SomaCow

I’m fully aware that I am about as healthy as drinking a jar of mayonnaise through a straw.

I eat too much junk food.
I drink too much.
I smoke too much.
I have too much sex. What? Shut up.

I get winded making the bed.
I have to take frequent rest breaks while riding an escalator.
When using a ladder to hang Christmas decorations, I have to establish a “base camp” on the second rung.

What I’m saying is: it came as no surprise to me that I almost died from the killer “Captain Micks” flu virus that Mickey gave to us all.

What DID surprise me was how quickly, and completely, the disease disabled me, and how long it lasted.

I’m recovered now, and I really appreciated all of your “Get Well Soon”, “We miss you”, “OMG it turns out that you really ARE the source of the SomaCow funny, get your ass back there!” emails, but I thought I would give you a private glimpse into my two weeks of suffering, in hopes that it might at least garner me some sympathy b00bie pics.

A Day on my Deathbed

11:00am – Wake up. Open left eye. Rest briefly. Open right eye.
11:15am – Ask someone to please wring out my pillowcase and replace it with one that is neither dripping nor off-green.
12:00pm – Wish that I could remember what food tastes like.
12:30pm – Take the ninth and tenth Nyquil ComaCaps of the day.
2:00pm – Wake up lying on the cold bathroom tile, wondering whether I was headed there to pee, barf or re-apply my hair gel.
3:00pm – Wish that I could remember what cigarettes taste like,
4:30pm – Insert a ShamWow into each nostril. Try to sleep on my back.
6:00pm – Enjoy a hearty dinner of Afrin Nasal Spray and Cherry Hall’s.
7:00pm – Watch “Friends”. Hey, I’m not DEAD.
7:30pm – Wish that I could remember what sex tastes like.
8:00pm – Collapse into a restless slumber for the night, with fevered dreams of Jennifer Aniston rubbing Vick’s Vap-o-Rub on my pompadour, which causes sparks to shoot out and collect into a rectangle that begins to burn my head.
8:15 – Wake up long enough to realize that what is actually happening is that the heating pad has ignited my hair gel.
8:16 – Decide that putting out the fire can wait until tomorrow.
zzz…ZZZ…zzz…ZZZ…

I wouldn’t wish this miserable virus on anyone. Please, please, please, dear listeners, get your flu shots.

And never, never, never purchase butane hairstyling products.

You might think that because I am a “comedy writer” and a co-host of “The Greatest Internet Radio Show,  EVER!” that my gift of gab would extend into the bedroom.

Well, don’t YOU look foolish now.

For some reason, I could never quite get the hang of talking dirty during sex. While some guys can be quite comfortable ordering their sexual partners to “Take it like a dirty whore! I’m gonna rip you to shreds!”, the nastiest thing I have ever managed to say to the Mrs. was “I hope this is equally unpleasant for YOU!”.

Once, when she was out of town on business, we decided to try having cyber-sex chat on our computers. I sucked at it, because of my tendency to always crack jokes at exactly the wrong moments:

[SomaCowJ]: Oh, baby…yes, baby…do it just like that…a Priest and a Rabbi walk into a bar…
[MrsSomaCowJ]: gah

So, I turned to my good, good friends Geoff and Mickey for some guidance on this topic, and asked them for their best dirty-talk lines.

(You know how, in cheesy horror movies, everybody in the WORLD except for the stupid person on-screen knows that it would be a terrible idea to open that closet door, because there will undoubtedly be an axe-weilding homicidal maniac inside? I was like that stupid person.)

Geoff, having control issues, is very demanding in his budoir babble: “You dirty girl, I’m going to f…why is there no coffee ready?! I’m risking a heart attack to give you mediocre sex, and you can’t even have a pot of WaWa brewing for afterward? Put a dollar in the jar! UHHNNNGH! Whew! Ok, I’m done. That was GREAT!”

Mickey was little help, since the only time he talks to people is while we’re recording the show: “Oh, baby, you are like a cascading style sheet that functions perfectly across multiple websites without debugging”. Yeah, I wish I could help him.

On a related note, I was recently researching my family tree, and was quite surprised to discover that several of my great-great grandparents had been porn stars in the late 1800s and early 1900s. I was able to track down some of the “dialog” from these early attempts at silent moving-pictures which CLEARLY demonstrate that my dirty-talk deficiency is genetic. Keep in mind that the language in these films was considered a vile and filthy obscenity in its day:

Yeah. That explains THAT.

If you have any ideas to help me improve my pillow talk, please let me know.

Until then I’ll be boning up on my Priest and Rabbi jokes, as it were.

Florida is widely known for having the most streamlined voting process in the nation.

By “streamlined” I mean that we don’t actually bother to count a lot of the votes, resulting in fewer tax dollars being wasted on luxuries such as accurate election results. I am certainly no political pundit, but I suspect that part of the problem with the voting system here in Florida may be due to the fact that most of our election officials, as well as election day volunteers, appear to be employed by bait shops during the rest of the year.

So, today I joined the ranks of Americans who gather, once every four years, to engage in that uniquely American pastime of voting on important government offices and issues that we know nothing about.

Fortunately, the media, and crowds of overzealous patriots at the voting locations, are quite happy to educate you on the issues under consideration, via the techniques of mindless speculation and blatant lies.

You can easily spot the McCain propagandists by the dollar sign insignias on their chauffeurs and the filigreed chains on their eelskin wallets. They also frequently wear t-shirts printed with pictures of themselves. They quickly informed me that I should vote for Senator John McCain for President, rather than a candidate who, they say, is known to enjoy poking babies in the eye and pushing old people down stairs, due to lack of political experience. How they say this with a straight face is beyond me, although I suspect that their faces have been pretty much straight since birth. I decided to test this hypothesis by seeing how one of these wild-eyed morality-dictators responded to a simple joke:

Me: Do you know the difference between Sarah Palin and an auto mechanic?
Rich, white McCain supporter: I’ll make sure you are never allowed to wear a thong in the privacy of your own back yard ever again. Or have sex in your bedroom with the lights on.
Me: No! It’s “dipstick”!

Well, so much for that.

The Obama supporters were just as fervent, if a little less stodgy. They merely accused McCain of having harvested the organs for his last five personal transplants from unborn fetuses, ripped from the wombs of middle-class mothers. Then they sang a medley of Barbara Streisand songs. Badly.

But, armed with my driver’s license, since my voter registration card is probably tied up in some kind of bureaucratic bait shop red tape, I strode confidently up to the “Our Lady of Iniquity Catholic Church and Spa” (the voting location for my precinct) and proceeded about the task set forth by our founding fathers: finding out where the refreshments were located. After failing to locate any orange juice, fruit punch or cookies, it occurred to me that I MIGHT have confused voting with giving blood. The two processes are similar in that when you’re finished with either, you’re a little bit pale, sort of dizzy and you try to get out of work for the rest of the day.

But I got through it. I cast my secret and sacred ballot for the individuals and issues of my choice. I even voted for one constitutional amendment that was particularly trickily worded:

“Do you support the reversal of restrictions preventing the legislature from lifting the ban on allowing the negation of existing prohibitions of re-instating the policy of not allowing the State to decline recognition of currently rescinded vetos of the law supporting the denial of applications for coastal easements?”

Knowing me, do you think I voted for or against this amendment?

Yeah, I couldn’t tell, either.