The Smells of Life

Humans are very weird about smells. Everything about people is designed to smell. And yet humans want to remove their smells from their bodies, to avoid offending others.

Nobody except a person who smells wants to smell a smelly person’s smell. Except their own smells. When you’re first born up to about age five, you only have to smell your own smells, unless your parents are particularly smelly. Then you have to smell your parents’ smells too. You’re usually OK with your own smell. Not so much with your parents’. They go above the limit. The smell limit should not be passed, of course.

Then you smell your classroom on your first day of school. Say it’s kindergarten, or preschool. And you smell the room, and it smells terrible. Now, you figure that your smells smell pretty good, so you decide to let a big one rip. But it doesn’t make it smell any better. In fact, it smells worse. You’ve added another terrible smell to these terrible smells. It’s like a gas chamber. You’re afraid you’re going to die. Death by smell.

This is your first inkling that your smells might not smell so nice. And now the girls say you stink too. But, you don’t want to take a shower. That’s too much to ask, even for a girlfriend. So you try to control the smells. You use all kinds of deodorant, spraying it everywhere it can be sprayed on your body, including unmentionable orifices. You spray it hoping it can mask the fact that you haven’t bathed in three weeks. Unfortunately, you haven’t yet learned that body spray deodorant mixed with three-week old body odor smells like body spray deodorant mixed with three-week old body odor. It’s a smell from hell. You smell like hell. And somehow the girls still don’t like you.

This is your first inkling that corporate America might be lying to you. After all, the AXE body spray commercials clearly show men with women crowding around them in packs after spraying just a little bit of the stuff on their necks, as if it’s some kind of irresistable miracle fluid. Clearly a lie. So you become a hippie, and begin to go to events like Burning Man to get back at The Man. Your smell gets worse. And all the women that are now interested in you smell like patchouli. To hell with that.

Finally, you decide that enough is enough and you’ll begin bathing regularly. Finally you find a suitable woman or effeminate man and begin having copious amounts of sex. But now you can’t just smell your smell. Now you’re smelling somebody else. Now you have to deal with both your smell and this person’s smell. It’s a cornucopia of smells. Your smells mix into new smell. A together smell. You smell nice together.

Then she has babies, and now there are new smells. The babies are little sacks of feces and vomit and piss, and now you have to smell their smells too. And your smell and your significant other’s smell and the baby’s smell and the smell of the house mix together. You have a family smell going now. You recognize the smell of family time. You could be at work, and you’d instinctively know it’s time for home. Time for family smell.

As you get older, your son ends up trying to use body spray to cover up his odors, too. Now you see why nobody would date you in high school.

And then you go to the senior home. Now your smells are really smelly, and people can smell them from miles around. You’re a lot like that baby, with the horrible baby smell. Baby won’t talk to you any more. Baby’s grown into a man, and has found his own smell. He chose an effeminate man to spite you, and now both of them lisp at you for how ignorant you are when you get mad and start spouting off randomly against “the fags” and “the nigras”. Your son and his boyfriend both smell like cherry chapstick.

Then you die. You smell like dead person. That’s not a pleasant smell at all. Smells dead. people that aren’t dead don’t like that smell. They’ve had enough of you and your smells. You’re stinkin’ up the place. So they carry you to the funeral home. They bury you in the ground. Now only plants like your smell. Smells like fertilizer.

I won’t belabor it any more. Smell is your life. Smell is my life. Smell is life. Life is a test. Life is a smell. Life is a test of smells. First you’re supposed to tolerate your own smell, which is easy. Everyone can do that. (Unless they’re a burn victim, or can’t control their bowels. Then it’s much harder.) The second test is the relative smell. Tough test. Third’s other peoples’ smells. Even tougher. Then it’s the sex smell. People like that test. It’s easier. If you’re straight and going with someone of the opposite sex, and they bathe and don’t smoke. As long as all of those things are going, you’ll be fine on that test. Then there’s the baby test. Now that’s a test from Hell. And finally there’s the death test, where you’ve been through all the tests. That test is to test other people. You’re testing people to see if they can tolerate your smell. Great test.

In conclusion, I find it comforting that after having been exposed to all these different smells, that I’ll get to fight back against the smelly fuckers out there by forcing them to smell my dead rotting corpse. Fuck you, smelly people. Everyone else, have a nice day. Have a good life. Have a good smell.

