Spanky Humdinger

Anybody who has ever had an HIV test knows how nerve-racking the experience is. Even if you have performed relatively low-risk acts, it is still very surreal. Most places seem to still ask that you come back in two weeks to get your results, and the day you do can be utter misery.

Such was my day yesterday. Since I tend to live inside my head most of the time, I start to see everything in my life as a symbol or [obviously] see people as characters in my autobiographical movie. I'm digressing...speaking of characters, I must introduce you to the lovely counselor I had the opportunity to exchange words with yesterday. For all intents and purposes, see is the Suspenselor.

So I walk in. She smiles," How are you doing?"
I just offer her a blank look of pathetic apprehension and respond," What do most people in this situation say to that?"
She just shrugged her shoulders.

"So is it getting cold outside?" she asks.
"Ummmm.......yyyyyyeeeaaaaahhhhhhhh," I respond.

In reality, these are the only two things she said prior to sitting me down and giving me my result, but, living in my head, those minutes took hours, so I envisioned her continuing with...****dream sequence ensues****...

"It appears that you are pppp-pretty cold. Can I get you some coffee?"
"Ok, it looks like you are pppp-please calm down sir; I haven't even said anything yet."
"It seems you might be nnnn-not wanting me to share this information?!"
"The chart reads that you're pppp-partying a lot. Is that still true?!"

I'm certain you get the point. If there are any other Suspenselors reading this, please cut the bullshit when you give nervous patients their results. Most of them have already waited two weeks. Don't even say hello. Shake their hand and say,"positive" or "negative."

THEN you may ask how they are...

THEN you may ask if it's GETTING COLD OUTSIDE...

The Suspenselor FINALLY told me the result (-), and a decent conversation followed. But their was a time just prior to that when I was thinking of ways to mutilate this woman, but I won't. Unless, maybe, she pulls that shit with me next time...

You are Jacques Lacan! Arguably the most important
psychoanalyst since Freud, you never wrote
anything down, and the only works of yours are
transcriptions of your lectures. You are
notoriously difficult to understand, but at
least you didn't talk about the penis as much
as other psychoanalysts. You died in 1981.


What 20th Century Theorist are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Things Spanky hates: Libby Lu

People/creatures Spanky hates: Yippee, Legoless post-CRIBBAGE posting, the Lunch Hunch, and Real World San Diego's Frankie

People Spanky loves: Legoless pre-CRIBBAGE posting and Spanky's COMMITTED LJ READERS (by committed I mean committed to reading my journal, not committed to a partner...I wouldn't wish that upon Frankie)

This may act as a generic posting to update you on all previous postings in this journal. For the reasons as to why I hate or love these things, people, or creatures, see the respective entry.

There comes a time in every man's life that he must admit his own indiscretions and vices. Now is my time. I am addicted to the Real World on MTV. However, I can honestly say that it is one of the few reality television shows I religiously tune in to. With that said, a personal commentary follows...

Who was the MTV mastermind that decided to put that whiny-ass whore, Frankie, on the show? Perhaps the casting director thought, "Hm, we haven't had anyone that speaks to the Goth kids lately. Nor have we had anyone with an interesting disease lately. Nor have we had anyone who has a fear of cruiseliners...ever. Frankie, you're in!" This tragic creature was destined to not fit in...not because she's unattractive or weird, but more she has convinced herself that she can't and never will fit in.

Granted, it would be intimidating for someone to come into a situation in which one must live with beautiful people (yes, even for me). Brad = hot oaf, Cameran = southern belle bimbette, Robin = HUGE-boobed bartendress that parties and uses her arms WAY too much when she speaks, Jacquese = sensitive (and angry) black man, Jamie = quiet Asian girl, Randy = sensitive (and easy-going) white man, and then there's Frankie.

