April 14, 2009
Would you take a job as a short order cook in a diner for a year with the sole purpose of spitting in every dish that leaves the kitchen?
I know fuck all about cooking, so if you walk into your local diner and see me in the kitchen wearing a hairnet or a little paper cap or some crap, and I’m putting food in the window and ringing that little bell and yelling “Pick up!” you need to immediately GET THE FUCK OUT OF DODGE. No, really, I mean it. Because I am going to spit in your food. And then, after about a year of all that spitting, I’m going to have a million dollars. I’m not going to be a real asshole about it and hock a loogie right on top of your pancakes or anything like that – I don’t think I need to get all extravagant and show off-y about it. But there will be some saliva involved. Maybe I’ll just drool into the pancake batter or whip some of my spit into the butter I cook your eggs in. You won’t even know it’s there, and you probably won’t give a shit anyway, because every time you come to the diner it’s, like, 4 a.m. and you’re drunk and sloppy and drooling on yourself anyway. You’ll probably be like, “This food is delicious. My compliments to the chef.” And I’ll feel a little guilty, but also a lot proud. Because I’ll know that my spit is the secret ingredient that makes every dish better. And that will be our little secret. Except that you won’t actually be in on it, but whatever. Anyway, it’ll be a much nicer secret than what the delivery guy put in your food last week. That was just straight up nasty.
April 8, 2009
Would you French kiss Shane MacGowan, deeply and passionately, for a minimum of a minute per kiss, twice a day – once immediately after he woke up and once just before he
fell asleep passed out – every day, for a year?
Jeepers. It’s hard to know where to start with this one, so I guess I’ll start here, with an inside view of Shane MacGowan’s mouth (pay close attention right around the :30 mark; there’s a close up of it there.). If ever there was someone who does not fear the Cavity Creeps or Yuck Mouth, it is Shane MacGowan, lead singer of the Pogues and the original Pete Doherty. Never a man to turn to for dental advice, MacGowan has pretty much said fuck you to toothpaste and dental floss, opting instead to embrace a life free from the tyranny of daily brushing and regularly scheduled visits to the dentist. The Tic Tacs that once filled his mouth have rotted down to his gums, and those which MacGowan did not erode away with constant boozing have been destroyed in more creative ways: Two were knocked out when he drunkenly fell over a wall while attempting to vomit up booze; a bunch of others fell out in 1996 when, according to longtime girlfriend Victoria Clarke, MacGowan tried to eat a copy of the Beach Boys’ Greatest Hits, Vol. 3 LP while tripping balls on acid. (Congratulations, Vicky! Hold on tight to that one!) I have a pretty good feeling that his mouth first thing in the morning is absolutely rancid, and that in the wee, shitbombed hours before he turns in, it might best be described as putrid. Add in the chronic halitosis caused by non-stop drinking, puking (at a 2002 concert in Dublin, he threw up on audience members in the first row) and tooth decay, and I’m sure it smells like an animal that sleeps in its own dung crawled down his throat and just fucking expired there. Oh – I almost forgot – have you seen If I Should Fall From Grace? The documentary about The Life of MacGowan? You should, if only to see him drool into his beer as he slurs poetry and to watch spit fly from his mouth as he laughs at his own jokes. And you know what all that adds up to? A no on this dare for me. I get nauseous just thinking about that smell, a sickening stench that stays with you all day long, no matter how much you try to brush or gargle it away – and then you have to go back for more at night! No. Thank. You. I’m sorry to be such a wimp but I don’t think I could keep food down. It would be a road straight to a cavernous state of depression for me.
As a bonus, I want to share with you a story a friend told me years ago. He’d gone to see the Pogues (or the Popes…I don’t remember now) and, of course, everyone there was singing along and all that, when MacGowan suddenly left the stage. The band played on for 20 minutes while audience members wondered aloud where he’d gone and if he’d ever come back. When he finally reemerged, Shane MacGowan ran onstage, grabbed the mic, and shouted, “Ahhhh…there’s nothing like a good shite!”
So, again, in conclusion, no. No. No.
April 6, 2009
Would you keep all your urine in sealed glass jars, Howard Hughes style, for a year?
Who’s to say I don’t already? Maybe I’m one of those
eccentric millionairesses batshit crazy indigent shut-ins who just loves spending rainy Sundays counting my many, many mason jars full of sweet, sweet honey-colored urine – my very own urine! Maybe, you only think my fridge is full of jars of beer and sweet tea but, really, those are actually jars of my urine. Maybe, I’m really proud of everything I’ve ever made — not just the stuff I built with my own two hands* — and I like to look around me and also see all the wonderful things I’ve created with my bladder. And my kidneys and my urethra. And my ureters, too. Maybe I like to look at each of those jars of pee and think, I made that, and remember a simpler time — a time when I peed into a jar.
But maybe not. Because, actually, I think that shit (or urine — get it?) is pretty gross. So, no, I have not been collecting my pee, but that’s only because I’m not the kind of person who would collect pee for free. I am, however, the kind of person who would collect pee for money. For one million dollars, I would be more than happy to only pee into glass jars and then seal those jars tight and then use them to build a wall of liquid amber in my apartment. For a million dollars? Easy, peesy.
* Just kidding. I’ve never built anything with my hands.
March 27, 2009
Would you have sex with Carrot Top?
Ha. I get it. This question is funny because everybody used to hate Carrot Top, but now they double hate him because he’s not funny AND he looks like a ‘roided up tranny face.
That would be a “no” for me. To give you an inkling of the level of my disgust, I’m filing this one under “All Out Gross Outs,” even though it should be in “Sexiness.” Take that, Carrot Top!