Advertisements

A Commentary on Getting Old, By A Young Person

Yesterday my grandmother went to the hospital for X-rays. Her hip replacements stopped her pain for a short time, but it was not to last. She is unsure of what is going on. She is terrified that she will have to endure yet more surgery.

She waits for the doctors to confirm the results. The doctors gave her painkillers she won’t take, but she can’t sleep through the pain.

And here I’m thinking, “Gee golly, I’m glad all I have to take is some melatonin before bed! Fuck getting old! It must suck!”

Many argue the young don’t worry about getting old. That’s a bald-faced lie. We worry about it daily. That’s why we want to die young.

I don’t want to end my life in pain and misery, fucking around with shitty hospitals and people that don’t care about me. I want to die in a blaze of glory. I want to die with my arms around a sexy woman, driving a big-ass American truck down to my doom, preferably by nuclear bomb or some other manly way to die.

Life’s too short to die boring.

The Chinese Food Bowl

woofie_chopsticks.jpg

I wait in line, savoring the cacophony of smells from all six of the restaurants in the cafeteria. The odor of chicken wings tangles with the sweeter odor of burritos, hamburger clashes with bacon, onion rings make my stomach turn as the crisp, refreshing smell of fresh salad greens rights it yet again. Yet none of these are to be my lunch. I have decided long beforehand on this, before my architecture class, before realizing as I had licked the roof of my mouth this morning that I had a sore throat, that I would be taking classes from eight to five into the afternoon in an annoying kind of light torture, the kind that China was so damn famous for. I step forward in line, again, again.

I’ll be having Chinese food today.

fried_rice_champions_ninjas.pngThe line slowly lurches forward towards the men in costume making sushi. The man behind me begains to tell me about his day, especially concentrating on how very slow this line is, on how much better it is to be in line at some other time, in the off time, he’s got thirty minutes to get back to his office hours, he’s got to get OUT OF HERE, and as he carries on I watch and attempt to understand how this line works, because I’ll be damned if I’m going to be getting cold raw fish as a main entree today. The sign says, “Hot Bowls–Sushi–Wraps”, but I know these tricks of the mind. It may say “Hot Bowls”, but nobody ever leaves with a “Hot Bowl.” They leave with sushi.

I begin to contemplate the hopelessness of my struggle in this line. I begin to panic, watching others leave with strange beverages I’ve never seen before and hope never to see again. Green tea, raw fish, chop… Oh dear God, chopsticks. I begin to become even more nervous. It is becoming quite clear to me that the sushi bar is a den of evil, one where strange souls go to order their bizarre Asian beverages of death and raw fish of inescapable weirdness.

And yet it is not. I order my Pepsi, and a little rice bowl with chicken and peas, and the spicy Chinese mustard that isn’t spicy, and duck sauce.

And, I leave with chopsticks.

I do not know why I take these bizarre instruments. Their history is as storied as the stories of the chosen samurai and Hayao Miyasaki. The former weapons of trained ninjas, chopsticks were once used the way guillotines were in Europe, only naturally being Asian-designed, they were smaller and more efficient, and thus could be portable and therefore used by ninjas. However, white people venturing to Asia, unaware of this storied past, believed that they were eating utensils, and used them as such. As a result of this, Asian people believe that Americans are stupid, and this is of course not helped at all by the fact that many of our teenagers watch Hello Kitty on a regular basis, a show that not even Japanese infants watch.

I know this history, yet I still take these wooden sticks. They are in a paper sheathe with inscrutable Japanese characters on it (they only need a paper sheathe to contain their killing power because, like all things Asian, they are beautifully designed so that they are only deadly whenever used as such; the inscrutable Japanese characters act as a special ancient Shinto spell that keeps the sharp parts from injuring the user while in the sheathe). I break them apart, thus unleashing their magical spells.

“DAMMIT”, I say. I say this, of course, because I do not know how to use these damned things. I first try putting one between my first two fingers, the second between my index and ring finger; they cross each other, and in this position I find them impossible to use. I try to separate the two, but like two lovers found by an angry gun-wielding spouse in a shady motel in a bad part of town, they cannot be separated but by themselves. I try to use them as a fork, trying to scoop the rice with only these two wooden tines, but they cannot scoop. In desperation I begin to stab angrily at the chicken pieces, grinding them to pieces, but still these sticks of wood are not working.