In a defining Real World moment, as Frankie trips across the hallway after drunkenly trying to molest the hottest dude in the house (btw the way, sorry babe, no chance with that...even though he's as dumb as the shredded mini wheats he eats, he won't be "tagging" you anytime soon), a quote that was said previously in the confessional is repeated in typical pseudo-dramatic Real World style. "I've always wanted to come to a place where noone knew who I was...so I could start all over..." It was something like that. Instead of doing that, she slept in a pile of her own vomit, which, frankly, it was hard to distinguish her face from the vomit. Ok, that was just mean.

Frankie also said something to the effect of," I like to ride life by the horns, because if you don't, you're just waiting to die." Now I could see if she was jumping out of a plane and this quote was being voiced-over. I could also see if she was cliffhanging and this quote was being voiced-over. I could also see if she was providing medications and food to AIDS-stricken populations in Africa and this quote was being voiced-over. I could also see if she was sailing the seven seas and capturing her own meals with spears and this quote was being voiced-over. But she wasn't doing any of these things. She was sitting around table at a beautiful beachhouse drinking and...smoking cigarettes. So apparently "riding life by the horns," to Frankie, is smoking cigarettes.

Smoking cigarettes is actually a lot more scary of a thing for our fair Frankie, because she has the genetic disease known as cystic fibrosis (CF). Children afflicted with this disease many times do not make it past 10 years old. It's a disease in which mucus produced is more viscous than most people's. It ends up affecting mostly the lungs and thereby provides a nice ecosystem for bacteria to set up shop. Basically, these people have respiratory infections quite often, and their sweat...is REALLY salty (ick). So now that you have further insight into Frankie's condition, you might be able to see the absurdity of her equation for "living life by the horns." Frankie, you're a role model to CF patients everywhere! Bravo!

And just when you thought Frankie had hit a home run for her idiosyncrasies, she hits a grand slam by revealing her biggest fear. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, she's afraid of "big metal cruiseliners." She makes certain to tell her roommates and the Real World audience that she is not afraid of little boats, just the big ones. Um, she lives in a BEACHhouse, and their job is to sail SHIPS. Wow, Frankie, maybe this is a perfect opportunity to "live life by the horns" by getting over one of your worst fears. It beats smoking.

I could go on and on, but those of you who watch the Real World probably loathe her as much as I do. I've seen previews in which Randy and her get into a fight, and I'm totally looking forward to it.

So let's a give a warm welcome to Frankie, ladies and gentleman! Maybe by the end of the show she'll realize that the real world doesn't have room "different girls who never fit in" nor does it have room for people who consider smoking to be living nor does it have room for people with neurotic irrational fears of large metal things. I'd love to see the look of dread when aliens abduct her stupid ass. If she thought cruiseliners were scary, she's gonna be MORTIFIED by that UFO I ordered for her. THEY'RE COMING TO GET YOU, WHORE!

At least I take solace in knowing that when her 5 mo stint with the Real World is up, she'll go back to Hot Topic and live out her limited days as a cashier. Thank goodness cash registers are small because God knows, they're metal.

Fingers, don't fail me now. I know it's been a while since my last tale of woe and despair, but I'm back with a new one...

I don't really work at a General Store. In fact, does anybody these days? Unless someone's trying to be cute and 1800's retro, I can't say I've seen many General Stores in existence. I work at a University. We'll call it Generic U. As with most universities, this one has a cafeteria. Every cafeteria, of course, has a manager. Well my cafeteria just happens to be inhabited/managed by no other than the "Lunch Hunch."

This unfortunate creature earned this detestable nick from her undeniable case of kyphosis. That's right, folks...a real, honest-to-goodness hunchback at Generic U.

No matter how unpopular I feel, I'm always guaranteed an email from the Lunch Hunch in my inbox every day. She takes her job very seriously. And by seriously, I mean that she makes sure everyone knows the menu everyday, so it gets sent as an email attachment. Even though there happens to be a menu posted on the school's intranet to which most persons with any technosense could navigate, the Lunch Hunch finds it most titillating to litter the faculty, staff, and student inboxes with the nauseous menus. Not to mention, the emails are typically sent out at 545AM or earlier. Does she sleep? If not, is her hump and insomnia directly related?

