From Yahoo! News
2005-06-10, 10:46 a.m.
From Yahoo! News: The latest edition of the Collins English Dictionary published Thursday contains hundreds of new words that its editors say give a snapshot of how society is changing.
"Back, sack and crack" -- a beauty parlor waxing procedure made famous by English soccer captain David Beckham --is officially defined as "(cosmetic depilation of) the back, scrotum and the area between the buttocks."
Well, well, well. Back sack and crack. IímÖIím speechless. Iím speechless because what kind of pain would be it be to have your scrotum waxed? From what I understand, the boys are pretty sensitive, and it seems that the pain of waxing would be compounded by said sensitivity.
DW reports that a previous girlfriend talked him into shaving his sack once, and the resulting discomfort convinced him to not only never do that again, but to go ahead and break up with her, too.
Today is the last day of the Khaki on the Bottom, Green on the Top Experiment. I am either a brilliant sociological performance artist, or am completely demented. So far, nobody in the office has mentioned it to me, but that doesnít mean they didnít notice. Am quite sure that the weirdness I feel on the inside is now glaringly apparent on the outside.
Our live music in the park date went very well last night. UNTIL. Until the Park Rangers came up to DW, who was drinking a Zima, and told him that glass containers are not allowed in the park. DW poured his Zima into an empty beer can, and all was well. Or so I thought.
The man then launched into a 20-minute diatribe about rules, and laws, and government, and Park Rangers, and Rent-a-Cops, and so much of his right-wing dogma bullshit, that I thought my head would explode.
I know what his political beliefs and opinions are, and I donít mind if he spouts from time to time. But the man cannot stop once he starts, and I think heís waiting for me to start agreeing with him and backing him up. Um, NO. Stupid.
I told him that Iíd rather be in a park with park rangers than without, that the glass container law is one that was created when some asshole ruined it for everyone else, and that small rules and laws that keep order in society and keep the assholes from bothering the good people, donít worry me. Iíd rather save my outrage for larger issues, or issues that really negatively impact me.
Oy. It just got worse from there, but the upshot of it all was that he says he canít believe how liberal I am (yíall, I vote Republican much of the time. I am decidedly conservative in many ways) and that I am nothing like he thought I was when we first met. And that it bugs him that there are people out there who think like I do.
Itís like his civil liberties are being violated because he canít drink out of a glass container at a park, and IíM one of THEM.
So now, Iím just looking for places to hide the body parts. Because yes, I have killed him. Mrs. Beans and I attempted to eat him, but we couldnít finish him, so Iím just trying to figure out where to hide one BIG FAT HEAD that appears to be mostly skull.
Perhaps I can make it into a planter.
Iím not mad; weíre not even fighting. I just keep thinking ďIdiot!Ē in my best Napoleon Dynamite vernacular. It is as if every right-wing, goose-stepping, ultra-conservative ideology that heís ever heard, he has taken to heart and mushed up in his head til we have these DW-style politics.
This is why I donít discuss politics, public policy, or social issues with my husband.
This is after I spent a half hour on the phone yesterday afternoon with my sister as we lamented how stupid men can be, particularly our husbands, and my sister asked the question ďHow did you two end up together anyway?Ē Good question.
Hereís the answer: As DW and I agreed after the ill-fated politically-fueled discussion as the old-man band played Elvis Costelloís ďWhatís So Funny ĎBout Peace, Love and UnderstandingĒ, we are so totally alike in so many ways. So so so so so many ways, that it would impossible for us not to marry each other and (earning the gratitude of everybody else around us) take each other off the market.
But hereís the rub, and itís not the friendly kind of rub you were hoping to get out of me today, itís that I am light years smarter than he is. Book smart. School smart. I have gone to way more school, have taken way more classes than just runniní and jumpiní (heís a PE grad), I read (he doesnít), I remember, I understand, I comprehend.
Itís simple. I believe that my beliefs and views re politics and policy are far superior to his. I have learned about and weighed the options; he has taken the ultra-conservative rhetoric to heart, hook line and sinker without understanding what ďthe otherĒ side stands for. He never took a political science class, or a sociology class. He knows nothing about world history, or world politics. He lives in a little bubble.
Sigh. Eye roll. Head shake.
In short, Iím right and heís wrong. However, I donít tell him that. I just tell him that we disagree, and that in the grand scheme of things, neither one of us is wrong, and it doesnít matter anyway.
Ironically, the next song the old-man band played was that one that says ďthere ainít no good guy. There ainít no bad guy. Thereís only you and me, and we just disagree.Ē
Ha. DW got tears in his eyes listening to that one. Sucker. He thinks it matters to our relationship, but it doesnít. Slowly, as I civilize him, I will encourage him to read, to learn, to observe real life and the real world, and hopefully weíll start scraping some of that bone out of his skull and allow the mushy pink brains to expand a little.
And after he has learned, if he is still a right wing ultra-conservative asshole, then fine. Iíll let him be that way. But any uninformed opinion is idiocy and THATís what I have a hard time tolerating.
So, muffins, thatís your weekly shot of serious from me. May your weekends be filled with rainbows, fluffy bunnies, prancing unicorns, pretty ponies, blow jobs and booze.
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