Sunday, November 30, 2014

More 'Emotional Support Negro'.

I awoke one morning to the sound of my Emotional Support Negro sobbing. This gave me quite a scare, as I had never seen him as anything but strong and in charge of his emotions. I asked him what was wrong, but he just wiped his eyes, sat erect, and said "Nothing's wrong."

Finally! A chance for ME to support my Emotional Support Negro: white people cry a lot, so I felt I had a lot to offer in this situation. I offered him a box of tissues, but he held up his hand.

"Don't need those, Little Bitch."

I knew he was speaking harshly to me as a defense mechanism: being white, I understand defense mechanisms, and as such I recognize that black people have them, too, even if they express them differently due to the variance in cultural upbringings.

"It's OK," I said gently, not wanting to jar his fragile state.

"I gotta take a piss," he replied, then got up and went down the hallway to do so.

While he was away I contemplated all of the myriad of emotional healing techniques that I have learned as an introspective white man, and decided that a direct approach would be appropriate, even though I'm not really good at the direct approach in general -- it is, after all, one of the reasons I have an Emotional Support Negro in the first place.

When my Emotional Support Negro returned from urinating I told him he needed to face whatever was affecting him, and it had to be done in a straightforward and timely manner, I wish I remembered the name of the book that advice was in.

"You wanna know what's bothering me?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied, "I do. Sincerely."

He kind of winced a little when I said "sincerely" but he then continued to talk.

"My brother just got a job."

"That's great!" I said, making a point to show encouragement at his emotional openness.

"Yeah. He got a job as a 'Emotional Support Negro'."

"That's wonderful!" I said, keeping up the spirit of encouragement and the freedom to speak safely.

"Yeah: he's gonna be a 'Emotional Support Negro' for a University Professor."

"That's fantastic!" I said, continuing to draw him out of the shell of his cultural upbringing.

"A black professor."


"A MAN black professor."

I did not know what to say, so I simply nodded my encouragement.

"Yeah, my brother is going to be a 'Emotional Support Negro' for a male black University professor. Of Gender Studies."

"I am sure he can be of a LOT of assistance," I said, nodding my head.

"You don't understand: white people are easy -- you just tell them what a person with a spine would do. But..."


"But a black brother with no spine: that's gonna be WORK."

I did not know what else to say, so I got us two Forties from the refrigerator. It is sometimes emotionally OK to drink together, quietly.

I am Laslo.

My Emotional Support Negro.

These stories are horrible, but not uncommon: I have heard many like them from my 'Emotional Support Negro.'

My 'Emotional Support Negro' helps me through the assorted traumas of everyday white living. If I see what I perceive as a threatening black youth approaching me on the street I consult with my 'Emotional Support Negro' on how I should properly handle the situation, emotionally.

I once spent a night in jail -- the arrest was, underneath it all, due to emotional issues that stemmed from my childhood, I don't want to get into it now, other than to say I don't have to forgive my Uncle if I don't want to, that is my emotional decision to make -- anyway: when I was in jail overnight three men threatened to gang-rape me. However, my 'Emotional Support Negro' told me to not be such a Pussy and to fight back, so I did, THEN they raped me. My 'Emotional Support Negro' was right: knowing that I had fought back made the rape hurt a little less, emotionally.

Sometimes late at night I am overwhelmed by feelings of shame over my privileges as a white man in America. Once, I asked my 'Emotional Support Negro' to spoon with me, just a little while, until the feelings subsided. He said "Don't be such a little Bitch' and went out to the living room to watch SportsCenter. It hurt a little at first, but then I realized my Emotional Support Negro' was right, emotionally. I am a work in progress.

I was in traffic at a red light behind a black man in a Lexus talking on his cell phone. The light turned green but he didn't seem to see it and didn't move. Maybe it was an important call, so I didn't want to honk the horn, honking the horn seems overly aggressive to me, so I waited but then the light turned red again.

When it returned to green the black man in the Lexus was still talking on the phone, so I tapped on the horn lightly and smiled, so if he looked in his mirror he would see that I was smiling, not angry, and that it was a 'friendly' little honk.