And then are her Mexican slaves...err, workers. These poor subhumans...err, humans work day and night in order to please the Hunch. At lunchtime, you can always find her scurrying around the room and barking orders to the various amigos and amigas. Occasionally, in a pitiful attempt to boost morale by "identifying with them," she will throw out something in Spanish. "Tu es tonto!" she screams to Luis. "Gilipollas!" she screams to Maria.

I just lower my head in shame as I purchase the food from Carlotta. (She's the only worker that knows how to work the register. She's super technosavvy. Just don't get anything but the combo meal because "a la carte" is French, and that doesn't fly with her.) I stare into her deep brown eyes and search for something, but there is nothing. A blank stare is all I receive in return. In the reflection of that stare, I catch and ever-rapidly approaching Lunch Hunch. As expected, she gives Carlotta some secret nonverbal command to wrap up the transaction, so that the line could continue to move.

I wonder why the Mexican workers continue to work in shame and defilement for the wretched beast. My only conclusion is that there is something in the hump that keeps them working for her. But what could it be? Many days I have spent thinking about the contents of the hump. My ideas have lead me down different paths...refried beans, pesos, green cards, and California drivers licenses are but a few of my theories. I'm convinced there's a secret in there somewhere. I've often wondered why the Mexicans don't beat the Lunch Hunch like a pinata and take the gift(s) that her hump has to offer. It may come to that...one day.

Until the terror of the Lunch Hunch is quelled, Mexican workers at Generic U will never truly be free. I urge you workers...UNITE...FIGHT HER. (Fuck, I forgot that Carlotta might be the only one reading this...um, yeah, Carlotta, could you tell your friends to unite against the Lunch Hunch and hit her like a pinata?! Thanks a hunch...err, bunch, dear. See you on Meatloaf Wednesday!)

Here is a poem about this lonely dictator...

Pour yourself some punch.
But don't look at my hunch.

Yes, the hamburgers are fine.
But don't look at my spine.

Your curly fries seem to be in a tangle.
But don't look at my angle.

Watch your milk! It's gonna spill!
But don't look at my hill

Have another potato round.
But don't look at my fleshmound.

Our ripe tomatoes are nice and plump.
But don't look at my hump.

Wow, the ice cream display looks pretty!
But don't look at my gibbosity.

Refried beans or pesos or green cards or IDs?
The mystery most frightening is how I pay my employees.

Word!

If I were a [feminine] gay man... by 38886
Your name
Your Gay Man Name	Tommy
Your Gay Man Occupation	Fashion Consultant
Your Stereotypical Gay Man Trait	A heavily emphasized "Omigod!"
Your Gay Man Music of Choice	Dreamstreet
Your Gay Man Cause of Death	Run over by nuns
Created with quill18's MemeGen!

I sincerely apologize for leaving my friends and clients waiting on entries. Has it been almost a month? Eek! Spanky has been extraordinarily busy with his duties at the General Store. Now that time is freeing up, I wish to share with you an update on the Legoless, shall we say, situation.

Last you heard Legoless had posted a pitiful plea exposing the truth about his unfortunate accident. As I said, there were no phone numbers torn off this advertisement-for-friends. Well, my halfling neighbor has a new approach!

Once again I approached the corkboard near the mailboxes and saw another posting in similar block lettering to the original plea. The plea read as follows:

"Want to learn how to play cribbage? It's a game that combines skill and luck. Call [name withheld for loss of effect] at [number withheld for respect for Ed...oops, what did I do?]"

Can you believe this guy?! At first I thought his request was noble in that he told the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But I want to know...what happens now. Does one call the number, come over, and then notice that...hmm, there's something different about this guy. Does he verbally prepare one over the phone? Should it not matter since it's only a simple cribbage lesson? As Sally Field so eloquently put it in Steel Magnolias, "I want to know why??!!"

