big white sheet, wrapped himself in it, and paraded around his pen, finally proving that orang utans are racists, and from Mississippi.

I caught a video of two golden lion tamarins, small monkeys, smacking each other in the face. Which is, of course, hilarious.

I understand that people reproduce (although I don't like that fact), and I understand that people take their kids to the zoo. But holy shit, these parents pack baby supplies like their setting sail for the New World. And the strollers that house these logistics are the size of all-terrain vehicles, and probably cost more. Never had I hated people and their brats more than I did this weekend.

Especially when I heard one fourth grade dropout tell her kid, "Hey Skyler, look at this!" I immediately laughed, then wondered what this kid looked like. I imagined turning around and seeing Fuller from Home Alone, but it was actually a little girl. I give her ten years till she starts cutting herself.

But the zoo was a great time, despite the humans. I enjoyed seeing all the animals, but I was also saddened by it. First we kill them, then we destroy their homes, then we poison their food. We wonder why there's barely any left, so we grab the remaining ones, stick them in a cage, and parade people in front of them. Retards like the 18 year old (or so) girl I saw walk up to throw a plastic soda bottle away. There was a garbage can, and right next to it a recycling can, CLEARLY labeled "Glass and Plastic." She looks at both, then puts the plastic bottle in the garbage can. That's when I realized she worked at the zoo. If zoos are built to save the animals we destroy, who's saving the human garbage we keep around?

Another Love/Hate List, Now With Less Human Emotion

It’s Tuesday, which means it’s Love/Hate time. Wait...I don’t know what day this list is supposed to be on, since I haven’t written one in months. So now it’s going to be Tuesdays, because I hate Tuesdays.

Love

1. I’m kind of on the fence about this, but I’m leaning toward liking the fact that Jason Taylor is now a Redskin. The team did nothing during the offseason to bolster a weak defensive line, and I think he could bring a much-needed spark to our pass rush. As well as a sweet fouetté en tournant.
2. The Rum Diary by Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. A booze-soaked perspective of the gritty hopelessness of San Juan, Puerto Rico, and the false grandeur imagined by American outsiders. Makes me thirsty for some Bacardi.
3. Starting the morning with a Monster Energy Drink. The right amount of caffeine and cocaine to get through the morning.

I wish it were winter so we could freeze it into ice blocks and skate on it and melt it in the spring time and drink it!

4. The fact that Gorgeous has published more than three articles in a month. Congrats to the degenerate winos that inhabit this writing establishment.
5. Flav-o-ice.

Hate

1. Tuesdays.
2. Faux hawks. Even the name drips with homosexuality.
3. Cab drivers in D.C. I haven’t seen one use a turn signal ever. Anytime one pulls ahead of me, I instantly know he’s going to cut me off. But let’s be honest; if you’re going to cut someone off, why would you give them any warning?
4. Homeless people. Because I have no soul.
5. The oppressive, omnipresent, blood-coalescing heat that exists in this godforsaken swamp we call the Nation’s Capital.

Veggie Tales

Every once in a while I get a wild hair to do something shocking, absurd, and downright inexplicable. It is with that preface that I admit I'm off the bird. You heard correctly, no more pork on my fork.

Before you get all up in arms, know that this decision has nothing to do with newfound religious beliefs or a sudden inability to eat something with a face. Intelligent Design, er, evolution gave us incisors for a reason; to cleave through succulent slabs of animal flesh. And the cuter the tastier I say.

"Wook how pwecious." And deeeee-licious

No, lovelies, this is a personal challenge. A friend of the Gorgeous is getting hitched and his bachelor party is closing with an end-all, be-all steak dinner. If absence truly does make the heart grow fonder, I have six weeks to fall in love all over again. It'll be like that first Frisco speedball after a month in detox, which is to say a terrible, yet transcendent, idea.

Fret not for I am still grubbing on fish and other sea creatures. I figure if the sack-loving Catholics don't qualify it as meat there is no reason for me to.

So what will happen? Will this meat deficiency render me Bruce Banner-like; an apoplectic, jort wearing madman wreaking havoc on livestock like the Hulk on stocking-capped no goodniks? Whatever the outcome, you, loyal lovelies, can expect hilarious anecdotes highlighting my vegequarian escapades.

Batman vs Superman: Badass vs Gayass

Hmm, Macy's is having a sale. I guess Superman won't be fighting crime tonight...

This Friday, The Dark Knight opens in theatres across this land. I, for one, am very excited. Not excited enough to have purchased tickets two weeks ago, or buy my Joker face paint in order to complete my costume and "impress the ladies," but, you know, excited. I plan on going Sunday at the earliest, after the masses of fanboys and lunatics have retreated to the dank of their parents' basements and the soft glow of their computer screens.

This next chapter in the long-running Batman saga is the second film in the quote "realistic" unquote interpretation of the character. In other words, the world in which he lives and the circumstances of his heroic origins are potentially believable. This seems to be the theme lately with comic book movies, such as X-Men and Iron Man. With appropriate technological advances or tweaks of nature, these characters could possibly exist. Not likely, but almost.