I begin to study others in my predicament. There are five Asian people, three women, two men, who sit down and begin eating with the things. They all know how to do this. They make it seem so easy. They simply take them with one hand and begin to use them like a fork. They do not struggle with keeping them straight or stab at their food in anguish like a bee at the man carrying a can of Raid and not enough common sense; they know how to use these agents of magic and mystery.

So, I resign myself to my fate and get a fork. As I eat, I contemplate the mysteries of the chopstick. Why is it still used? Does it not seem that a fork can do the same things chopsticks can? I supposed, of course, that it was beyond my powers of simple calculation to understand the chopstick. Or Chinese food, for that matter, because the syrupy sweetness of the glaze dripping off the chicken onto the rice intrigued me. Was syrup not intended for pancakes? What was so magical, so unique, about Chinese food that it could break all these rules, its syrupy, stomach-wrenching sweetness, its raw salmon and cooked pork, its strange rice and questionable meats striking such a discordant note with the conventions of modern American culture? What was the magic of chopsticks? Surely they must be better than American utensils, better in some fundamental way, from our own spoons and forks. Perhaps, because they can be used as a stabbing device, a trait reserved in American cuisine for our knife. Perhaps, because there is only one of them, while there are two of the knife and fork, two instruments that, it would seem, cannot be combined.

And then, I remembered the spork. And I realized how proud I am to be an American.

My First Weeks of School: Scars and Batmobiles

lucy_the_lobo.png

my_lunch.pngIt’s difficult to post to a website like The Luigiian at times, especially when you’re going through school. Getting all those images to link and writing out something coherent is a difficult task when you’re being asked to find meaning in a movie showing a naked woman fondling herself.

I know that this sounds odd, but it’s true. The movie is entitled “Birthday Suit: Scars and Defects” or something, and they make us watch it in “Experiencing the Arts”, one of the wonderful courses you can get in the University of New Mexico. Basically, some scrawny Canadian woman from 1974 woke up on one of her birthdays, and apparently decided that she was going to spend that day taking off her clothes and detailing every scar that she had ever gotten from every source it is possible to get a scar from, in front of a camera. It also appears that she was very clumsy, because the movie goes on for twenty-five minutes, wherein she lifts up her big toe, or some other random body part, and starts caressing it gently. “1950”, she gently intones into the camera. “Opened the door onto my foot. Permanently changed toenail color. Age three.” This, again, goes on for like twenty minutes. In the end, she sings “Happy Birthday” to herself, and then puts on her clothes, possibly because she is cold. Then the camera goes off. My teacher says that this is his favoritest movie EVER.

And they say Americans don’t appreciate real art.

And I am certainly not saying that this isn’t real art. For one thing, I understand quite well that artists are essentially people who act like deranged lunatics for money; if a normal, God-fearing human being were to take off all their clothes and sing “Happy Birthday” to themselves, ESPECIALLY in front of a camera, we would not hesitate to send them to a mental institution. But whenever an artist acts like this, we simply assume that we do not understand their depth, and thus just assume that they’re acting like they should, and slowly back away from them, never turning our backs, for fear of encountering the Artist’s Temper.

batmobile.jpgThis is just one of the many things I have learned in my first weeks at UNM, the “Harvard of the West” as proclaimed by its accomplished faculty and absolutely not one of its students. I also learned that the female wolf mascot leads the parade, and the Batmobile is accompaniment at the student orientation. I did not snap a picture of the mascot for fear that she would attempt to hug me. I say this because I don’t want you to expect a picture or anything.

Anyway, I thought we’d discuss the great University with a little Q&A. Let’s begin.

Q: Why are you such a hateful asshole to everybody?

A: I’m not. You just need to develop a sense of humor. I would not have spent three thousand dollars of scholarship money to enter a school I hated.

Q: Where can I get the video of the naked woman fondling her scars? I have a scar fetish.

A: I have no idea.

Q: Do I get to howl like a wolf at basketball games if I go to UNM?

