Of cocks and honor.

Rooster Art, original oil painting by Debra Hurd

Rooster Art, original oil painting by Debra Hurd

I know nothing about guns except that I should get one. My father owned a few guns and used to stash them around the house in the hollow spaces between the decorative wood panelings and the actual wall. He would go shooting at least once a month. He would use them to kill chickens in his farm and the endangered carnivore birds that hunted his chickens (see: guaraguao). If I was a chicken, I would have serious mixed feelings about my father’s gun usage.

My dad only killed chickens for food or to settle chicken disputes. Chickens can get out of hand, especially when they raise little cocks. We ate the eggs for the most part, but sometimes he would let some hatch to maintain the population. I’d say, from a batch of 6-8 eggs, only one would be male. This is when chicken drama ensues.

I hate cock fights in the sport sense. But when you see one how nature intended it to be, oh, it is quite a scene. Even the chickens gather around to watch the spectacle. You know one of them will win and bathe in honor and glory. The sexiest chickens will become the winner’s groupies. The loser would be humiliated and forever remain an unfuckable outcast with his feathers all jacked up as if he just got done with his 4th round of chemo, and with an incurable limp that screams of weakness and defeat. Cocks take their feathers very seriously as they are very shiny and add fullness- makes them look bigger and dignified. For a cock, having a prominent tail is the equivalent of a king’s crown… or a Lacoste polo for the douchebags.

Usually the loser cock will follow the order of things and simply find new territory and new chickens who didn’t witness his ass-whopping. But sometimes the humiliated cock will just not give up. He dreams of vengeance. He plots his attack. He lusts after the winning cock’s groupies. He starts to spread rumors about winning cock’s sexuality. He goes on a marihuana plant diet to cope with the disgrace. I’ve heard of cases in which the loser cock bartered eggs with rats in exchange for coca leaves. (Rats are notorious for having excellent coca leaf hook-ups.)

The rumors, the drug abuse, the missing eggs, it all adds up. The tension in the coop is detrimental to the chickens. So in an effort to maintain a high quality of life for those chickens my dad does the most humane thing possible: delicious rooster stew.

I bet the winning cock felt a great sense of respect and loyalty for my father when he took care of that dick. I bet this act further validated the winning cock’s supremacy and made the groupies all wet. Everyone is a winner.

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Classy snatch

6a00e54f8eb1d488330120a6410bb4970c-piI thought the interview was over. I was feeling like a champ. I nailed this!
Then the guy in the corner goes: “Clearly you’re brilliant and you have a lot to offer. But I feel you are too poised and elegant for this position. You are, high-maintenance, and I do not think you will be happy here.”

My immediate thought was “..dis mo’fucka”.

I should have conference called my Vegas friends. Hearing someone say I am too classy for anything would have been the most hysterical thing they hear all year. These are the people that saw me dunking myself though a basketball hoop, head first. The same ones I have gone in a 4 day camping trip in which no one showered, not because there were no showers, but because we just didn’t feel like doing it. The same ones I have woken up next to on the floor of a living room so destroyed, even the owner himself thought he was at someone else’s place.

I have been soaked in some else’s diarrhea, peed in someone’s shampoo, smeared dog shit on windshields, eaten tequila worms, chased by cops, stole from a blind dude (who was an asshole), paid a junkie to beat up a girl I didn’t like, and worse… eaten candy corn, TWICE!

And this guy, this talking snatch with testis, is telling me I am too high class for his non-profit.

“Two weeks ago my dog ran outside. Iw as expecting him to make me chase him, but instead he stopped just a few feet away from our porch and appeared to be smelling something on the grass. As I approached him I see he is interested in something pink. He is licking it and eating it. I realize this is my vomit from 2 days before when I got food poisoning from eating half a dozen of bad oysters. Apparently when my ex husband tried to help me, he took the bucket of vomit and emptied it there. I yelled and screamed at the dog. The dog wouldn’t stop eating it. I ran inside and grabbed a broom, mind you… I have no shoes on. I start hitting the dog with the broom. He is faster than me so he ducks, and in the time it takes me to recharge, the dog takes more bites of the putrified vomit. I accidentally step on it, the stench is so vile I gag. I have to step away from this hellish scene. I start puking. The dog runs over to me and gets puke on his head and begins to eat my fresh vomit off the ground. I managed to grab him by his collar while I continue to gag and throw up. I tie him up to the tree and run inside to take a shower. After my shower I hose down the dog. As disgusting as this was, I didn’t think it was shocking enough to tell anyone, so I never did, until now.” -that is what I should have replied.

