Unwelcomed Nomenclature

It’s another round of Renal Failure’s Naming Babies That Aren’t Ours. This time it’s our friend over at Wicca201 who has a baby on the way. She’s not due till August, but we figure there’s a better chance of the names getting used if we get them in now.

Now it’s been confirmed that she’s having a daughter so we don’t have to come up with boys’ names. Also her last name starts with a “T” so no names beginning with that letter will be accepted because alliteration opens the door to harsh ridicule in school. And also I’ve decreed no repeating names from the last time we suggested names, because that’s lazy.

This, however, does not stop Tag Larkin from suggesting that the wee lass be named Tag Larkin.

“Petra’s a good Finnish girl’s name,” says Mikka. Then I inform him that the father is German, not Finnish. I also point out the father of this child owns an XBox360. “Oh, then call the kid Halo.”

“Dethklok,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat, who thinks naming children after metal bands is a good idea. “Or Gwar. Can Gwar at least be the middle name, because that will give that kid instant metal cred, and metal cred is hard to come by these days.”

“Well, if I were having a daughter I’d go with Fiona or Wynter,” says Avonia the Wiccan Pimp. “But pimps don’t get maternity leave, and the goddess tends to ignore my fertility offerings.”

“How about… uh… Peppermint and… who was the one with the fire bush… oh yeah, Sinnamyn,” says Anonymous Doug, recalling the names of the two strippers who gave him lap dances last weekend. I’m pretty sure my friend does not want a stripper pole as a baby shower gift.

“Lady Snowblood,” says Samurai Cathy. Well, it certainly would keep the maladjusted kids at school away from her. When pressed for a second suggestion, Cathy just shrugs and says “Zatoichi?”

“I’d like to see a girl named Katana,” says Ninja Vicki, holding up her katana blade. “That would be sweet.”

When asked for a second suggestion, she thinks about it for a moment, then remembers she’s got her iPod earbud in her ear when “Glory of Love” comes on. “How about Cetera? That would be an awesome first name.”

“Bailey s’n Jamesyn…” Marlie says. I’m not sure if she’s suggesting names or placing her drink order, and she was unavailable for clarification because she then proceeded to pass out. And while our friend at Wicca201 liked Marlie’s previous suggestion of Teagan, it won’t work here because of our alliteration rule.

Tina the Lesbian struggles for ideas until I tell her that the child’s father is a big Star Trek geek. “Oh, in that case either Jadzia Dax or Captain Janeway.”

And I suggest either Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of war and fate, or Nemesis, the Greek goddess of divine retribution. I’m leaning toward Nemesis because then the child can refer to the movie “Snatch” when asked about her name: “Do you know what “nemesis” means? A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent. Personified in this case by an ‘orrible cunt… me.” Now tell me that wouldn’t sound absolutely adorable coming from a five-year-old girl’s mouth.

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Zero to Awkward in Three Seconds

It’s last call, and as the lights come up in the bar, I get the stupid notion to try to be profound.

“You know, I think if they sung the Carmina Burana in English, it wouldn’t be as cool,” I say.

“I think Melanie makes me do her in the ass just so she doesn’t have to look at me while we fuck,” says Anonymous Doug.

*blink* *blink*

“Who is Melanie?” I ask.

“I don’t even think she knows who she truly is,” says Anonymous Doug.

“Well, whoever she is, she’s shallow and likes anal,” I say.

“And she cries when she comes too,” says Anonymous Doug. “They ain’t happy tears either. It’s like a family member died or something. No idea what that’s about.”

*blink* *blink*

Well, this evening has taken a turn for the… well, I’m not sure what to call it but it scares me.

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Forty ounces of denounce

I remember when Tina the Lesbian wanted to run for a spot on the local Gay and Lesbian Advocacy Board, and I was her campaign manager. It was shaping up to be a tough race, and her opponent had the edge in the polls.

“I think I know what the problem is,” I say. “It’s because you have a heterosexual sister.”

“I’m losing because of Jennifer the Straight?” says Tina the Lesbian.

“You’re going to have to denounce her and her straight ways if you want to stand a chance in this gay election,” I say.

“She doesn’t even live in this town,” says Tina the Lesbian. “What does she have to do with anything? Why do I have to denounce her?”

“Hmm… you may be right,” I say. “Denouncing isn’t enough. You’ll have to renounce her too, just to create enough distance between you and Jennifer the Straight.”

“I’m not renouncing or denouncing or any ouncing my sister,” says Tina the Lesbian. “She’s irrelevant to this election and the position I’m running for.”