A: Unfortunately, no. I learned this by experience. A person once asked, “Why is it that we can’t howl?” He was told some answer that I don’t remember. Instead, they force us to go around chanting “woof woof woof” like cretins. Wolves don’t “woof.” They howl, and then they eat people. That is why they are awesome. That is why we love wolves, for God’s sake. But no. UNM won’t let you, at least I don’t think so. I want to try and do it, though, so I’ll go to a basketball game and see.

Q: Will you stop being a nerd if you go to a basketball game?

A: Not if it’s to see if they kick you out if you howl at the team when everyone else is chanting “woof woof woof”. That is a sufficiently badass reason.

Q: Doesn’t that make you a furry faggot retard, though?

A: No.

Q: Do you think that your architecture teacher’s name, Efthimios Maniatis, is the most awesome teacher’s name ever?

A: Absolutely. I guarantee you at least half of the class will never learn how to pronounce his name correctly.

Q: Have you made any new friends since starting your career in higher education to become a bright hope for a better tomorrow?

A: No, but I have some ideas.

Q: Did you have any complaints at LobOrientation, the orientation program for new freshman students at UNM, whenever they made the Wall of Predjudice wherein people were forced to write down all the horrible racist terms they could think of?

A: Yes. Everybody at LobOrientation was a total pussy. I mean, seriously, how are we going to get to the bottom of racism and predjudice when people are afraid to write down horrible racist terms?

predjudice_fairy.gifQ: Frankly, how is writing down horrible racist terms on paper beneficial to ending racism in any way?

A: I don’t know. I think it has something to do with the “Predjudice Fairy”, a bigendered hermaphrodite bisexual of indeterminate race who puts money under people’s pillows if they refrain from using racism and predjudice in their everyday lives.

Q: When was the last time she… uh… he… uh… the fox thing to the left, uh, when did it last give out any money?

A: 1963. The fetus the fairy thing gave the money to died shortly thereafter and was sent to live with the Care Bears. Or something.

That’s it for today. Next time, we deal with Labor Day, and ask important questions, like the name of the artist who fondled her scars while naked. Stay tuned.

The Webcomic.

Otis looked blankly at the computer screen. Something was amiss. As the brightness of this page blinked into his eyes and his browser leisurely loaded the page, Otis could feel an awkward, almost disturbing sensation that pulsated across his body, tingling in his arms as it slithered down his back, a chill that can only be truly summarized with the feeling one gets sitting on Santa’s lap as he pats you on the shoulder in the mall after age twelve or something. You know, the kind of feeling one gets from true fear.

Otis was reading Megatokyo again.

dear_god.pngHe could not believe that he was still reading this comic strip. As Gallagher’s amateur pencil strokes stabbed at his tired, wearied eyes like a thousand graphite daggers and his body reeled against the horrible storylines and terrible anime fanart, Otis began to contemplate what he could do next. He could kill himself, thus making the world one mangatard less, and much happier to boot. Or he could blind himself with a sharp object, thus rendering his sad, pathetic obsessions moot.

But he did not.

He just… kept… reading.

The lamplight added shadow and light to the scene. As the sun set to the west, and as a light guitar solo played in the background, and as his mother slammed the door of their trailer as she went to get another beer, so did Otis read, munching on chips and salsa as he went, putting fire in his belly and slowly melting his mind on the senselessness of the webcomic. He could not quite comprehend what he was reading. He tried to look away, certain of his doom if he could not stop. He tried to fixate on some other thing, some wonderful, happy, magical thing that is not Megatokyo. Unicorns, or fairies, or Winnie the Pooh, or boobs. Nothing could work, particularly since the boobs gave him nightmares of visualizing the webcomic artist, Fred Gallagher’s, wife, naked, her sheer size and weight crushing his last childhoodseraphim.jpg fantasies of beauty and love. So did Winnie the Pooh, now that he thought about it. Also fairies and unicorns. He guessed that those kinds of things just did that to him. But especially Seraphim, or whatever the hell her real name was, after he found out that she didn’t look like she did in the comic. He had looked in horror at her when he realized that. You know how that goes.

He finally converged on thinking of geisha girls, and a soothing feeling rushed across him. There was just something about geisha girls. This wave of cool water cleaned the wounds of his mind, for just a brief moment, before he clicked for the next comic, and was thus rushed yet again into a world of pain and misery.

