The Lord of The Dirty, Dirty Keychain

Once upon a time in 1988, there was a keychain.  A dirty, dirty keychain.

A keychain so dirty, so coveted by all of the middle schoolers in town, had this story taken place in Hobbitville or Dorkville or wherever those Lord of The Rings movies happened, any one of those damp, sexless nerds in cloaks would have tossed that ring off a cliff to get their hands on it.

That’s not fair.  Maybe they’re not all damp, sexless nerds.  I think maybe the Elves weren’t damp, sexless nerds, but I can never remember because I fell asleep during all three of those movies.  In the theater.

Know why?  Because those movies, like most movies these days, are:

  1.  TOO.
  2.  LONG.
  3. ALL MOVIES SHOULD BE 90 MINUTES.
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Photo of Golum or Yoda or something.

Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure the Elves were hot in that classy, useless way, like Gwyneth Paltrow, where they look beautiful in long, silk gowns but you have a really hard time imagining them humping.

Don’t send me weird emails about this.

Which brings me back to the keychain, or as I shall hereafter refer to it:

The Keychain.

I first heard about The Keychain from my friend Jenny, who’d taken a babysitting job for the then-current holder of The Keychain, Marlene.  Marlene was a divorced single mom to a well-behaved child named Justine.  Jenny loved babysitting for Justine because she was a cool kid and Marlene paid well.

Jenny was babysitting Justine one afternoon when she had to search through a kitchen drawer for some Scotch tape.  In the back of the drawer, under a few layers of miscellaneous stuff, resided The Keychain.

As the story goes, Jenny pulled it out of the drawer and said, “What the hell?” as she inspected it.

The Keychain was made of a bronze-colored metal, and featured two cartoonish people – a man and a woman – in profile.  The woman had huge boobs, and the man was standing across from her with his pants down and his…you know…ding-dong…sticking straight out.

Justine rolled up and said, “Oh, you found Mommy’s keychain.  We’re not supposed to play with that.”

She took it from Jenny and said, “Hang on.  I can show you how to make it move, but then we have to put it away.”

There was a mechanism in The Keychain where if you pulled on a lever at the bottom of it, the man’s hips moved forward and his…ding-dong…appeared to go into the woman’s…hoo-hah.

The Keychain was no ordinary keychain.  The Keychain was the dirtiest keychain in the world, or as I shall now hereafter refer to it:

The Humping Keychain.

Jenny was stunned. She had never seen anything so magnificent.

Obviously, Jenny had to have it, but despite the fact that she was filthy-mouthed little thief (which is why we got along so well), she knew better than to take The Humping Keychain that day.  Justine had just seen her with it, so she would’ve been able to testify in a Court of Dirty Keychain Law that Jenny was the last person seen holding it.

Jenny told me about The Humping Keychain in vivid detail.  “You won’t believe it,” she said.  “It’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I knew Jenny’s filth standards were high, so I took her at her word.  After all, she was the one who discovered a cornucopia of “marital aids” at our acquaintance Tricia’s house, hidden away in Tricia’s parents’ nightstand, and chased Tricia around the house with something that looked like a red zucchini (barehanded!) yelling, “Dude! Your mom’s teeth marks are on this!”

We were not invited back.

The next time Marlene called Jenny to ask her to babysit, she asked if she could bring me along.

We hit the kitchen as soon as we arrived.  Jenny pulled The Humping Keychain out of the drawer and it was everything she’d described and more.  The cartoon sex people even had these goofy expressions on their faces and the man’s eyes were all bugged out of his head, something Jenny had, surprisingly, neglected to mention.

The Humping Keychain wasn’t just sex.  It was sex and comedy.  The total package.  As far my dirtbag middle school comedy tastes were concerned, Andrew Dice Clay might as well have been standing right there in the kitchen.

We put it back in the drawer when we heard Justine coming out from her room.  That kid wouldn’t leave us alone for a single second for the rest of the evening.  That may have been the night I officially decided that I never wanted to have kids.

Jenny wasn’t available the next time Marlene needed a babysitter for Justine, so she directed her to me – and this was going to be an offsite, awesome babysitting job.  Marlene worked at a beach club a couple towns over, and since her boss wouldn’t be around that day, she was taking Justine to work with her.  She just needed someone to watch her in case something came up.  I was going to get paid to hang out at a beach club all day!  It was like one of the lesser orphans in “Annie” getting a spa day.  I was going to steal SO much food.

Marlene asked if she could come pick me up at my house, and then I remembered:

The Humping Keychain.

As much as a day at the beach club sounded like the best thing ever, it did lack a certain sex/comedy element that only The Humping Keychain could provide.

I told Marlene I would just walk over to her house instead of her picking me up, since it was only two blocks away from my house, and we could go from there.

Naturally, I stole The Humping Keychain within five minutes of my arrival at Marlene’s.

Also, naturally, someone must have hipped Marlene to the fact that I had stolen it, because even though we had a great time that day at the beach club, I was never called to babysit for Justine again.  That kid must have put two and two together, realized I was the last one in the house, and then went turncoat on me and told her mother.

Don’t care.  Worth it!  I was now in possession of The Humping Keychain.

But stealing is wrong!

Is it really, when you really think about the circumstances?  If anything, I was saving poor, impressionable Justine from having to live in a house where something as disgusting (hilarious) and pornographic (double hilarious) as The Humping Keychain was just left in a drawer for anybody to find.  I stole The Humping Keychain because I was concerned about the welfare of that child!  How dare you question my morals as a thief?!