But even more than that...I want to know...what the FUCK is cribbage? What kind of marketing tactic is this? Now if Legoless advertised for "want to learn how to suck your own dick?" I might be there! But cribbage?!

Legoless, if you're out there, please, send me a sign. Why cribbage? Why now? Skill? Luck? Why not agility? I can't help but feel betrayed. Perhaps I put him on a pedestal, but he has fallen...fallen into a pile of cribbage...

Before I get comments from all the JRR Tolkien fans saying something to the effect of," If you're trying to make a pun on the name, Legolas, he was an ELF, FYI!" Rest your D&D dork brains! You will see why the subject of this tale is a not of the elf species. My Legoless is clearly a halfling, a halfling with a dream...

Honestly, I didn't know that I lived in the same building as this creature; it was only by happenstance that I became tipped to his close proximity. Upon return to my humble apartment complex after a long day at the General Store, I thought I'd check the mailbox since it seems to fill daily due to fanletters and the like. Nearby my mailbox, there hung a legendary corkboard. This corkboard, normally used for advertisements, apartment reminders, and invitations to parties (see "Yippee Goes Down" below) was now the proud recipient of a cry for help from our fair Legoless.
Scribed in an interesting block letter format on white notebook paper, I felt compelled to investigate the seemingly out-of-place posting.

The contents of the letter were most disturbing. In it, Legoless describes a recent "traumatic" event that occurred that left him with TWO prosthetic legs. Although I was not given the specifics of the event, a person sound of mind would instinctively assume that Legoless' legs were lost in a freak "Juicing" accident. I tried to block the horrific imagery of Legoless dropping a carrot, celery, tomato, and lettuce into the Juicer. I tried to bind the thought of the Juicer falling and cutting through his femurs. I tried to quell my newly intensified craving for a glass of V8. "Show some respect for Legoless!" I thought to myself.

After continuing reading, I realized that the Legoless was no longer feeling sorry for himself for having no legs; he was going to DO something about it! The note went on to plea with potential passers-by for company. Such activities suggested included "movies, 'walks', and 'nice suppers together'." The prospective applicant was warned that she must be "willing to be seen with a man in a wheelchair with two exposed prosthetic legs." At that moment, I swelled with pride for Legoless as his honest and forthright approach to finding a companion made my patellas tingle.

There were phone numbers available for tearing off. None were torn at the time I read the plea. An internal dilemma started to boil. Should I tear off a couple numbers to give Legoless hope that SOMEONE will call? Or would the sight of two torn numbers yet the lack of a phone call send Legoless into the pits of depression? Would Legoless end up embarrassed by something he was oh so ready to "show the world?" I went with my gut and tore the numbers off! I figured, if I was really bored, perhaps Legoless would like to keep ME company. I thought," Someone advertising for friends shouldn't be too choosy about who responds."

Oh, I almost forgot the last part of our hero's dream. He wrote "no matrimonial desires" at the end of the letter. A true man of good character, Legoless wished to assure all his would-be company-keepers that he's not out to put a ring on anyone's finger. I could only barely keep myself from thinking that the it might be hard for Legoless to afford said ring due to his new legs perhaps putting him in the red.

And such is the tale of my fellow tenant-halfling, Legoless. I still have the numbers, and perhaps one day when I'm so bored that I'm laying on the ground and imagining what the world would be like if the ceilings were floors, I just might call Legoless. Perhaps we'd grab a beer together. I bet his tolerance is lower now that he's a halfling.

Things I've learned from Legoless:
1) People lose things. You can lose things and you're still...OK.
2) Don't be too proud to beg...for friends.
3) Warm legs, cold heart; cold legs, WARM heart.