Instead, I proved him right by replying “I beg to differ.” Shook hands. Thanked them for their time. Left.

Most traffic tickets in one day.

Lost-Traffic-Ticket-in-Mississippi-1442-rI was doing 78 in a 60 when the cop flashed his lights. I think there may have been some sound accompanying those lights but I was blaring EDM so loud I couldn’t hear myself think. If I don’t play deafening music… I start talking to myself.

I look to my passenger seat and I see the following items: flask, vibrator, two invalid IDs with my name and two found (not stolen) extra ones, envelope with cash, bottle of prescription meds, and platform high heels. On the floor there is at least 5 shirts, a wig, and some McDonalds bags. I actually live an honest life, everything in this car has an explanation, but  I wouldn’t believe it myself.

I pull over to the side of the road as far to the left as I can. The idea is that the officer has to come talk to me through the passenger window. I always do this as safety precaution in case I forgot I was drinking earlier.

I start hiding as much as I can under the seats. I find that empty beer bottles, glow sticks and a can of something called Brain ToniQ occupy this space. Jesus Fuck.. I take my coat off and just throw it on top of all this chaos.

Officer asks me for the basics, I can’t find my registration.
“You were doing 78. You flew past me, did you see me?” he asks.
“Yeah I saw you” I say point blank. His face is pale with what seems to be disgust.
“Kidding! Of course I didn’t see you! I had no idea I was going so fast.” I reply.
“Is there a reason why you were going to fast?”
“I thought I was being followed. Turns out I was, by you”
“Ma’am, everything you say is under surveillance”
“Sorry, I was just kidding. No I had no reason to be speeding”

I know my license is suspended in Nevada. I know that I have a bench warrant for my arrest in Arizona. It looks like I am wrecking havoc across state lines and making a run for the border. If I was a police officer, I would go out of my way to detain this lady- clearly she is up to no fucking good.

The officer comes back and informs me of my bench warrant and my suspended license. He tells me that aside from speeding I have committed no crimes in Washington and he will let me go with a fine. This is America, truly the land of the free. My tickets amount to $697.

Later that evening I parked in yellow areas and racked $97 in more traffic violations.

I need to make some changes.

Instead of speeding I am going to dumpster dive for a car seat, get a baby doll, place the seat rear-facing, and drive in the carpool lane. That should help.

Prelude to sex at a mediocre bar.

tumblr_mbahg8kCHs1qze58so1_500He took off his coat and flexed his arm like a peacock fluffs its tail. He watched me order a panzanella salad. He listened as I politely conversed with the bartender about the weather and architecture of the city.

The building across the street is covered in glass windows and stands as a multi level parking garage. Surprisingly, despite its fine and intricate architectural design the place has always served as a parking garage. Now for well over 35 years.

I notice the drunk old lady at the end of the bar neglect her foreign date for a more Americanized lad. When the bartender struck up a conversation with the lad about a fancy new restaurant on the waterfront, the lady made it a point to state how much she loved the new place and their wine. Oblivious to the fact that the current bar we are sitting in is more wine-minded than the fancy new bar. And this is an irish bar. All she wanted was her drinks paid for, all she got was a polite nod from the bartender.

I can tell the peacock guy is an asshole. The kind of asshole that orders a rum and come just because he wants a lime. The kind of asshole that talks about his vacation with Sammy Sosa and offers me trip to meet the governor of my own state. The asshole that is well educated, connected, and seeks a woman much younger than him to bear him the children he didn’t want to commit to throughout his younger glory days. But I know that men who seek a younger woman do not go after her youth, but their own, and I am disposable as soon as my own glory days are over.

The Host

alien ultrasoundHaving an alien creature busting through your frontal torso is a genuine concern during pregnancy. At least for me it was. Because lets be honest, we don’t really know what is invading our bodies. We trust the doctor that it is a tiny human- but how well do we know this doctor? Exactly. The alien race are notoriously sophisticated, strategic, and very advanced. You would think that if they are going to leave seedlings in human women, they would ensure full term pregnancies by eliminating the possibility of blowing their cover with a run-of-the-mill doctor in Wichita, Kansas. If they can travel through space, Im confident they can place a convincing decoy or at the very least bribe a doctor and an ultrasound specialist.