Especially in the case of Batman. Above all other superheroes, dude could actually exist. Now, there's some theatrical and technological liberties that are taken, but at the crux of it, Batman is a well-trained guy who bags hoodlums. What's so far fetched about that? Answer: NOTHING.

Now look at Superman. Yeah, Batman's outfit is a bit strange. But unless you're talking about Adam West's costume, the other Batsuits are functional. They are armored, house electronics, etc. What's the purpose of a bright blue uniform and red underwear except, of course, to emphasize the package. Batman's cape aids in gliding. Superman's? Compliments his boots.

I'm super, thanks for asking!

Superman has incredible powers, conveniently explained by him being from another planet. Batman earned his abilities through years of training. Is a seven foot tall dude dunking a basketball as impressive as a six foot dude doing it? No, because the seven footer barely has to leave the ground, while the shorter dude actually has to have athletic ability to get there. So it is with Superman and Batman.

And then there's the gadgets. Batman has all the cool shit, a lot of which he invented himself. And everything he has starts with the prefix bat-. Batcave, Batsuit, Batmobile, Batwing, Batboat, etc. Superman has a phonebooth.

I'm telling you, green clashes with your eyes

Batman must hide his crime-fighting alterego from his normal life, that of billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne. Superman cowers under the birth control glasses of supernerd Clark Kent. Totally gay, dude. Cooler hangout: The Batcave, which chicks dig, or the Fortress of Solitude, in Antarctica, which chicks think is really cold. Obviously, the Batcave.

Face it: Batman has the cooler uniform, the cooler name, the cooler ride, the cooler crib, the cooler everything. And he's a dude with no superpowers. The dude's just smart. That makes it that much better that he's as badass as he is.

So I'm giddy to see The Dark Knight, especially because it has my favorite villain, The Joker. Jack Nicholson was fantastic as the Joker in the Michael Keaton 1989 version of Batman ("Where does he get those wonderful toys?"), and I think Heath Ledger can so an incredible job too. He looks and sounds great in the previews, and I'm sure the movies won't be a disappointment.

So remember: whenever you need Batman, shine the Batsymbol on the clouds. If you need Superman, play "It's Raining Men" really loudly.

The Pubic Paradox

Ever since the first seeds of manhood were sown in the apparently fertile region between my belt buckle and my inseam, I've been confused. Initially it was because older dudes were constantly demanding that others kiss, lick or suck their "hairy nut sack," so naturally I assumed that pubic hair only grew on the scrotum itself. But then, when I was real little I thought my scrotum was my bladder, and when it hung low it was empty.

So my early-adolescent confusion arose over the location of the first sprouts. When they began to grow (erratically and unsymmetrical at first) above The General, I thought I must be messed up. Eventually, I learned I was normal.

It was during this time that pubes became a symbol of manhood, a fuzzy badge that proclaimed to everyone in gym class "Here I stand! A man!" I recall a guy a year older than me that had to have an operation on his testicles. As is standard for any such procedure, he had to shave his, ah, area. In a bid to preserve his dignity, he refused to shower in gym until genitalia sans pubis was resolved. At the time, everyone agreed it was the best course of action. God forbid someone would think you can't grow hair.

During the next few years, my main question was, "How do pubes know how long to grow?" Is there a specific length programmed into their DNA that keep them from growing out the bottom of your shorts? I remember when I was a kid watching this movie whose title I've long since forgotten. Some kid goes prematurely bald, whether from cancer or not I can't remember. He discovers this ancient (like all good '80's movies, probably Chinese) remedy for hair loss. It was a cream that made hair grow, and it kinda looked like peanut butter. So he decided to put some on his beanbag. Later on you see hair grow out the bottom of his pants. Thank God pubes don't actually do that, because if I had to braid mine I'd never get to work on time.

Kinda like that, but lower...

This predetermined length issue is related to my current pubic question. Even though they have a predetermined length, and it's not too long, it's still long enough to scare people and attract nesting rodents. So the natural answer is to cut it. Trim the hedges. A controlled burn. Besides, the shorter the shrubs, the taller the tree looks.

But again, is this a crime against manhood? Years went by before I got these, and now I'm going to schlack them off like encroaching weeds? However, the benefits greatly outweigh the detriments. Not wearing underwear while wearing jeans is dangerous during zip ups.

So the question became what's the fine line between the aesthetic/utilitarian and the ridicule of others. If they are to be cut, how short. Would I use scissors or clippers. Is shaving them with clippers too short, or is shaving with a razor too short. And if they're shaved, isn't that going to itch like a mother fucker??? Will I look like a porn star if I do it?

The overriding paradox here is this: most females prefer guys to have trimmed pubes. But some guys think guys that do that are gay. So to "be a man" one must do what women don't want, resulting in being an outcast to women, but not to men, who don't think you're gay. But now only men will hang out with you.

Okay, so it's not that earth-shattering.

The bottom line is each man must individually come to terms with his own floral arrangement. As for the final result of my years of pubic ponderings, you'll never know.







Kidding! There's seven galleries right here: http://www.pennypackerspubicpontifications.com/.



Check out the one I call "Viking Goddess."

Fuck

Fuck, fuck, and fuck.