Well, he set down his phone, flipped me off, and then drove on his way. I thought I had successfully navigated the situation without resorting to unneeded aggression but my Emotional Support Negro said I was a 'little bitch' and that he was embarrassed to be my Emotional Support Negro sometimes. And he was right, emotionally: my Emotional Support Negro's feelings matter, too.

I hate it when this happens: I was in a crowded parking lot looking for a parking space when I saw a parked car's tail-lights light up. I patiently pulled to the side to give him room to back out, and turned on my turn-signal so everyone would understand that I was waiting for that spot.

Well, once he pulled out a black man in a Mazda zipped in, taking my spot. He probably didn't see me -- it happens -- so I started to move on to find another spot when my Emotional Support Negro called me a "Pussy Bitch." I didn't understand, but then my Emotional Support Negro said I was "Driving While White" and that the parking spot in question was OUR parking space.

I didn't see what it mattered now, but my Emotional Support Negro told me I needed to go back and challenge the black driver if I ever wanted any Respect in this world.

So: I got out of my car as the black driver got out of his, and I said "Maybe you didn't see me, but I was waiting for that spot." The black driver looked at me, laughed, and started walking.

"You just going to take that?" my Emotional Support Negro asked, so I realized I needed to do more so as to be emotionally honest with myself, my Emotional Support Negro was right about these things.

I followed the black driver a few steps and then tapped him on his shoulder: "That was my spot, I think."

He said "F**k You," which I thought was a little more aggressive than the circumstances warranted, but I stood my ground just like my Emotional Support Negro instructed me to, I stood my ground until the black driver punched me in the face and I feel to the pavement; I seem to recall a small child in a shopping cart, laughing at me.

After that everything was hazy, and we left the parking lot. My face hurt, but my Emotional Support Negro was right, emotionally: it felt good to stand up for what was right, even if the other guy was an oppressed minority.

"Bitch, you got a glass jaw," my Emotional Support Negro said, and we decided to go to McDonalds instead.

I was at a club downtown and went to the bar to buy more drinks for me and my date. When I returned to our seats there was a black man in my chair talking to her, with very aggressive body language. At least, I initially took it to be aggressive: I realized his cultural upbringing may be different than mine, and perhaps I was over-reacting.

However, my Emotional Support Negro said to me "Bitch, you can't let no man talk to your ho like that."

Now, I do not like the use of the term 'ho', but I realize that my Emotional Support Negro had a different cultural upbringing than mine also, so a difference in vernacular could be expected.

Anyway, with my Emotional Support Negro's encouragement I entered the conversation and introduced myself, but the black man acted as if I wasn't even there.

Of course, maybe that was part of why he talked so loud -- he could just be hard-of-hearing, but my Emotional Support Negro disagreed, called me a "Pussy" and so I interjected myself more forcefully.

This time the black man turned to me, laughed, then went back to talking to my date. My date seemed fearful, but that could've just been an aspect of her own racism coloring the encounter, this happens to white people.

I asked my Emotional Support Negro what I should do -- he must understand this situation with more cultural sensitivity than I possess -- and he suggested I hit the man over the head with a chair.

Now, I trust my Emotional Support Negro implicitly, but this certainly seemed wrong, emotionally. So I did it, I hit the black man over the head with the chair, but I took great caution to not hit too hard as to hurt him, after which he beat the shit out of me.

So -- anyway -- I ended up in jail again, and several guys threatened to gang-rape me, but I had learned my Emotional Support Negro's lesson from our last time in jail and I went in punching, and I think I landed a few strong blows before I was gang-raped.

And -- like before -- knowing that I had fought back made the rape hurt a little less, emotionally. Indeed, I think I made my Emotional Support Negro proud, which made me feel good, too, except for the sitting-down part.

I am Laslo.

Saturday, November 29, 2014

John Travolta and Dolphins.

I was at a Halloween party in the Eighties dressed as a dolphin and John Travolta wanted to have sex with me: I don't know if this was because I was a guy or because I was dressed as a dolphin. I nicely said 'no' and he was cool about it, he gave me a paperback copy of "Dianetics."

