Enlightening Nonsense

I have been accused of being a racist—which is totally not true. While I find blacks to be mentally inferior, I acknowledge that they are superior athletes. While I find Chinese to have small penises, I acknowledge them to excel in math. While I find Jews just plain annoying, I acknowledge that they’re great in matters involving money and plots to control the world. And regarding Dominicans, I don’t consider them human, so the fact that I think that every last one of them is scum is not racism—they’re not a race, they’re vermin.

Every single Dominican woman has at least three babies from different fathers by the time she is 23 years old. This doesn’t make her a bad person—just an irresponsible slut. Every Dominican man deals drugs, blasts music late at night and impregnates young 20-year olds without putting a ring on their fingers. This doesn’t make them bad, just people who I wouldn’t mind if a reincarnation of Hitler had a new “Final Solution” that involved eliminating these cockroaches.

So, needless to say, it was with great horror that I have found myself falling for a Dominican girl. Last week I had to turn in my membership card in to SPIC, Spanish People Is Cocks, which was apparently founded by a black person, as the grammar for the acronym is incorrect. I’m going to miss a lot of the comradery I shared with my fellow haters, as well as the annual Piñata event.

I had met Ace six years ago when she was an Ace of Clubs, a bit of a partier. She was dating some guy but it was clear that while she had been with him for sometime, that relationship was on its way out. This was way before my move to Washington Heights and subsequent hatred for all things Dominican. Heck, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a Dominican back then—I thought they were all just Puerto Ricans!

Ace and I spent a bunch of time together but she would never grant me even a kiss and it got to the point where my scientific mind realized that by the laws of syllogism: if AàB and BàC, therefore AàC, where “A” were a kiss and “B” was getting booby and “C” was intercourse, that there was no way I was going to be getting laid before I would be so old that my balls would be dragging on the floor like an ape’s knuckles.

Finally one final night we went to one of her haunts, the Rusty Nail, and after humping up against her ass on the dance floor for awhile I told her I was leaving and went home and never looked back. In one final thought about Ace, I went down on a Mexican hooker whose had filled her pussy with lettuce, tomato chunks, diced onions and some grated soy cheese in what she called “The Human Taco.” In all honesty, her “shell” was a little stale and I ended up having the runs.

While I have made it clear that if being a user of Facebook would classify you as a member of a particular race I would wholeheartedly call myself a Facebook racist [See “Sit On My Facebook” at http://rebelyogi.com/sit-on-my-facebook], that silly little social network, which is neither a face nor a book, has reconnected me with a few people who aren’t black or Chinese or Jewish or Dominican and that can’t be all bad.  I was on Facebook one night researching for a piece I was working on about “baby mamas,” searching for 20-year old Dominican girls who didn’t have three or more kids or was currently pregnant to interview (I didn’t find a single one) and I saw in my inbox a Friend Request from Ace.

It had been about six years since Ace and I had engaged in our torrid non-sexual affair where the only release I ever received was the release of any feeling in my numb blue balls. I had bumped into her on the street about two years ago and when I had found out it was her, my only regret that I didn’t bump into her harder. She said, “Email me!” but I didn’t. In truth I looked for her email address but couldn’t find it on my computer.

I wasn’t sure who this “Ace” was, thinking it might be a girl from the kickboxing school, but after looking through her Facebook page’s pictures, I figured out it was Old Blue Balls herself. I responded to her request in the affirmative and now we were Facebook friends, which is about as intimate as two Eskimos humping each other while wearing thick down jackets and snow pants. I wrote her some snide comment like, “I was hoping the first I saw your name was going to be an obituary announcement.” She ended up asking what I was doing that night. I said I didn’t have any plans and questioned what right this frigid bitch had for asking me anything about my personal life.

Well you have no right to ask me how I feel

You have no right to speak to me so kind

Some day I might (I might) find myself looking in your eyes

But for now, we’ll go on living separate lives

Yes for now, we’ll go on living separate lives

Separate lives

—Phil Collins

We ended up meeting in Bryant Park, which happened to be the place we spent all night of our first sexless night that led me to believe that eventually she would spread her legs for me and give me some “C”. When I saw her I thought she looked even better than the dumpy pig I saw on her Facebook page. I was like, “Shit negro, that’s all you had to say!” which was a line from Pulp Fiction which didn’t make much sense here but I neither did showing up to meet this ice princess. It was the first time she saw me with my short hair and she was like, “Shit negro!” too, which I was hoping was in reference to me having a big dick and not a propensity to steal.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OOvBgmZXs5Q

We spent the night talking and walking. I found out her office space was only a few blocks from the kickboxing school where I worked. I had to “conveniently” pick something up that I left at the kickboxing school, hoping to get her alone and force a kiss on her where “A” equals a kiss, “B” equals a shout of “No!” and “C” equals date rape.