He could not handle the pure shittiness of the webcomic. It was beginning to infest his eyes and brain. He tried to read through “Piro’s” rantings at the end. It was even worse.

He knew what he had to do. He picked up the machete. He would have to do it.

He would have to KILL FRED GALLAGHER.

But then he thought, no, he couldn’t. He had been irrational. No, no, what was stopping him? After all, Gallagher was an architect–surely he deserved it! He flashed with rage, and threw the machete into the wall. He screamed with anger, burning inside while clutching his luigi_fireball.pngforehead in mental anguish, because he could not throw fireballs like Luigi could, going straight and true until they snaked into New York, setting Fred Gallagher’s computer on fire. His fire was on the inside. He realized what he had to do.

He boarded the plane for New York, knowing by instinct the path he had to take. He got off at JFK, boarding a taxi for a seedy low-rent hotel somewhere in Brooklyn, spending his time just as the Mario Brothers would have: In the plumbing.

alligator.png At that very moment, Fred Gallagher was using the restroom. As he was about to fish for a new comic from the toilet (where he always gets new material for his strips), and as he took some pocky off of his bathroom counter (because it is too far for him to walk to the kitchen to get food), he noticed something odd, and the water in the toilet began to bubble. He edged his face closer and closer to the bowl, until one of the infamous New York alligators, crimson with the flame of fireball, leapt from the fiery depths of the New York sewers and ate Fred Gallagher alive. And the alligator that Otis had trained to slink up that sewer, and which he had fed the pure New Mexico chile that gave a fire to its belly, was never seen again.
THE END.

Wisdom Tooth Removal: As Painful As Pulling Teeth

On Sunday, we made our historic trek back from the mountains. Yet the worst was to come. We made our way to the Quarters, a local barbecue grill, as my last meal before evil was to come to my poor mouth. I ordered a shrimp sandwich with salad and the like.

I could not enjoy my sandwich.krystal_humor1.png

The next day, I awoke, knowing, deep down inside, that I had not gotten any sleep, and that something odd was about to happen, because as I awoke from my slight slumber I began to make little howling noises for no apparent reason. Evil was to befall me, and soon. I became entrapped in the hands of Fate, knowing that I had to have my wisdom teeth removed. It was not negotiable, because wisdom teeth, like anything pertaining to wisdom in our society, simply cause trouble. If we wanted “wisdom” in our society, we would buy a medium-sized regular Coke, instead of a Gut-Buster 52-ounce Diet Coke filled with carbonation and Nutra-Sweet.

Although, to be fair, those teeth were becoming little bastards, causing me undue pain and frustration. They had become the Juvenile Delinquent Youth of my mouth, putting peer pressure on my teeth, trying to get them to do crack and smack and marijuana. They regularly performed drive-by shootings in my mouth, causing tiny cavities to form in my poor teeth. And, worst of all, they created these little pink lumps at the back of my mouth that got in the way when I tried to eat. If God had wanted us to have pink lumps at the back of our mouths, He would not have invented dental surgeons to take our money.

So anyway, we went to the doctor. Like the Beverly Hillbillies, in our family, everybody (that means me, my grandmother, and my mother) travels everywhere together. It should, of course, be no surprise to anybody that we drive a Ford pickup truck, and the only thing that is even remotely foreign in our yard is a Ford Escape, which is actually a rebadged Mazda. So, on this trip, we all packed in and made our redneck way to the dental surgeon’s, which was owned by a man named Dr. Wheaton.

I was escorted to the back by a woman wearing a very cute lab coat, one with Snoopy on it. I think all dental surgeons should do this. It made me feel very calm, to the point that my blood pressure was only about 140 beats a minute as I wet myself going into the operatory.

Note: The only reason I know my heart rate at this point is because I could feel my heart beating in my chest. Also, I didn’t wet myself. That was only hyperbole. I think.

So, anyway, they strap my arms down, and put on all this equipment and electrodes and a mask on my nose, and I’m scared to death. I begin asking questions as they stick the IV in my arm.

“How are you?” the doctor asks.

“Fine, but… I thought I was supposed to be under general anesthesia”, I say. “So why am I still awake?