When I'm not busy exposing evil establishments such as LIBBY LU at Spanky's Spunk and Spite General Store for the Bored and Belittled, I'm relaxing in my nice quiet apartment complex. Well, it's quiet now, but there was a time...

***Imagine fuzzy, dreamy lens action intended to take you to a flashback.***

6AM - The alarm rings. Oh WAIT...I didn't SET my alarm to the tune of a dog-bark?! In confusion, I rise from my slumber and press my ears to the door leading into the hallway. What do I hear?! For all practical purposes, I will call it Yippee the Dog. He was doing what a dog with that moniker would be expected to be doing...yipping. Grumpily, I dragged myself back to bed; the General Store was not to open until 9AM, so I had a little more time to rest.

630AM - The ala-...Yippee belts out a good set of yips. Each yip crescendos to the next. I put the pillows over my head...

Cycle continues for every half hour and every morning...

(As an aside, I observed an interesting phenomenon that Yippee tended to bark more zealously when I entered the hallway and exited my apartment. Relatedly, Yippee would bark upon my return to my apartment. For the record, I have never actually SEEN Yippee.)

Then one morning, something different happened; there was a knock at my door at 930AM. (The General Store was closed; I was still sleeping.) I ignored the knock thinking it would cease. You see, I had a "guest" over and was 90% not clothed. After realizing that the persons desiring entry had a KEY to the apartment, I hurriedly sputtered, "Be right there!" I grabbed my cleanest burka and headed to the door. Much to my surprise, it was the maintenance men. (Party anyone? :-) They were asking for information about a certain canine DISTURBANCE in the hall. In the true spirit of the Salem Witch Trials, I pointed down the hall at the apartment from which Yippee's bark most emanated. The maintenance men thanked me and left to continue on their hunt. I locked my door, ran into my living room, did a bell-kick, and then a very very short tap dance in a typical celebratory Gregory Hines (before he was dead) fashion.

Yippee was going to go down.

I didn't hear much after that. I saw signs posted around the apartment complex announcing a "Respect Your Neighbors" party. It was purported to offer games, fun, and most surprisingly...a PUBLIC EXECUTION! I really didn't think this was right; those days are long past. At least that's what I thought BEFORE I saw that Yippee was to be the victim. In an ironic burst of elation, I jumped up and screamed, "Yippee!"

Unfortunately, the party was taking place when the General Store was open, so there was no way I'd be able to make it. I did, however, ask the assistant property manager if he could takes pictures of the event. I even offered to make a collage of the pics for public viewing by the residents if need be.

As a result, a collage now hangs in the lobby of my apartment complex. If you look closely, you can see the tale of Yippee's fate. Admittedly, their admonishment of Yippee was a bit on the harsh side. Forced to wear a crown of thorns, Yippee was made to climb 3 flights of stairs with a doghouse on his back. I heard from attendees that occasionally he would beg for water with slight, pitiful yips. After such pleas, the resentful tenants would shove sponges soaked in vinegar down his snout. Apparently a video was made of this. I believe I was told that this video will be used to explain the importance of pet deposits and pet rent upon moving in any fuzzy friends.

I've learned that silence is golden. I guess I have Yippee to thank for that. You see, he learned a little too late. I guess when I reflect now, Yippee wasn't all that bad. He gave a little something to everyone: his owners, joy; the maintenance men, a project; my "guest", a breather; the assistant property manager, a marketing ploy for pet-related monies; the tenants, a scapegoat; and me...a life lesson I will NEVER forget.

RIP YIPPEE (???? - 2003)
"He was loud. He was proud. But you'll never find HIS shroud."

For the most part, I am a peace-loving creature. Unless one has looked at me the wrong way, or breathed a little off-beat, I usually don't wish anyone ill-will. Consequently, it's even less often that a merchandising establishment would evoke a strong sense of unrest in me. As with all things, there are exceptions. And here is my exception...LIBBY LU!

