I never thought I would come across someone with less of a sense of humor than Roach seemed to possess—or lack, however you want to view it. Roach was so dim-witted…(“How dim-witted was she?”) She was so dim-witted that after Robin Williams performed a private 3-hour stand-up comedy routine for her to not a single laugh he said, “Fuck this, I’m going back to cocaine!” [See “Lighten Up, Francis!” http://rebelyogi.com/lighten-up-francis]
But she would still laugh here and there, for instance, at an old classic like the following:
Two carrots walk into a Southern bar and sit down for a drink. “What’ll it be?” asks the bartender. “I’ll have a Black Russian,” said one carrot. The bartender said, “We don’t serve niggers.”
Mind you, she would like not because she was a card-carrying member of the raw food cult but because she was a racist. But as a man who disconnected his cable television and has only watched three television shows over the past three years, all of which are cartoons and two of which cross lines of tastelessness that would even have Wolfgang Puck say, “Dowse that dish with some friggin’ salt!” you can imagine that after I ran through my repertoire of vegetable jokes, I was pretty much done. “Um. How about those Yankees? Oh, you don’t watch baseball? Neither do I, I was just…Um. You wanna fuck?”
But at least I was aware that she was capable of laughing, that is, if one so happened to have the Holy Grail of a nigger, fag, Kike, Wop, Spic or Chink joke available. I can’t say I approved of her sense of humor. But, like most guys, I put up with it for the only raw food I like to eat—pussy. This is more than I can say for Spook.
I met Spook at the second annual Yoga & Raw Food Expo during the yoga class I taught. After class, a few of the class participants crowded around to listen to me share some extra words of wisdom; I think the topic was the benefits of gargling with piss. Spook was among the group to which I was trying to convince to let me give a golden shower to.
I remember one guy asked me the age-old, “What’s your real name?” and Spook came to my defense and said, “If he wants to go by ‘Swami X’ then that is what we should call him.” That comment and a sense of humor would have put me on one knee before her. Unfortunately, I was the only one bringing any humor to the relationship that never was and so the only bending I was doing that night was bending over a table for Bark Mecker, the old phogi I had to pretend to respect so that I could teach at the next expo. [See “Old Phogi” http://rebelyogi.com/old-phogi]
Spook signed my mailing list and I would periodically bump into her in Midtown going to work as I was coming back from my 8:00 a.m. client. We would generally share pleasantries and a quick ass grab and be on our merry way.
I should say that Spook is somewhat cute. She is a mix that contains Guyanese, English and a few meat by-products. So she looks kind of Indian and speaks with an English accent. Add to this a body that is pretty thin and a pair of relatively large breasts (which I never actually noticed but this was pointed out to me by Ninja when we bumped into her at the Westerly Health Food Store) and you have someone who is pretty fuckable by most guys’ standards. Who am I kidding, most guys live by the derogatory female golf analogy: “If she’s got a hole—FOUR!”
After I slayed the Ninja [See “Dead Ninja” http://rebelyogi.com/dead-ninja], I tapped my Rolodex, which I wear on my wrist so if anyone happens to ask what that big, awkward looking thing I am wearing is I can mumble with bravado that, “It’s a Rolodex!” I called up Spook, as well as a dozen or two girls whose vaginas had given me so much action that they could be squeezed dry at the local sperm bank for a small fortune. Spook wasn’t great at getting back to me but when she did I realized that I had more stimulating conversation talking to her answering machine than talking to the robot that pretended it was a human being.
Spook is one of those people who has an attitude like, “Life is just such a gift and I am always pleasantly blissful,” you know, the kind of person you’d like to hit across the side of the head with a shovel. I made an effort to suffer through my time on the other end of the phone, as sometimes when you finally get some of these doldrums into the bedroom they come alive, telling you how “And this one time, at band camp, I stuck a flute in my pussy.” [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYWQAg12Ko0] After a couple of conversations with Spook, I didn’t care if she shoved the whole Philharmonic Orchestra up her vag!