“Irrelevant, eh?” I say. “Ho boy… now you’re going to have kick your sister in the vagina just to stand a chance. And I mean hard too. Like she has to fall down and stay down for a while.”

We learned a valuable lesson that day: if you’re not willing to drop your sister with a vulva-shaking boot to the crotch, you can’t win any election in America.

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It’s just another Sunday in May to some people

So I’m in the local liquor store replenishing my stockpile when I see Samurai Cathy in one of the aisles, trying to decide on what brand of sake to purchase.

“Hi Samurai Cathy,” I say. “They let you bring your sword in here?”

“I don’t see why they wouldn’t,” says Samurai Cathy. “It’s not like I’m drinking in the store.”

“True, true,” I say. “So how did you spend Mothers’ Day?”

Samurai Cathy’s face becomes grim. “My parents have been dead for a while.”

“Ooh… awkward…” I say. “Did Ninja Vicki kill them? Is that’s why you hate her?”

“No, no, they died in a freak boating accident,” says Samurai Cathy. “If Victoria had killed them, she’d be reminding me of that on an hourly basis.”

“If they had died on Lake Victoria, that would be freaky,” I say. “But sorry about your folks.”

“Well, I kind of invited it on myself, being a samurai,” says Samurai Cathy. “See, studies have shown that parents of samurai tend not to live very long, even if they are samurai themselves. I’m just glad they died in an accident. Most parents of samurai are killed by rival clans, or ninjas, or unholy demons.”

“Yeah, why is that?” I say. “You never see a grown-up samurai whose parents are still alive.”

“I wish I knew those statistics before I devoted my life to being a samurai,” says Samurai Cathy. “Not that I would have done things differently. It just would have made that first Christmas alone a little easier to take.”

“Or maybe your parents would have tried to steer you toward a less hazardous lifestyle, like being a dragoon or a knight,” I say.

“Maybe indeed,” says Samurai Cathy. “So, how did you spend Mothers’ Day?”

“Drunk in my basement,” I say. “I have no mother or father. I was grown in a lab.”

“Mikka says you have parents, and they live in the next town over,” says Samurai Cathy. “And that they’re very nice people.”

“Mikka is a god damn liar who needs to shut the fuck up!” I yell, losing my shit in the liquor store, again. Samurai Cathy is obviously surprised by this outburst. I catch myself and calm down. “Whoa… where did that come from? Sorry about that. I should just buy my 20-gallon drum of vodka and be off.”

Sometimes the topic of family is a rough one…

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Precious Encouragements 05/11/08

“Like my old grand daddy used to say, ‘The less a man makes declarative statements, the less apt he is to look foolish in retrospect.’” -Quentin Tarantino’s character in the movie “Four Rooms”

This has been your Precious Encouragement of the Week. Making many declarative statements because we don’t care if we look foolish in retrospect.

Tag Larkin’s Video Jukebox 05/10/08

Tag Larkin will let you smell his dick.

I will not be ignored, Simon and Schuster!

Still no nibbles on our idea for a book about our new hot Internet craze of Political Pundits Who Look Like Child Molesters. Of course, our strategy of just sitting around doing nothing and waiting for the phone ring probably isn’t the best course of action, but it is the easiest and doesn’t require me to leave the couch.

But maybe there’s something holding those publishing companies back. Maybe they don’t trust my gut when it comes to sniffing out pedophile-looking pundits. Maybe they’re worried that I’m just going say that all political pundits look like child molesters. So I’m going to show them otherwise.

First, let’s look at ABC’s George Stephanopoulos…

Clearly he does not look like a child molester. He looks like a date rapist, straight out of one of those Lifetime for Women movies. Keep an eye on your drinks, ladies.

Next we take a gander at Vanity Fair writer Christopher Hitchens…

He looks like a molester all right, but not of children. We take him to look more like that drunk guy at the bar who shamelessly and clumsily gropes women as they order drinks. Or perhaps he looks more like the guy on the crowded subway train who grinds against women while everyone is in close quarters. We’re flexible here.

Finally, we have New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd…

She looks more like one those high school teachers that ends up sleeping with one of her students. That doesn’t make her a traditional child molester, but it does get her registered as a sex offender.

See… there’s a method to this.

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She fights crime and unreasonable fashion expectations

Crimson Paraplegic has foiled yet another of supervillain ChiroRaptor’s evil plots to destroy the State Medical Board for banning man/dinosaur hybrids like him from being licensed chiropractors. Apparently being covered in scales and having hooked claws renders someone not in good standing with the medical community.