Later at the party Travolta got drunk, and he kept asking if he could put a finger in my blowhole.

It was embarrassing: he kept saying how he had put a finger in a dolphin's blowhole before, that I didn't know how good it feels, that when he put a finger in a dolphin's blowhole for the first time he was always "extra-gentle".

There are only so many ways of saying "Dude, stop touching my blowhole."

A friend of his came over to me later and apologized.

He said that when Travolta got drunk everything became about the blowhole.

Then he offered me money if I would just go ahead and have sex with John Travolta and let him touch my blowhole, just this one time. I guess you don't get to the Top in Hollywood without being persistent.

Travolta kept saying that putting a finger in a man's blowhole was no big deal in Hollywood, Celebrities in the Eighties did it all the time. To this day I still can no longer watch a Steve Gutenberg movie.

He just couldn't take 'No' for an answer. He offered to wear a dolphin costume, too, if that would make it more comfortable for me: we'd just be two guys wearing dolphin costumes and touching each other's blowholes.

I kept saying 'No' but then he got really angry: he said I was no f**kin' dolphin, I was just a "lowly tuna boy."

Then it was:

"Oh, little baby Tuna Boy, Chicken of the Sea"

followed by:

"Do you know how easy it is for me to get my Tuna Salad 'tossed' in This Town, Tuna Boy?"

and then he started crying, saying he would make it up to me, and did I want him to sign my new "Dianetics" paperback?

I don't know how much of this I can blame on Scientology.

I am Laslo.

A finger in the refried beans.

I once had some friends set me up on a blind date. Very pretty woman, nice dinner conversation, but a horrible blowjob. Did I blame my friends for the horrible blowjob? Damn right I did. Do your research, people.

If I were to go into the matchmaking business with a female client list my first step would be to have all the female clients practice their blowjob skills on me until they get it not just 'good' but 'exceptional'. Practice makes perfect, etc.

I realize this may take some time but the results will be worth it, and I am patient. The women will realize that once they are known for their exceptional fellatio technique there will be a large group of men ready and waiting to go out on a date, and will even be willing to feign interest in conversation.

After they have honed their blowjob skills they will be taught how to make a great sandwich. Icing on the cake.

Of course -- as a matchmaker -- I won't just set the women up with any man who walks in the door. I will have carefully catalogued the men's interests and divide them into the following groups:

Those who prioritize a great blowjob over a great sandwich.

Those who prioritize a great sandwich over a great blowjob.

Those who consider themselves good either way.

Possibly gay men who haven't come to terms with their sexuality yet.

I will set the latter up with the women who just want a companion to go shopping with.

If, as a matchmaker, I WERE to take on male clients I would instruct all the men to commit to cunnilingus: goose, gander, etc.

Now -- of course -- I wouldn't expect them to have to practice or anything: my understanding is that they don't have to be any good at it, just doing it all is what matters.

If a man insisted on becoming better at cunnilingus -- ha ha, I know -- I would instruct him to go to a Mexican restaurant: all the basic techniques can be learned there:

Tickle the tomato in the taco.

Lick the sour cream from the end of the burrito.

Stretch the cheese in the enchilada.

Suckle the salsa with a finger in the refried beans.

Finally: for the absolutely remedial clients I will start them off easy, at a donut shop.

I am Laslo.

"Dad, I just landed a spacecraft on a comet."

Son: "Dad, I just landed a spacecraft on a comet."

Father: (pushing glasses down nose) "That's good, son."

Son: "Look at the shirt I'm going to wear at the press conference: isn't it cool?"

Father: (pushes glasses back up, resumes reading)

Son: "What? You don't like it?"

Father: (reading silently)

Son: "Well, it doesn't matter. I like it, and that's what's important."

Father: (reading silently)

Son: "I'm an adult now, I don't need your permission."

Father: (without looking up from book): "That's good, son."

Son: "This about the tattoos, isn't it? You never liked them. Mom said they make me look low class."

Father: (without looking up from book): "You can discuss that with your mother if you like. Again."

Son: "I don't NEED you to like them: they are a statement. They are a statement that I am making, and it is MY statement."