The first long conversation we had—and by “long” I mean the kind where you put the phone on speakerphone and let her ramble on as you check your email, take a piss, fix a snack, watch a television show, wack-off by mistake into your snack, eat it anyway, walk your dog and come back just in time to say, “Uh-huh,” and receive praise on what a good listener you are—involved her boring me to death with her raw food lifestyle, which she has been doing for nine years, and her current fast and the shape and texture of her bowel movements. I considered suggested anal sex to help keep her pipes flowing but at that point I was pointing a revolver at my head and flipping the barrel.
Spook told me how she broke her juice fast because she was feeling the need for comfort. In one final attempt to get some action, despite the fact that my dick had already packed it’s two bags and left for the Cayman Islands, I told her, “I could have given you comfort,” by which I meant a 14” cock between her legs. She responded, “Oh, you mean you’d have some words of wisdom for me?” I realized that she probably saw me as someone whose costume at the Yoga & Raw Food Expo was that of someone with “wisdom” and I saw her as someone who could be a decent piece of ass…and “ne’er the twain shall meet.”
Another conversation was going just as tediously, when I made a joke—probably the racist carrot joke above—and she had less of a reaction than the group of rigor mortis corpses I used to perform stand-up for during my graveyard shift at the morgue in between fucking them. We started talking about sense of humors, and while she knew what the term meant, she never actually took the time to develop one.
“I don’t have the need to go out to something like a stand-up comedy show or see a funny movie to force a laugh.” During my last recent bout with an overriding feeling of “What’s the point of anything?” I had committed myself to fast from engaging in anything controversial, as debates usually led to murder or the desire to commit such an act, and instead just wallow in self-pity and wish that the next shooting on my block would find me the lucky recipient of the bullet. [See “The Day i Died http://rebelyogi.com/the-day-i-died] But I couldn’t help myself. I mean, she was not insulting me, or my beloved guru Osho, or my loving companion Abandon, or my creativity. This was worse—she was insulting comedy!
“It’s not necessarily a ‘need’ like a junkie. Many just enjoy laughing. And I don’t think the phrase ‘force a laugh’ is really a fair representation.” Call my mother a cum-catching whore but don’t insult laughing on my watch! And for the record, as she’s gotten older and lost her agility, she doesn’t quite catch it the way she did in her youth, most now dripping down her face, at least that’s what happened with the last four loads I shot.
We got into a mild argument over this, where she seemed to react as if she were blindsided and that I was taking it personally—which I was, as I would sacrifice my life for comedy—thinking that she could diss on laughing and just move on without commentary, instead of it being a scene like when Rex Kramer dropped the N-bomb in the middle of a group of inner city brothers [Scene from “Kentucky Fried Movie” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uwk6r8TJD2U].
In our final phone conversation, the topic again came to comedy. I don’t know, maybe I brought it up. She asked me what I was up to. I said that I just came back from walking Abandon and was preparing her meal for her. “What else have you been up to?” I told her that I had been doing some writing. “What kind of writing?” Here’s where I steered the conversation back to the old topic of “Do you even know what a laugh is?”
“Nothing you’d like.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, one piece is for this magazine about financial freedom. And the last piece I posted was a silly one poking fun about women wearing high-heal shoes. I don’t think you’d find it too amusing.”
“I think you have me pegged wrong. I laugh,” she defended. And so I asked her,
“What exactly do you laugh about?” She told me that she laughs at life and doesn’t have to force it. I gripped my shovel firmly at her word choice. “Like what? Give me an example.”
“I don’t know, life…seeing children playing—I’m smiling right now.”
“But smiling is different from laughing. Have you ever just rolled on the fuckin’ floor with friends over something idiotic, like how you were going to go down on some woman who was in “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman” and her pussy smelled so bad and so for your buddies’ amusement you pantomime sticking a finger up her ass and wiping it under your nose to mask the smell as you dive in to that nasty stank and you’re all holding your stomachs and pissing your pants and gasping for air and thanking God for putting a pussy on this planet that smelled as toxic as burnt plastic?”