I later traded The Humping Keychain to another sixth grader after an excruciatingly complex and protracted negotiation.  I had recently watched both “Working Girl” and “Baby Boom”, and I fancied myself a tiger lady businesswoman.

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If you’re not already following this blog because you have “standards” or whatever, please feel free to click the Follow button on the home page and you’ll get an email anytime I post some of this hogwash, usually around once a week.  You can find me on “The Twitter” as well under the name RomComDojo.

“Nobody appreciates your sense of humor, you know. As a matter of fact, everyone’s just about to puke from you. If you’ve got a hard-on for trash, don’t take care of it around us.” – Steff McKee, “Pretty in Pink”

Are You There, Sog?  It’s Me, Margaret.

I was getting a gel manicure the other day because I’m a fancy lady who’s got what it takes and knows how to use it, and the nail technician and I were chatting it up and getting along great…

…riiight up until she said the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.

And please bear in mind I have actually heard the sound of my own body being hit by a Cadillac Fleetwood at high speed.

“The french fries at Burger Fi are gross.  I only like fries that are soggy.”

I couldn’t tell you what the remainder of our conversation was about, or if she was still sitting across from me after that and hadn’t been replaced by a Teddy Ruxpin, or if I was still alive in the “alive” sense of the word and hadn’t slipped into some kind of parallel universe in The Expanse, because a hive of bees immediately took up residence in my brain, swarming electric with repeated stings of:

“I only like fries that are soggy.”

“I only like fries that are soggy.”

“I only like fries that are soggy.”

Who the Yoda-Hoda-Frickin-Kotb likes soggy fries??!  What is that?!  What are you – some carnival sideshow act who’s still hooked up to the placenta?!  Raised in a shack in 1890 where actual dirt-clod mud pies were the cuisine de rigueur?!

And YES I had to look up the spelling of de rigueur!  What of it?  I don’t speak French!  I speak either (i) English, or (ii) “I’ll have the bistec de pollo empanizado.”

Because I live in Florida and CUBAN FOOD.

If you like your fries soggy and feel the need to besmirch respectable eating establishments’ reputations over it, then you need to just stop.  You’re sullying up french fry reviews with your wildly inaccurate, ill-informed and, quite frankly, self-involved one-star ratings.  Go find somewhere that serves boiled potato planks and give them your five-star review, you weirdo nut-job freak-show scrabble butt-cake.

There is only one reason you don’t like Burger Fi’s fries and it’s because you don’t like fries that are properly cooked.  That’s not on Burger Fi.  That’s on you!

Well, everyone is entitled to their personal preferences…

NO THEY’RE NOT.  YOUR SOGGY FRENCH FRY PREFERENCE IS OBJECTIVELY WRONG.

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Let’s look at the examples provided below for comparison on how hideously, horrendously wrong you are about this.  Please, by all means, feel free to argue with me – and I will shut you down like a DDT factory in 1972, take you down like Christmas lights in January, and bury you like all of my repressed emotions since birth.

“I didn’t like this pizza because it was hot and the cheese was melted.  I only like pizza that’s cold and has frozen shreds of mozzarella stuck to the pizza sauce like Ed Begley Jr’s facial hair stuck to an Elmo doll.  “Best Pizza”?  More like “Worst Worzza”!  One star!  I won’t be returning!”

“I really prefer for my chocolate chip cookies to be smashed and burned black beyond recognition, and was instead served some sort of golden brown disc-shaped thing with visible melted chocolate pieces in it!  Gross!  One star, Mrs. Fields Cookies!”

“A sedan with four doors?  Why don’t you stick it up your flying buttress, Toyota!  I prefer for my sedans to be motorcycles with a ventriloquist dummy in the sidecar that looks like Maurice from the 90s sleeper hit television show “Northern Exposure”!  I’ve got a thing for old men in bomber jackets, Toyota, and I would think that you, of all companies, would know that!  ONE STAR!  I WISH I COULD GIVE ZERO STARS!”

I swear to god if I have to start doing my own nails to avoid this existential crisis from ever happening again, I will make you soggy fry-eaters pay.  I can’t even look at my beautiful glittery gel manicure right now without wanting to just burn the whole world down.

Which would be a real shame because I like my world SOGGY.

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Do you enjoy this blog because, even though you’re 40, you’re as emotionally mature as a 12-year old?  Do you long for orange soda in the form of words?  If you’re not already following, please feel free to click the “Follow” button on the home page and you’ll get an email anytime I post some of this useless nonsense, somewhere in the neighborhood of once a week.  You can find me on “The Twitter” as well under the name RomComDojo.

“…a complete…and total…barf-o-rama.” – Gordie Lachance, “Stand By Me”

Proof of Deliverance

Hey, skankaroos! My essay “Proof of Deliverance” is in The New Southern Fugitives this week. If you grew up poor, then you will definitely recognize these bill-dodging techniques!

You can check it out here: The New Southern Fugitives

Special shout out to my sister Julie for doing such a superb job running interference with FPL all those years ago. Happy birthday, old lady!  Did I mention that you’re old?  Because you are.  So, so old.

Thanks to The New Southern Fugitives for giving this essay a home that feels just right and, as always, thank you all so, so much for being freaking awesome.

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Who I think I am in Deliverance vs who I actually am in Deliverance