For all of you who have ever been in any semblance of a mall whether in the burbs or city...I'm certain you've seen it. It draws little girls into it with all the PINK and the GLITTER. Like waving chicken legs in front of Gremlins after midnight, it attracts them one by one. Their little angelic faces pile in and beg their elders for the glitz and glam that LIBBY LU has to offer. The parents cave; the transformation begins.

Once the parents nod their heads at the salesgirls, Beelzebub and Azrael, the child's soul has already been sold. The once-innocent child is transformed to a raging WHORE before her parents' eyes. In a flurry of glitter, sparkles, wings, and the like, a little girl's dreams of one day becoming a respectable contributor to society is no more. She's now a slut, and be forewarned that the horny neighbor kids are going to start a rap-tap-tapping at the door all hours of the night.

There a few usual excuses I hear from parents as to why they sold their child's soul. Here are the top three:

3) She wanted to be a fairy for the day; she wanted wings so she could pretend she could fly.

My rebuttal: With those wings, she flew out of your humble nest and into the arms of Satan, ma'am.

2) She wanted to be a princess; she wanted to wear a beautiful gown, so she could marry a handsome prince.

My rebuttal: When the horny neighbor kids come knocking down your door, her "prince" is going to throw that slut to the hungry dogs and head for greener pastures, ma'am.

3) She's only 6; she can't be a whore if she's only six.

My rebuttal: Age is irrelevant. Being a whore is a state of mind. You have fed your daughter's soul to Cerberus, and Charon is waiting oh so graciously to usher her across the River Styx. You said "good-bye" when you heard the cash register go "ker-ching."...ma'am.

By now, you get the idea. If you are not convinced, I urge to watch the next time a "makeover" is being given at LIBBY LU. Watch the subject of the makeover's EYES...they turn RED. When you see it, you'll be on my side.

So you ask, what can I do, Spanky Humdinger? Is there anyway I can help? I offer these few pieces of advice:

First, you will need:
2 black candles
1 black book
a picture of Courtney Love
about 5 issues of Bop magazine
a lighter
a Molotov cocktail filled with holy water

1) Enter LIBBY LU and approach the salesgirls. Refer to them as "Beelzebub" and "Azrael." Of course their nametags will say "Katie" and "Jenny", but I want you to address them by their PROPER names. Tell them you know who they REALLY are.

2) Ask to speak to their manager. If their manager is not there, ask them what prayer you have to say to invoke their manager. Tell Beelzebub and Azrael that you brought black candles and a black book if necessary.

3) While B and A are busy thinking about the situation (trust me, this will keep them occupied for a LONG TIME), you can best use your time by ushering out any customers. When the little girls start to cry, throw the issues of Bop FAR OUTSIDE the store. They should go diving in a mad rush for these magazines. If this doesn't work, pull out the picture of Courtney Love and ask them if this is who they REALLY want to be.
a) If they are pure of heart, they will flash you a sweet little twinkle of the eye, shake their head "no", grab their parent's hand, and quietly leave.
b) If they were soiled from the get-go, they will flash you a scary pitched fork tongue, devilishly and feverishly shake their head "yes", and ask you if you think that they're prettier than Jon Benet.

4) After the "manager" comes (hopefully you're well aware that this is Satan by now), light the Molotov cocktail full of holy water and throw it deep into the bowels of LIBBY LU. Normally, a Molotov cocktail wouldn't light if it were filled with holy water since it would normally need a more combustible medium. But once you hear the explosion, you will be convinced. The only thing that could ignite a spark between fire and water...is pure BLACK EVIL.

5) Run. It is likely that hell demons and mall security will be chasing you. One of these groups might be a bit more formidable than the other. Pray and do your best to escape. I'm all out of suggestions past that.

I hope these guidelines have helped. I also hoped that you'll stay as far from LIBBY LU as humanly possible. We don't need our next generation being bred by a legion of demonwhores. Fight this possible reality at its origin point...

LIBBY LU