The so-called miracle of life is disgusting and I am not just referring to the moment when women shit out a blob of squealing mass, bloody water, and miscellaneous innards. Im talking about the creature itself. For 38 to 42 weeks women create this growth, this mass of flesh inside their bodies. They bake a human being and sometimes even 5 at a time. There is a meat pocket called ‘womb’ that houses this thing that has arms, legs and sometimes even teeth. There is some awe amidst all the repulsiveness. We still do not fully understand how life starts or how exactly the brain operates, yet women have been making this since the beginning of humanity. Literally. One day you are walking down the street or arguing with a store clerk and -POOF- a second heartbeat. Soon enough there are two sets of brains thinking, dreaming, hoping, and plotting.

Another thing that happens that is beyond cool and I wish men could experience: super powers. When I was stricken with pregnancy, my senses were on steroids. I could hear things no one could, I could smell people in the other room. Even from my peripheral vision I could see spider webs in the distance.  Tasting food was so bizarre. Foods I didn’t care for became the most amazing things I have ever tasted. Satisfying a craving was like a drug. But the downside to that is that if I had a craving I couldn’t satisfy, everything else tasted like shit. It was like starving for ONE thing only. I couldn’t help but to appear to be bonkers- just utterly insane. And I am supposed to believe this is all normal ‘human’ behavior and experiences. Ha! These aliens are very clever.

The creature in your belly moves from time to time. You can feel where the skull and the spine is. Sometimes the skull is at 1 PM, sometimes its at 9PM.. this thing moves all over the place. The creature stretches its limbs and kicks/punches you, especially when you put pressure on it. If you lay down face-up to watch TV and put a bowl on popcorn on your swollen stomach, the creature will kick the bowl to the floor.

In the lasts months your body fights back. When the creature moves too much, your womb contracts… so much so you can see an outline of the creature. Imagine that- being already uncomfortable in a sleeping bag and the sleeping bag squishes you so hard that it doesn’t allow you to stretch out your muscles, on the contrary, forces you to contract them even more. Geez, that sounds like something out of an American-ran Iraqi prison. (I must clarify that the contractions are painless and their purpose is for the baby to stay head down). This unsightly sight, being able to see the shape of the creature, further fuels the alien paranoia because NO ONE EVER TALKS ABOUT BEING ABLE TO SEE THE BABY WHILE STILL INSIDE YOUR BELLY SO IT CATCHES YOU BY COMPLETE SURPRISE.

From a male stand point, it it pretty fucking weird. From a female standpoint, it is bizarre and unnatural. Yes, unnatural. As if all of the aforementioned bizarre shit wasn’t alarming enough, during the 7th month your belly is so big you can’t help but to freak out: this is now the biggest part of your body and what fills it has to come out, and it can only come out one way. It’s like everything you ate for the last 40 weeks has been stored and compacted in your stomach and you have to take a MASSIVE shit. The miracle of life. Mother nature is one sick cunt.

Apparently the term ‘expecting’ had a different meaning for me than for most women. There was not a lot of women inquiring on message boards “How long is an alien pregnancy?”, “How do I know I was inseminated by a space monster?”, “Which bars do aliens frequent?”. So while most women are ‘expecting’ a child, I was expecting that or that some amphibian may claw its way out of my belly while I was waiting in line at Toys R’ Us. I had a lot more questions along the lines of intergalactic parental visitation, child support, and homeschooling, but if I couldn’t find answers to the basics I knew I wasn’t going to find those answers either.

I read somewhere that, in relation to the mother, human babies are the largest infants at birth in the animal kingdom. I think this got out of hand at some point in the past and we failed to address it. I mean, polar bears have a baby so tiny they don’t even know they had a baby. If there were no c-sections childbearing would be the #1 killer of women. I am an example of that. I grew a baby so big it just simply couldn’t come out. And I am not trying to flatter myself here as having a small vagina- the size of it it’s irrelevant so let’s say I have the biggest one ever. So big it whistles with the wind. But my hip bones are childlike. At some point during the 8th month the thought of delivering an outer-space reptilian wasn’t as terrifying as delivering a cunt-crushing human.

I don’t know if I instinctively just knew, but I never had a doubt in my mind that I was not capable of pushing it out. Hell, twice before I needed assistance while taking a bigger-than-average shit. Forget about an 9 pound creature that cannot be taken out in segments and assembled outside. Add to the horror that maybe this thing is not from Earth and may kill everyone in the operating room but spare me so I can witness what a monstrosity it is and how it annihilates my home, Earth.

Throughout the pregnancy I developed this irrational bond and commitment to the creature that never ceased, even after delivery. I started thinking of myself in a third person: “I must care for the baby’s mother because the baby needs her”. The urge to care, protect, and love this thing was primal. I became the woman I hate in horror movies.