We didn’t kiss behind closed doors…but did later out of doors. I was in my usual state of Prince charming, which means I looked like a midget pimp who wears purple and frilly shirts, and told her that I didn’t want to wait another six years in order to get to “C,” in this case “C” referring to “cunt,” as I thought my blue balls would turn black by then and fall off. She said she wouldn’t fuck me without an HIV test and so I turned in anger, picked up a dirty needle from the ground and injected myself in the buttocks and then injected my cock into the ass of some gay homeless man who had passed out with his pants around his ankles while taking a shit.

I had to move his body a little before plowing him, as the smell of his fresh log was putrid, and when I bent him over the dumpster I found the fresh smell of rotting sewage to be like a breath of fresh air. I discovered that Astroglide has nothing on diarrhea, as his ass was as lubed as a car after a pit stop at the Jiffy Lube. Subsequently I found out that the street lingo for lubricant among the homeless and heroine users is “Jiffy Lube.” Who’d have thunk it!

Video available at:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5N2TTgfvFc

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It’s been a few weeks and an HIV test later since I laid on the Prince charming and, needless to say, I have gotten to “C.” Ace has changed over the years, not in the way my last girlfriend, Ogre, changed into a monster, or the way my girlfriend before that, Ninja, changed into a man. She had changed from an Ace of Clubs to an Ace of Hearts. She was no longer a club whore who worked the clubs not just as an employee but also a virtual hooker but had been loyal to one guy for 4 ½ years and was no longer spreading her ass cheeks in the Studio 54 men’s room, or wherever you young hip kids party.

Which raises another issue. This guy who had illumined the path of virtuous one-person leg spreading for her is still living in her apartment. She is emotionally done with him and wants him to amscray but he is running the advertising for her business and while she doesn’t want to fuck him, she also doesn’t want him to fuck her.

One thing that I really appreciate about Ace is that she is very positive. Ogre would constantly be seeing the worst if not in me then in others. She would put-down others’ choice of clothes, restaurant’s food, and virtually anything I would say or do that didn’t have to do with a place where she could find discounted Botox. Ace is always happy to see me, even if her day is going crappy and is often a ray of sunshine is a cloudy existence I call “Life.”

In case anyone is thinking that I being unfair and taking a cheap shot at Ogre, I am not saying that I am Mister Sunshine myself. I can be somewhat of a Snow Miser myself. The problem when two Snow Misers get together is for awhile you enjoy snowing on everyone else but after awhile your icicles start stabbing at each other. You need a Heat Miser in each relationship in order to melt the ice knives that will otherwise become weapons of annihilation.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yon2YuXssvo

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But I don’t believe anything anymore that is just a belief, or rather, I don’t take it too seriously. I can’t be sure that I am not just Halo Effecting her and Ace of Hearts won’t become Ace of Ice (hip-speak for “diamonds”) once my balmy eyes melt away the fluff. Perhaps she will become Ace of Spades and start sleeping with black guys. In the meantime, I am enjoying playing my Ace of Hearts card and have come to one deep conclusion:

Relationships should be taken deadly serious—and also not serious at all.

If you don’t take it serious enough to put in some time to water it and put it on the sunny windowsill, it will die or malnourishment like a Starvin’ Marvin [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2MmX8r3fq6w]. If you overwater it and leave it blasting under the sun, it will either drown like Mary Jo Kopechne or dry up like a nun’s vagina. If you become attached to the idea that, “This one has to be THE one!” you will destroy it as well because everyone’s idea of “the One” is not some ball-busting bitch or some childish shenagling Chinaman and if you find yourself with a bitch or a Chink you are going to rebel and become a bitch or Chinaman yourself and no one wants to be with a bitch or a Chinaman.

You are like a child, the Universe is like your parent and the crappy relationship is like the spinach that, while it tastes like dirty soggy grass, your parent assures you it will somehow make you grow up into a big, strong Popeye, which apparently means into a squinting, toothless, pipe-smoker. If you trust in your parents, if the relationship is not the “one”—who cares? You will just live your life and enjoy the relationship while it lasts—both the joys and the sorrows—and go wherever the Universe carpools you. Just make sure to go to the bathroom before you get in the car so you don’t have to hear the endless droning of, “I asked before we left if anyone had to go to the bathroom!”

And if you live life this way, when it is at its end and you are lying in a hospital bed hooked up to a million tubes and monitors that not only drain your blood and spirit but all of the money you were going to leave your kids and grandkids, as your eyes start to roll up into your head and you shit your pants, you will have a smile on your face for loving not just a relationship but relating and not just the way your life turned out…but living.