Father: (reading silently)

Son: "Whatever I do isn't good enough for you, is it dad? It's never good enough."

Father: (reading silently)

Son: "Fine. Fine. I'll go change my shirt! There -- you win! I'll be a good son and change my shirt so I don't embarrass you. That's what you want, right?"

Father: (without looking up from book): "It is your choice, son."

Son: "Dad?"

Father: (pushing glasses down nose) "Yes, son?"

Son: "What shirt should I wear?"

Father: (setting down book) "Something simple and classic, I would think. Maybe pale blue."

Son: "Okay..."

Father: (pushing glasses back up, resumes reading) "And long-sleeve, so it covers those tattoos."

I am Laslo.

You Complete My Collection of Skulls.

One Day
Someone is
Going to
Hug You So
Tight, That
You Can't Even
Breathe or
They Will Then
Have Sex with
Your Corpse
and Leave your
Body in a 
Shallow Grave
and it Will
Be Peaceful.

You Complete
My Collection
of Skulls.

Without You
I Am Nothing
Until I Find
Someone Who
Looks Like
And Then
I'll Make
Her Sorry
Like You
Should Be
It Will All Be
Your Fault

I Cannot
Stop Thinking
About You
Even Though I
Buried You
a Week Ago;
That Is Why I
Your Scalp.

Imagine a Man
So Focused on the Voices
In his Head
That the Only Reason
He Looked Up to
See You
Is Because the Voices Said
"That's Her"
And now You Are in
the Trunk of a Car.

My Love,
I Am Truly
I Did Not Mean
to Gouge Out
Your Eyes
Until After
You Were Dead.

When You Are
Feeling Alone
Remember That
You Are a Part of
That is Why
I Buried Pieces
of You
in Several Different

I Understand
That You Do Not
Want To See
Remember that
Anal Sex
Can Only Be
By the Living.

Out of
All of the
Women in the
I Chose You
Out of
All of the
Women I have
I Liked You
I Still Have
Your Underwear.

Just Because
You Left Me
Doesn't Mean That
I Have Left You:
One Day
You Will Have
a Flat Tire
And Need a
And I Will Be
The Only One

I am Sorry
I Did Not Follow
My Part of Our
Suicide Pact.
After Watching You
Thrash and
Foam and
I Decided
I Want to
I Know
You Would
Be Happy
for Me.

My Love for You
Is Overflowing
and That is Why
I Overflowed
with Your Sister.
I Have Accepted

I am Laslo.

I have an Emotional Support Stripper.

I would like an Emotional Support Stripper. Whenever the paranoia gets overwhelming she can take off her clothes and the people will then look at her instead. Stop looking at me.

My Emotional Support Stripper would dress like a Nurse: that makes it seem even more Medically-Approved and Official. But she would still have really big breasts, so: a Sexy Nurse. You know the kind.

My Emotional Support Stripper always draws extra attention from the TSA agents. If you are going to grope her like that you better put a dollar in her thong. There is a right way of doing things.

My Emotional Support Stripper gets tired of all the pilots asking her if she wants to see the "cockpit". Sometimes they DO let her fly the plane for a little bit, however. It is probably for the best that the passengers do not know this.

Just because My Emotional Support Stripper is heading to the plane's bathroom does NOT mean she is inviting you to the Mile High Club. Stay in your seats and adjust your tray's position for a little while.

My Emotional Support Stripper understands the gentle comfort of a Lap Dance. If you have never had a Lap Dance to the Beatles' "Let It Be" you probably won't understand.

My Emotional Support Stripper will occasionally dress like a Japanese Schoolgirl if I need the additional support. Because sometimes I think of Hiroshima and get depressed.

I am Laslo.

Failed experiment.

Ann Althouse said...
[Note to Laslo: I appreciate your creativity, but that one was a failed experiment.]

My Severed Emotional Support Head.

Don't look in the duffel bag. OK, look if you must: it is my Severed Emotional Support Head. I told you not to look.

Your Emotional Support Pig keeps snuffling around the duffel bag of my Severed Emotional Support Head: Please make it stop.