She said she didn’t have the “need” for this. That’s like someone saying they don’t have the need for love. Or food. Or a finger up the ass. It’s just preposterous! I told her that you could go to the most remote village on the planet where Bushmen communicate with clicks and pops from their mouth—and still they will belly laugh at something they find really funny.
The conversation came to a pretty abrupt halt when she said that she had called, “To check in on me” and I said, “What, did my mother tell you to do that?” I realized she was having trouble with that one so I added, “Because she worries about me.”
First of all, telling someone you called to “check in on him” is on par with ending a conversation with the lame, “Okay, I’ll let you go.” Whenever someone says that stupid closing line to me, I usually respond with, “Thank our Lord Jesus Christ! I was trying to go at ‘hello’ but you just wouldn’t let me. Thank you and our Savior for finally ‘letting me go!’”
But forgetting that idiotic phrase, let’s stay with my joke. Now granted, it was not really that funny. We can probably all agree that on the grand scale of comedy, it wasn’t any racist carrot joke. But the reaction I got was so shocking to me that I felt like Cartman after he saw the Ass Face family and thought it was so funny that he lost his ability to laugh at anything else thereafter. [http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/152984]
“I haven’t had any interaction with your mother.”
“It was a fuckin’ joke! Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” I almost expected her deadpan boring self to say, “My name is Spook, not Jesus Fuckin’ Christ. And I don’t think that was his middle name either.”
Needless to say, she got mad thinking I was comparing her call to my mother for real and not in jest, for even though she never met my mother, the buzz around town was that she is a fat whore. I pointed out again that it was a joke, “You know, one of those things you’ve heard about but never actually spoken or laughed at?” and that she shouldn’t get her panties in a bunch over spilt breast milk.
She told me she was not mad and my eyes rolled up into my head like I was having an epileptic seizure, as I couldn’t stand another New Age denier who will claim all is bliss when it just fuckin’ isn’t and then when she feels “out of bliss” she’ll just label it something else. That works about as well as stepping in a pile of dog shit and then saying, “Oh glory, I just stepped on a bed of roses!” See how far that lying sack of “positive thinking” carries you.
She told me that she was not enjoying this conversation and pretty much hung up on me. I went to my phone’s directory and immediately erased her name and number. I doubt she’ll call me again but if she does, at least I won’t have to be “Spooked” by her name. I probably should have changed her name in the entry to “Jesus Fuckin’ Christ” for a good laugh.
It is somewhat amazing what a man will do to get laid. He will put up with more bullshit than a cow herder. As Jerry Seinfeld said talking about twenty years of dating, “I spent most of my time pretending to be fascinated.” He’ll spend countless hours on the phone, countless dollars on dinners, sit through countless movies about girls and their stupid antics regarding boys and love—whose screenwriters should have been shot to spare us men from having to endure being dragged to this kind of tripe. All for the pussy.
And once he gets it, he will either be a slave to a woman who he considers nothing more than a life-support system for her vagina, or he will think, “That really wasn’t worth all the bullshit!” But to face that latter truth will be more than he can handle so he will pick up his shovel and instead of rightfully smacking the bitch on the side of the head with it, he will probably marry her and spend the rest of his days shoveling the shit that she gives him with nothing more than a wimpy, “Yes, dear,” that indicates that his balls are sitting in a jar on a high shelf somewhere out of reach and that for the sake of pussy, he has turned into one.
I still like me some pussy here and there but putting up with the bullshit is losing it’s flavor for me and even Wolfgang Puck and his massive salt shaker wouldn’t be enough to make that nasty pussy taste sweet as pudding.
“The philosophy of positive thinking means being untruthful; it means being dishonest. It means seeing a certain thing and yet denying what you have seen; it means deceiving yourself and others. Positive thinking is the only bullshit philosophy that America has contributed to human thought—nothing else.”
—Osho from Fame, Fortune, And Ambition: What Is the Real Meaning of Success (p. 135)