“Because we haven’t given you the anesthesia yet,” the doctor says.

So, anyway, in a couple minutes, I’m completely out. And whenever I come back through, we all pack back up into the car, and take me home, where I sleep for the rest of the day. Oh sure, I read webcomics a little later. But realistically, I didn’t play Dance Dance Revolution, and still have not, meaning that I’m pretty much wasting time. This is sad, but someday I’ll get back.

What I have been doing is surfing the Internet endlessly, as well as playing guitar and researching things I probably shouldn’t. Of course I have not prepared for college. There are more important things to do. Tomorrow, I’m going to get a new game for my Wii, and I’m going to eat some soft Chinese food, and I’m going to continue to not prepare for college, and I’m going to continue to research horrible things I shouldn’t be researching. Why? Because I’ve lost my wisdom teeth, which were what made me wise.

Although, to be fair, I did the exact same things before the surgery.

A Fishing Trip In New Mexico: From Hippies To Fish-Goths, A Look Back In Terror

This weekend was a magical one for me, although unfortunately not in a sexual manner. It was more the kind of weekend you get wherein you go up to the mountains, and make yourself one with the trees, and can’t sleep for even five minutes because your mother is in the same bed as you and is snoring at approximately the same decibel range as a jet airliner on takeoff, constantly making HONK Pssshhhhhh HONK pssshhhhhhhhhhhh HOOOOOOONK pssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh noises, over and over again, until you have to take the pillow, easing it closer and closer to her face until…

Um, wait. Sorry, I’m just on edge after the magical weekend I had. Let me explain. It began at the Village Inn, where we ate breakfast. I will not mention what happened in the bathroom, excepting that this one dude apparently got something that definitely did not agree with him, and his anal regions were making this fact quite clear to everybody in the restroom. I myself had trouble eating after hearing this exchange, to the point that it took me a full thirty minutes to eat everything that had been placed in front of me by our well-meaning waiter. This was the most entertaining portion of our trip.

Perfect for HippiesSo we drive up to the mountains, as my mother shows off her impressive mastery of the local terrain by saying she didn’t know that the “fry bread” place was as close to a town on the route as she had thought. Then, we went through Jemez Springs, a beautiful city right downriver from the main foresty part of the trip.

TRUE FACT: When we stayed at the “Giggling Star” Hotel in Jemez Springs, the guestbook had an entry that read “Rub-a-dub-dub, three women in a tub.” My mother is still frightened at this thought.

ANOTHER TRUE FACT: Right across the street from the “Giggling Star” hotel is a cafe called the “Laughing Lizard.” I am still frightened at this thought.A room from La Cueva Lodge.

Anyway, we stayed up at a nice little motel south of a big lake called La Cueva Lodge. It’s usually pretty nice, and I know that the “Bear” room has cute stuffed bears all over the place that I will never touch, because God alone knows what kind of evils could inhabit them, and it’s not like you can ask the people at the hotel whether any of the guests had plushophilia (assuming of course that you WANT to know). We stayed in “Bluejay”, although I don’t think it really matters. What does matter is that there’s a little river behind the lodge, where you can fish. It is of course separated from the lodge by a steep cliff, assuring the wise angler that there will be no old people with stories at the bottom.

I didn’t catch a fish until my mother and I drove out far beyond the fish hatcheries, beyond the survivalists, and beyond everything else that was not directly tree-related. There, I caught a fish within ten seconds. This was the dumbest fish in recorded human history. I mean, seriously, I was in fact using a worm, which generally guarantees a fish of some kind, but it was like this fish wanted to commit suicide, and I am not for a moment suggesting it wasn’t. I think it had probably lost its fish girlfriend, and was attempting to become a Goth fish by getting a fisherman to stick a hook in its side, the same way human Goths go to body piercing shops.

Goth Body Piercings are the Devil’s fishhooks.

Oh sure, other things happened involving extreme bodily functions and gaseous emissions, and I eventually realized it was time to go once I hit on the idea that fake wolf ears would make excellent places to stick fish hooks, assuming that one actually wanted to wear them, because they would blend into the surroundings. But I think that this trip can be summarized in the way we left the mountains: Quickly, with me trying to figure out how to draw a wolf for no apparent reason.

It was a magical trip.