Once the creature came out of me, and I verified that it was of human nature, I was relieved. But then I had one extra concern that would stay with me forever. What if the baby was the anti-Christ? To my relief, I am not a lone on this one. According to google a lot of people out there share this concern. BUT, let it be known, if my kid ever says to me “Take me to your leader” my only hesitation would be in figuring it out if its the President or Kim Kardashian.

I want to do everything.

Me? I’d like to be a modern day Renaissance ‘man’.

Learn extensively. Dedicate, easily, 40 years (not necessarily consecutively) of my life to learning: Geology, Carpentry, Philosophy, Anthropology, Aerospace engineering, Culinary arts, Zoology, Ecology, Genetics, Theater, Warfare, Botany, Sailing, Mining, Biochemistry, Neuroscience, Public Service, Marine biology… the list goes on.

Travel extensively. Whether education driven, or actually performing the work. Learn the language, observe the local customs, eat their food, drink their poison, fight their battles, mourn their losses, rejoice in their accomplishments.

Write extensively. Live to tell the stories.

Come take a dive with me.

Screen Shot 2013-01-02 at 9.47.15 PMI sit in the back corner facing the entire dive bar as I mindlessly play with my pearl necklace and smoke a cigarette. I order the usual, cheap beer and whiskey. My Choo heels keep slipping off the bar’s foot rest because the damned thing is covered in grease and god-knows what else. The only reason why the two construction workers sitting across from me probably do not think I am a hooker is because they have seen me here countless of times before with friends, or all alone- never picking up ‘clients’.

I look at my phone, it is 7:30 PM. I have a date with the CFO of a hotel chain in Las Vegas at an upscale jazz bar in one of his hotels at 8pm. I should be excited. He is sharp, clever, assertive, divorced, and has good taste. But he is my exact height and that is a major turn-off. I intentionally wore 4 inch heels so I can look down on him. He will have to find a way to compensate and I’m kind of looking forward to that.

Two hours ago I sat through a fashion show benefit for a cancer foundation in the company of my boss, some investors, and their wives. Why couldn’t a single investor be a female? What is there about investing that women just leave it up to men? This baffles me. All you need is a bank account, trusted advisors, and a passion for anything- really, just about anything. They already go to the networking events, they have the contacts, they are present during important insider conversations, yet none of them partakes on anything. I had one of them tell me the story of how she suffered a miscarriage just a few months ago. I thought she was joking. For one, she is telling something so personal to a complete stranger, and secondly, her face was so frozen with botox that her expression was not of sadness but one of mild surprise. I realized it wasn’t a joke when tears came out of her smiling eyes.

I agreed to attend the after-party event but I didn’t mean it. I couldn’t bear another hour of that. I rather sit here, right next to the hot dog warmer, and strike up a conversation about unions with an off-duty taxi cab driver.

Dive bars have a special place in my heart. These places are devoid of the formalities and the frou-frou you find at the swanky lounges. No one here  is above anything. Here even the drinks are honest, none of that myriad of unheard of spirits in a single cocktail. I once went to a bar where the American bartender (probably from Florida) refused to say “rose water”. He insisted in saying to the  American patrons “eau de rosè”. I was asked to leave the bar when I exclaimed “You mean rosewater you pompous ass?” In my defense, he was a condescending prick when he explained the list of ingredients really fast, implying ‘why do you even bother to ask,  gentile?’.

The people that frequent these places have stories worthy of attention. I do not want to hear about your time at Cornell, about the structured upbringing your parents master-engineered for you, about how you have not lost any points in your license, or about your donation to your presidential candidate. I want to hear about that time you jumped a fence you weren’t supposed to jump, about that band you had years ago, about your experience with acid, or that crazy sex you had with the even crazier ex.

If you come to this bar, you are not afraid of failing at something. You appreciate ardent, at times uneducated, but yet sincere debate. You value the pursuit of self-awareness and unmasked truth at a much higher degree than the pursuit of socio-economical status. And then there are the few that cherish all that but only come to this bar for a moment, they cannot stay.  The ones that will share a bench with a homeless girl, and an hour later a cigar with a seasoned venture capitalist. The ones that come, blend in, and leave because they have another place to come in, blend in, and leave.

Despite all the cheap liquor, this is not the type of place you come to escape demons. This is the type of place you come to embrace them.

I hand the bartender $4 for my drinks, and that includes tip.