By staff writer Simonne Cullen
September 24, 2006
By the end of our lives we will only remember the funny stories. These funny stories are normally attached to an unanticipated situation and spawned from an awkward conversation—like running to your ex’s parents at your third cousin twice removed’s wedding. You only dumped her last week, so while you’re eating the third course, you know that somewhere their daughter is just starting to work on her third pint of Häagen-Dazs while watching The Notebook for the 18th straight time.
How do you tell someone you gave him or her an STD? You can always go with the less popular but equally shocking knock-knock version.
“In your pants.”
But knock-knock jokes should never end with the punch line, “Get yourself a shot of penicillin, stat.”
“It may be awkward, but it’s super tacky to track a girl down and leave, Sorry you walked in and found a used condom on her MySpace.”
I’ve had friends who have been in situations where they’ve accidentally made out with another person’s boyfriend/friend with benefits/fuck buddy drunkenly at a party without knowing about the other girl. Of course word gets around and should you ever see that girl, and she happens not to be carrying a weapon, just apologize to her in person. Because saying, “Sorry you caught me topless with your man, I didn’t know you two were an item” may be hella awkward, but it’s super fucking tacky to track the girl down and leave her a, “Sorry you walked in and found a used condom” comment on her MySpace account.
Speaking of condoms, putting one on is by far the most awkward of all conversations. Somehow this act turns even the most eloquent, articulate individuals into cavemen. Next time you’re putting one (or two) on, watch how you and your partner start making inaudible grunting noises and Helen Keller sounds while pushing the wrapper back and forth. Then you’ll gesture to one another that the other person should put the condom on. It’s as if there’s a panel of cavemen judges ready to hold up stone-carved scorecards grading your execution and grace. Minus points if all goes flaccid.
Afterward, conversations are considerably less uncomfortable, but still notable nevertheless. Guys, you need to be ready with (and I stress) a recently washed hand towel. Because nothing changes the mood faster than a hard and crusty towel. You men don’t even like to cuddle, do you really want to have a, “What the fuck is this crunchy shit and who does it belong to?” conversation post-coitus?
There are about twenty people in my classes. Fourteen of them are female. Four of them are gay. One is straight, and one is ambiguous. Not sure which way his sexual orientation flows, so chatting with him about his weekend is very hard when you have to think before you speak.
“What did you do this weekend?”
“Went to a naughty prep school theme party.”
“And did you make out with any naughty school gir— er person?”
“Yes. It was fantastic.”
Thanks for clearing that up. Theater people are incredibly open-minded and liberal but asking, “So do you like the cock or what?” is still considered overly dramatic.
Why is telling your roommate to chip in more for food, or to stop eating your food, so difficult? I knew a girl who wrote an entire seminar speech the night before it was due, yet it took her two semesters of her roommate eating her food and drinking her wine before she started labeling her name on her Red Bulls and boxed wine. “These are mine and not yours. If you want one it’s $1.99 plus tax asshole.” I don’t know if it all fit on one can, but I’m damn sure that by the end of the year she got the message.
Hollywood is a scumhole. Which if you notice is only one letter away from cum hole, which is what this city is filled with. Scrawny little cum buckets with clown glasses and hair extensions, like Lindsay Lohan. Some of my classmates say I shouldn’t talk bad about Lindsay Lohan in my articles on the off chance she might possess the executive decision to cast me in one of her movies. I don’t want to end up with my foot in my mouth or something, but I tell them that if that situation should ever arise, I would rather eat my own ass than have Lohan play a pivotal role in my career.
The Hollywood Walk of Fame is incredibly overrated. It starts on Hollywood near the Chinese theater and goes up and down side streets lined with souvenir shops, trashy wig shops, and tattoo parlors. Rin-Tin-Tin has a star of his own, but not the Taco Bell dog. Ryan Seacrest has his own star in a trendier part of the area, and Walt Disney’s star is conveniently located right in front of a stripper-apparel discount store. It’s no surprise that slutty/poorly-made Snow White, Pocahontas, and Little Mermaid costumes are all inside.
Not all of Hollywood is a scumhole. On Sunset there is a strip of fabulous eateries, bars, and chic clubs where photographers camp out just aching for a picture of the newest tween thing. And maybe one day I’ll be able to afford to just park my car there.
Or pay for valet. Remember how in Clueless Alicia Silverstone didn’t have to learn how to park because every establishment had valet? It’s true. Every restaurant, store, bar, movie and movie theater has valet. I hear there’s a Beverly Hills Jack in the Box where you don’t even have to get out of your car to order food. They have waiters dressed in formal bowties who bring your burgers to you. We have that in the Midwest too. Only we call it the drive-thru.