When the plane encounters turbulence I reach into the duffel bag and stroke the lustrous blonde hair of my Severed Emotional Support Head. I can practically hear her say to me: "Everything is going to be just fine." Sometimes the hair is brown. Once, red. Depends on who was around the airport before the flight.

I have removed all of the teeth from my Severed Emotional Support Head: it is more Emotionally Supporting that way. I am not sure why that is; I think I am just afraid of teeth since that event in childhood. I don't want to talk about it. You are NOT my Uncle, no you're not. Don't touch me.

Sometimes I gently cradle my Severed Emotional Support Head in my arms and sing to it softly during the flight.

"Sister Christian Oh, the time has come
And you know that you're the only one
To say, okay
Where you going
What you looking for
You know those boys
Don't want to play no more with you
It's true"

I find this song reassuring. Or I sob lightly. Emotions are tricky.

When I get to the chorus I can't help but cradle my Severed Emotional Support Head tighter.

"You're motoring
What's your price for flight
In finding mister right
You'll be alright tonight"

I feel like I am soaring. Sometimes I look around, expecting other people to be singing with me, but they don't. They don't even make eye contact. People, it's my Emotional Support Song: be respectful.

I am Laslo.

Friday, November 28, 2014

I have a stuffed bear named Tiger.

I have a stuffed bear named Tiger. I have had Tiger for forty years. When I have adult thoughts I push the adult thoughts into Tiger's head. Tiger has a lot of bad thoughts in his head, but he is still fun to play with most of the time.
Sometimes we play with Barbie dolls. Tiger, he always has me undress them, and then he makes me push two of them together. Push, push, push. After we push them together Tiger has me pull their arms off.
Tiger tells me that real women have these parts between their legs that Barbies don't. I don't want to know about that. Sometimes Tiger gets angry that I don't want to know about that, and he has me pull Barbie's legs off. We have a lot of Barbies with no arms or legs. We used to have a lot of legs and arms from Barbies, but Tiger has me bury those, he says that is what you do when you cut off a woman's arms and legs.
I have a pee-pee and Tiger doesn't. This makes Tiger angry. Tiger gets angry a lot, and says that women are whores. I don't know what a whore is. 
Sometimes we see a woman that Tiger really likes and he wants me to get her to go away with us. I don't know where we'd go, but Tiger says leave that up to him. He also says we would need a saw and a shovel. I don't understand Tiger sometimes.
I worry that Tiger will not go to Heaven with me. Tiger tells me there is no Heaven, and that makes me sad. If there is no Heaven then where is Grandma?
Tiger says that if there WAS a Heaven then we would want to strangle women so they go to Heaven faster. This also has something to do with whores, but I don't know what a whore is, I think I have said that already.
I worry that if Tiger dies all those thoughts would come back into MY head. I don't want to strangle whores and cut their arms and legs off.

Cinnamon Girl: a One Note Solo.

Remember that on Thanksgiving there are a lot of lonely young women out there, lonely young women who would be ever thankful for an emotional 'drumstick' during this holiday season. Some of them are in strip clubs.

I mean, it's Thanksgiving, you're wearing only a g-sting and dancing your professional best, yet all the men have one eye on the football game. Remember: when you are at the strip club today it is the stripper's Thanksgiving, too.

And, yes: the strippers on Thanksgiving have heard all the variations on "stuffing". "Breast Meat," too. Also: "thighs". And that thing about the temperature checker on the turkey popping out like a nipple. It is not their first naked Thanksgiving rodeo.

Bleak: being a stripper at a topless club at Thanksgiving.

Bleaker: being a stripper at an all-nude club on Thanksgiving.

Depressing: being the music DJ at a strip club on Thanksgiving. At least on Christmas there are an assortment of Christmas songs you can play for the strippers to grind to. Thanksgiving, though: no real good Thanksgiving songs. "Free Bird" is just too long a song for a pole dance -- by the end the poor stripper is reduced to playing topless air guitar. So: "Pour Some Sugar On Me." Again.

At the strip club there is always a stripper who took a year of ballet training when she was twelve, and so thinks she is better than everyone else.

If your child is taking ballet classes at age twelve remember that the odds are she is much more likely to end up a stripper rather than a ballet dancer.

