Dear Coupon-Cutting Zimbabwean Missionaries,
While I defrost some leftover dinner (at least I hope it's dinner–if you readers ever decide to home-store your potential progeny in order to save a few bucks on fertility clinic fees, take some advice and label all the Tupperware very carefully) I thought I'd post an update to this hallowed tome. Or is it thy shallow tomb? As in grave? Incidentally, “shallow grave” could be a bilingual oxymoron if you happen to be Italian-American. Or a possible resting place if you piss off the wrong Italian-American. Profondamente grave. Capite?
For that little opening caveat you have my college foreign language credits to thank. A requirement most definitely and deeply satisfied by my Italian TA, whose name escapes me but who was from Phoenix and who was most definitely not Italian but most definitely was hot. Hottest TA I ever had, in fact.
(Okay. Literally that would have to be sickly Mr. Stickler who very possibly ran a 104 fever for six of the eight weeks of my Central Asian History summer course. He resembled a stocky Mongolian steppe horse and sweat as if just getting to class required a feigned retreat at full gallop. Students used to place bets on which of his brow beads would roll to his soaked shirt collar first. Double or nothing on whether he would faint before or after Russia was freed from the grip of the Golden horde. But I've digressed from my digression. Back to la bella non-Italian Italian T&A.)
First day of class she wore a bustier. Cleavage makes extemporaneous conjugation remarkably difficult. I think our class's view of the Tuscan hills may have been deliberate titular tactics on her part, though; meant to steel our concentration against distractions; no matter how firm and round and smooth and creamy white those distractions were. My, was she hot. Molto caldo. (Which sounds “cold” but it's “hot”. Well, “warm”, actually but who's counting.)
Now I don't want to give you the idea that I'm some sort of misogynist who objectifies women as no more than a sum of their sexual attributes. I see their mean too. Their sum divided by the number of parts. I won't date anyone more than three standard deviations from the norm and if I'm uncertain about my attraction I'll perform a Chi Squared analysis against my model, who happens to be Jennifer Connelly. I joke. But seriously, I viewed my Italian TA as a full, well-rounded human being –very well-rounded– with hopes and dreams and thoughts, in addition to a nice rack. And I definitely don't hold some male superiority complex, either. We were equals in my eyes; yes, her ass needed a little work but then so did my fluency with il passato prossimo.
Anyway, that was a long time ago. The only lingering influence of my undergraduate foreign language studies is that, after consulting my Italian-English Dictionary for errors in the above blathering inanity, I'm sure to set it on top of my unpaid electric bill thereby incurring the red-hot wrath of MidAmerican Energy, manifested in a fiscally eviscerating $0.96 late payment fee due next month. Curse you hot non-Italian Italian TA from Phoenix, Arizona –ed i tuoi bei pomodori!
Now where was I? Ah yes. Updates. September is here to stay so it's high time for: What I did on my summer vacation–An absurdist serial farce loosely based on actual fictionalized events. Installments to look out for over the next weeks include:
A Russian Invades the Iowa State Fair in which, you guessed it, I take a Russian to the Iowa State Fair where, during an argument over the latest Russo-Georgian conflict (“Saakashvili is just plain nuts!” informed Ms. G to which I flailed, “Oh yeah? Well Putin is a megalomaniacal, paranoid control-freak!”
“–with a vast nuclear arsenal so thank you for proving my point!” basked Ms. G.), in a fit of gestural emphasis said Russian accidentally signals the highest bid on a 400 pound Berkshire sow. One with a gimpy right rear leg no less.
Idaho? I dunno... describes the genesis of a team of competitive water tubers on a pristine lake in the state that's most famous for Hemingway's shock-treatment-induced shotgun suicide and senators with wide scatological stances. Reading about people eating potato chips on a pontoon boat has never been this exciting. Never.
Put Your Canoe on My Shoulders, tells the nature tale of star-crossed siblings and various significant others in their ill-fated quest to consume as much lake-water-reconstituted Tang™ and campfire curry as is humanly possible and then “recycle” a generous portion of it in a shallow hole in the woods just a few dozen feet from where it was eaten. Humanity reduced its most basic animal instincts. Without the sex.
In Lifetime's inevitable miniseries of this tragi-docu-info-sit-dramedy, the part of the future birth-defected son appearing in one of the campers' lucid dreams will some day be played to critical acclaim by a youngish Edward James Olmos, Jr. whose 100% DEET-induced webbed toes enables him, in 2020, to break Michael Phelps's current Olympic record of 113 golds. Sadly, the Sultan of Swimming won't be around to see his mantle passed on due to the upcoming tragedy of the 2016 Olympics when a geriatric Phelps will arrogantly and tragically insist on swimming a 200 meter butterfly qualifying heat while actually donning his accumulated medals.
God Consults an Agnostic imagines a brainstorming session during which a religious skeptic named Adam reluctantly advises God on how to boost membership and morale... for a fee. Here's a snippet:
GOD: (offscreen) Why don't you believe in me, Adam?
ADAM: I need proof. And not just some piddling thing like your image on a piece of burnt toast. Something definite. Something indisputable.
GOD: I don't get it. Over thousands of years, billions of people have believed in me –and many were smarter than you. A lot smarter. What makes you think you're so special?
ADAM: Special?! Hey, you're one to talk. Who was it that said, “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence?”
GOD: Um. I can't remember. It was either Clarence Darrow or Simon Cowell. I think.
ADAM: Well in my book taking credit for the creation of the universe calls for more proof than just healing a few lepers here and there. And to be honest, a good number of those faithful billions down through history also believed the Earth was flat or that the Sun went around it. Since then we've all come to our senses on those points because of indisputable scientific proof to the contrary.
GOD: Well, mostly all of us. Though I wouldn't bring that round Earth stuff up if your planning a campaign for Kansas State school board commissioner. Just a hunch. But now hold on. I work thousands of miracles every day. It's not always easy to get the credit you know. Especially from you proof pundits.
ADAM: With all due respect, let me give you a word of advice, God. Okay? If I may? Try for something bigger. Quality over quantity. You know? Mysteriously fixing Timmy's limp is all well and good but we can handle stuff like that now. Science has caught up to you in many ways. You know, in the old days you would protect the righteous and faithful by smiting down the armies of their enemies. Maybe you should get back to basics. We could really use some old school smite right about now.
GOD: Oh you're really something. Making biblical allusions to me. Obviously you didn't come to my book signing.
ADAM: And that's another thing. It might help membership if you'd update the bylaws a little more frequently. Maybe, like, a few new books each century. Or at least some cultural and historical content editing once in a while. I mean, we still got people stoning adulterers in your name. Is that what you want? And don't even get me started on your lax copyright enforcement.
GOD: Hey don't get snippy. I speak through prophets and leave the compilation up to you all.
ADAM: Well that may have worked three thousand years ago but in the age of mass media it's not a very efficient method. We got charlatans all over the place down here claiming that you "speak through them". I mean, have you listened to A.M. radio lately?
GOD: A.M.? Are you nuts? Do you have any idea how much static the ionosphere adds? No way. I'm a Sirius subscriber. Nothing compares to satellite radio. It's heaven. Just heaven. I heard every Red Sox game last season. But we're getting off topic and don't you charge by the hour?
A Herz mid-size rental car, low on oil and high on miles