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”

There’s No Way to Explain Cheese Falling Out of Your Armpit

I will have you know, Mr./Ms. Holier-Than-Thou, before you cast judgment on me for that time I stole cheese in my armpits, you should know that it was really fancy cheese – and not fancy as in “Kraft Singles versus store brand”.  Fancy as in fancy.

I know, again with the cheese!

It was my first real office job, and we’d received a particularly fancy holiday gift basket from our biggest client.  Co-workers snatched up chocolates and cookies, and that one weird lady grabbed an apple and said, “Dibs!” like anyone wanted it, and then we all looked at her like she was the saddest person on Earth.  Not because she liked fruit, but because she was such an obvious phony.  Who’s excited about the apple?

If you’re unfamiliar with office gift basket etiquette, it’s suitable to take things from the basket at-will, but it’s expected that any items you take will be consumed ON PREMISES ONLY.  Try walking up and sticking even one item into your bag at the end of the day – in front of people – and see how well that goes over.  Even if it’s the stuff nobody wants, you’re not allowed to just take it home with you.  It could be a year-old summer sausage that the janitorial crew now uses as a door stop.  Doesn’t matter.  It ain’t leaving that office.

Offices have unspoken rules in these situations, and all of them are ridiculous and make no sense at all, which is why you might recall they made a hit TV show called “The Office”.  That show was 98% accurate, by the way.

This basket had two wedges of cheese in it – one cave-aged blue and one goat gorgonzola – and they were from a boutique cheese-maker that was also my favorite craft beer brewery.  Not only was this cheese fancy, but it wasn’t even sold in stores in my region of the country!  Even if I had wanted to be an “honest person” and “buy it” or whatever, that was not an option.

I eyed those cheeses like they were wedge-shaped dairy diamonds.  I checked the fridge every day – no takers.  At the end of the week, both of the wedges were still there, untouched.

My plan was to steal the cheeses, which was going to work out great, because I spent all of my formative years being a thief.  I was counting on my thieving skills to burst back onto the scene like high-waisted jeans and Electric Slide me to cheese theft victory.  It would be like going to back to middle school, but knowing everything I know now.  I was hoping that after so many years of being “a law abiding citizen” (BOR-ing!) that I still had it.

If I had walked into the kitchen with my bag at the end of the day, that would have been a dead giveaway, so I had to pull this off by being quick and light, like a cat burglar.  I waited until the coast was clear and crept away from my desk into the kitchen, but didn’t turn on the kitchen light.  I quietly opened the refrigerator, holding down the button so that the fridge light wouldn’t come on, picked up the cheeses, and closed the refrigerator door.  I was going to just creep back out to my desk and put them into my bag, but then I heard my boss coming down the hallway towards the kitchen.

I was standing there, halfway out of the dark kitchen, holding a wedge of cheese in each hand.  I had no excuse for why I would be doing this, but I had about five seconds to figure out what to do.

I heard my boss’s steps grow closer.  I was wearing a sleeveless dress with a little cropped cardigan sweater over it.  I looked around in a panic and shoved the wedges of cheese under my cardigan, one into each armpit, and walked out of the kitchen.  I crossed paths with my boss, who now decided that rather than stay in the kitchen, he would walk back to my desk with me to discuss some reports.  Goddamn it.

I walked back to my desk with him, arms glued to my sides, holding the cheese wedges against my now very cold armpits.  I stood at my desk, nodding my head and making small talk.  Today was the day the boss apparently felt chattier than he’d ever felt before.

He asked me to hand him the reports that I had on my desk, and I must have looked like a T-rex when I did it, forearms sticking out at 90 degree angle from my body, stiff, with my upper arms still glued to my sides.  I handed him the reports…

…and that’s when one of the cheeses started to slip.

It started sliding eeeever so slowly out from under my arm and down the side of my torso.

The cheese was falling.

Oh my god.  The cheese was falling.

The cheese was falling and my boss was standing three feet away from me and there was absolutely no chance I was going to be able to finesse my way out of a wedge of cheese falling out of my armpit onto my desk.

Even with years and years of reflection, I still can’t think of any level of finesse that would have stood a chance of getting me out of this, besides busting out some disco moves and singing, “It’s raining cheese!  Hallelujah!  It’s raining cheese!  Amen!” and then claiming I had planned the whole thing as an elaborate joke.  The problem is that only a gross weirdo would play that kind of joke, and I had “conveniently” left the fact that I was a gross weirdo off my job application.

There’s no way to explain cheese falling out of your armpit.  There just isn’t.  I’m thinking about it right now and I’ve got nothing.  If you’ve got a plausible explanation, please, by all means, feel free to share it in the comments.  (Keep it clean, you filthy animals.)  You never know –  you may save some other person with cheese in their armpits’ life.

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As luck would have it at that moment, as the cheese was slipping closer to the bottom of my cropped cardigan, my boss closed his eyes and put his head down on top of my counter and said, “I’m so tired of dealing with these reports.”

As he put his head down, I realized this was my only shot.  In one quick motion I lifted my arm, caught the falling cheese, and threw it into the wastebasket under my desk.  Then I created a distraction by shoving some papers off my desk.  I wish someone had been rolling film, because this was the most “I Love Lucy” moment of my entire life.

My boss lifted his head and said, “What was that?”

I said, “I’m just an idiot.  I dropped all these papers.”

He continued the conversation and eventually went away after what felt like three freaking hours.  I retrieved one armpit cheese from the trash, removed the other from my now-frozen armpit, and hid them both in my bag.

Later that night, as I was stuffing my face with stolen armpit trash cheese, doing the Electric Slide across my kitchen, the middle schooler in the high-waisted jeans winked at herself in the reflection of the glass door and thought, “Yep.  Still got it.”

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Do you enjoy this blog for god knows what reason?  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.  You can find me on “The Twitter” as well under the name RomComDojo.

“And as we say at W.O.B., don’t get any on ya.” – Mike Seaver, Growing Pains