And now you have to go to the strip club to share Thanksgiving with her.

And now Mom and Step-Dad are there at the strip club, and so the stripper ho took ballet classes at age twelve is self-conscious and timid, and as a result earns very little tips, so now she can't pay her share of this months rent. Plus, Step-Dad is watching a little too intently.

Anyway, now -- to make rent -- she has to consider giving a blow-job to that creepy guy who always brings her candy.

Sometimes there is never enough Listerine to wash away the taste of this Thanksgiving.

The creepy guy who brings her candy: this is now his best Thanksgiving ever. And now he will bring candy AND flowers every time she works. And leave love notes under the windshield-wiper of her old Volvo in the parking lot. This might even be the First Day of the Rest of His Life.

He has always known there is a Special Connection he shares with the stripper who took ballet lessons at age twelve, and now it has come True. All those weeks and months of secretly following her home to the apartment complex by the airport: he will not need to hide in the bushes any longer.

In fact, maybe he should be there, waiting for her to come home, with some Chinese take-out just for them. And candles. Must remember to bring candles. And not the birthday cake candles that have been in the kitchen drawer for the last seven years: real candles, the kind that smell of cinnamon and strawberries, women like those.

It is time to make Christmas plans. Unless she is Jewish. OK either way.

How did it go so wrong, so quickly? Just this afternoon he was getting a blow-job from his Special Connection Life-Mate, and now: well, now there is Chinese take-out and candles sitting on the roof of his car in the dark and the police are there and everyone at the apartment complex by the airport is standing outside their doors, watching, and it is just a misunderstanding, that's all: she was just TOO surprised, it will all be OK, everything will just be fine, there is no reason to bring jail into this.

I mean, I brought cinnamon candles and her stripper name is Cinnamon: how could that be misunderstood? It is not like I am some stranger: I have seen your vagina. Countless times. I could faithfully draw it from memory.

Indeed, I have drawn it, many times, in my special notebook where I keep track of all of her performances: what song was played, what color panties she wore before she took them off, the times she spent smiling directly at me and the amount of money I tipped, it is all there, in my special notebook.

Do not make me draw a red 'X' through your name in my special notebook. Seriously: don't make me do it.

There: I did it. I drew a red 'X' through your name in my special notebook. You are dead to me: I will never let you go.

Now the bouncers won't even let me into the club: I have even tried disguises, but to no avail. Cinnamon: she thinks she's so special, like taking ballet lessons at age twelve makes her better than everyone else. I have already seen your vagina, it is old news; I will find another. This isn't the only strip club in town.

I am sorry about the red 'X' through your name, I didn't mean it I swear, I was just angry, that's all. I have seen the other vaginas and they are NOT the same, I have seen Lola and Britney and Tiffany and Lexus and countless others, but they do not hold a cinnamon-scented candle to you, my Cinnamon. Remember our Thanksgiving, how Special that was? Please let me back in the club. Please.

Cinnamon, look at what you have made me do: I have woken up, hung-over and covered in my own urine and vomit, again. I have seen that man who goes into your apartment at night: I sincerely hope he is a friend of your room-mate. In fact, I think I will follow HIM and then I will let you know all the bad things he does and you will realize that I am the One who truly cares about you.

Your room-mate's friend is a bad, bad man. I am sure he will tell you that the older woman was his mother, but she is actually his whore, I know it. He cheats on you with an old ugly whore, but now you know the Truth. Don't worry: I slashed one of his tires. For You.

Cinnamon, what do I have to do to get you back? I had your name tattooed on my shoulder and you haven't even seen it. Don't make me hurt your room-mate.

Cinnamon, it was NOT my fault: sure, I pushed your room-mate, but SHE was the one who tripped and fell down the stairs.

I hope you come visit me here in jail, it would mean the World to me. Did I tell you I got raped here in jail? Well: I got raped here in jail. It's OK, though, I just thought about you the entire time and then it was over. I then tried to hang myself with my underwear, but that is a story for another time: I would like to tell it to you in person. Please come visit me.

No visits? I have endured rape and torment for you -- for YOU. Cinnamon: Thanks for Nothing.