Anyway, the battle to defeat ChiroRaptor and his nefarious Sublux Capacitor Machine ended with Crimson Paraplegic being victorious. She locks him up in a metal Jurassic Park crate and waits for the proper authorities to come pick him up and take him to Federal Super Prison. This gives them time to chat.

“You know, you’re a lot different than the superheroines I’ve fought against before,” says ChiroRaptor from inside the crate. He sounds very articulate for a man with a velociraptor head.

“Well how many other superheroines are there that are paraplegics?” says Crimson Paraplegic.

“No, I mean how you look,” says ChiroRaptor. “You’re rather modestly dressed. You don’t show off your midriff, your ass and legs are covered, and you don’t sport any cleavage either.”

“A lot of superheroines are like that,” says Crimson Paraplegic. “The female X-Men, Batgirl… they don’t show off anything.”

“Wonder Woman shows off a lot,” says ChiroRaptor. “And she’s the most powerful superheroine there is.”

“Well bolly for her,” says Crimson Paraplegic. “Outfits are a personal decision for each superheroine, and we don’t dress up for anyone’s pleasure.”

“Do you have a summer outfit?” says ChiroRaptor. “Like shorts or a skirt?”

“Why would I wear shorts? I can’t feel my legs!” says Crimson Paraplegic.

“Maybe a tanktop for the warmer months?”

Crimson Paraplegic groans. “No, I wear this outfit all year long.”

“I think you could totally show off your midriff,” says ChiroRaptor.

“What does that have to do with fighting crime?” says Crimson Paraplegic. “What would showing off my belly possibly do, aside from placating your male sense of perversion?”

“I’m just saying, if you wanted to, you could pull it off,” says ChiroRaptor.

“No, you’re not just saying,” says Crimson Paraplegic. “You’re dancing around the fact that you really wanted to be apprehended by a scantily-clad superheroine. Don’t deny it.”

“Okay, I’ll admit I’m a little disappointed,” says ChiroRaptor. “Last time I was caught, it was by Radiant Gale. And I’ll tell you, she really lives up to that name. Have you ever seen her outfit?”

“Yes…” Crimson Paraplegic sighs. Radiant Gale super powers are her ability to summon tornadoes and hurricanes, as well as her ability to fit into her mind-bogglingly skimpy costume and not have her breasts pop out while in battle.

“Not that I wasn’t impressed with her wind powers,” ChiroRaptor continues, “but God damn if that wasn’t the hottest outfit I’ve ever seen. I didn’t mind getting foiled by her one bit.”

“So you’re not only a supervillain, you’re also an objectifying douchebag,” says Crimson Paraplegic. “I really should have broken your jaw.”

“Did you really expect a supervillain to be progressive-minded about women?” says ChiroRaptor. “I have half a lizard brain for Christ’s sake.”

The world of superheroism and supervillany is not a very enlightened one.

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I don’t think Panasonic makes a veneral disease

“So the girl I’m banging tells me the other day she’s got HPV,” says Anonymous Doug.

“Really?” I say.

“Yeah, I was surprised,” says Anonymous Doug. “I didn’t think she could afford a flatscreen.”

*blink* *blink*

“Doug, she’s not talking about a television,” I say. “She’s talking about an STD.”

“Oh…” says Anonymous Doug. “Well, then I’m definitely not watching football over at her apartment now.”

At least she won’t remember who she got it from.

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Tag Larkin doesn’t sell out to The Man

Tag Larkin doesn’t sell out to The Man.

In his youth, Tag Larkin was in a rock band called Pubis Monstrosity and one day an agent from a record company wanted to sign them to a deal. But instead of accepting the deal, Tag Larkin broke up the band, burned all their equipment, and never played the keytar again.

Tag Larkin doesn’t sell out to The Man.

At his job at the fast-food chicken place Chickensian Dystopia, Tag Larkin’s manager approached him about maybe becoming a night-shift manager. But instead of accepting this chance to make more money and advance his career, Tag Larkin beat his manager unconscious with a box of frozen french fries.

Tag Larkin doesn’t sell out to The Man.

One time the cops came to Tag Larkin’s door to ask him about a recent murder in his neighborhood. Tag Larkin refused to talk and the cops dragged him down to the station as a suspect, where all Tag Larkin would say was that he’d never tell the cops anything. Then the cops found out that Tag Larkin had been out of town visiting his sister when the murder happened and they had to let him go. But for those 48 hours in that interrogation room, Tag Larkin kept his promise and told the cops nothing about the nothing he never saw, just to keep no one safe.

Because Tag Larkin doesn’t sell out to The Man. The Man buys from Tag Larkin.

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