PS – Wait a sec… Is he naked in that photo? Excuse me while I puke.
February 24, 2009
Would you accept a 6-month stint as lab manager for a facility that processes donated cadavers for medical research? Your primary responsibility is hacking up dead people.
According to Stiff, Mary Roach’s awesome study of the dead body and the various indignities it has suffered throughout history, donated cadavers are used to further the field of cosmetic surgery as well as the more altruistic field of pure medical research. This came as a bit of a shock to me, although it certainly makes sense. She describes a visit to a symposium for plastic surgeons in which they practice on unembalmed, severed heads from those who have donated their bodies to medical science. Having already been subjected to rhinoplasty earlier in the week (waste not, want not!), the heads rest in disposable roasting pans as surgeons attempt the newest techniques in face lifts. But as silly and surreal as it all is, there’s an ugly, gory fact lurking. Those clean, dressed heads? They don’t just come unstuck by themselves. Someone had to prep those. We learn that there is a lab manager, and that this lucky lady’s job is to decapitate the cadavers. Could I spend 6 months doing this? For $1,000,000, I think I would be willing to try. I’m sure that after a while, removing body parts from dead folks becomes just another vaguely unpleasant thing that you have to do at the office (and frankly, I’d probably prefer it to filing). Plus, if I could get over the (admittedly considerable) ick factor, then taking on this challenge would be not only financially rewarding, but spiritually rewarding as well. And isn’t that what it’s all about? Just think of the future generations who might benefit from my courageous work with body parts and tissues… And, uh, the vain older women who are relentless in their pursuit of the fountain of youth. They’d be mighty grateful, too!
I’d like to say yes, mostly because someone has to do the work that allows science and medicine to progress, and sure, it would be a good thing to contribute and all that stuff, but I just don’t think I could hack (har!) it. Stiff is one of my all time favorite books, and I think part of the reason is that I admire those who do the work I know I never could (and also because death is really fascinating. I’m goth like that). Maybe I’d give it a shot, but I don’t think I’d last very long. Even those who love this sort of work – those who enthusiastically enter the field of cadaver work – have problems dealing with the humanity of corpses. In fact, in one chapter, Roach describes how the hands and heads of cadavers used in car crash tests are covered in huge sock-like mitts. Why? Because the living humans who work with the dead find it difficult to look at these unique features on a corpse and not feel some sadness as they send it hurtling toward a brick wall at 150 miles per hour. If those who actually longed to enter the field have a hard time, I doubt there’s much hope for me. And while you don’t have to be a scientist to get the (kind of simple) job of chopping off heads and putting them in pans, I’ll pass either way.
February 20, 2009
Would you wear a coat made from human skin (source unknown) every day for a year?
As it happens, I just saw some books bound in human skin at Philadelphia’s amazing Mutter Museum (though not currently practiced, anthropodermic bibliopegy enjoyed a brief vogue). To be honest, they looked like… regular books. Though several people around me squealed in horror at the display, there’s no way they would have thought anything was amiss if they hadn’t known what the binding material was. As much as people cling to the notion that we as a species are special, when you come right down to it, a tanned human hide doesn’t look much different from a tanned cow hide. So, yeah. I’d accept this dare. I wouldn’t advertise the fact that I was doing it, mind you, but $1,000,000 for wearing a (different kind) of leather jacket doesn’t seem that bad to me. As long it was properly tanned and dyed, no one would be any the wiser, and if I’m occasionally a bit too warm (leather really doesn’t breathe), then so be it.
Yeah, sure. You eat meat, you wear leather, you pay $25 to go to the BODIES exhibit, you put on a coat of human flesh. It’s not like some kind of The Silence of the Lambs thing where you kidnap people so you can kill them, skin them and make yourself a sexy lady suit. This is more like this, which is really fucking cool. And you don’t have to worry about getting flour or red paint thrown in your eyes: Despite the fact that you’re wearing a dead animal around town all la-di-da like, PETA couldn’t give shit.
February 13, 2009
Would you fellate a horse?
This question makes me want to yak. There is something so specifically disgusting about horse penis even in the general vicinity of my mouth that it makes me dry heave even to think about it. First of all – and I’m about to get real specific so, if you’re squeamish, SAVE YOURSELF; TURN BACK NOW – have you ever seen a horse penis? Ugh. They’re literally about 20 inches long. The truth is, the idea that being “hung like a horse” is a desirable thing for a human male is a total load of shit, and the only men who even come close to having horse-sized penises are the grossly deformed. Horses smell like the barnyard animals they are, and I want to point out the most glaring problem: THEY’RE HORSES, FOR SHIT’S SAKE. Plus, one of my clauses for doing dares is that they can’t be a threat to my sanity, and I’m pretty sure that once you drink horse cum for money you go to a dark place from whence you never return.
I think this would be a nice time to remind you about the true story of the man who loved horses. Meaning, loved to do it with them. His name was Kenneth Pinyan and – again, I’m going to get to specifics – one day, as he was getting fucked in the ass by an Arabian stallion that he’d nicknamed “Big Dick,” the horse’s two foot long penis perforated his colon. He didn’t immediately go to the hospital, despite being in an immense amount of pain, because how would he have explained? “Well, my boyfriend is an Arabian stallion and we were getting intimate while another guy videotaped it when all of a sudden he accidentally fucked my colon to shreds.” Anyway, by the time he made it to the ER, it was too late and he died. The case resulted in the passage of a bill in Washington State that makes it a felony to 1) fuck animals or 2) film animal fucking. There was also a documentary about Pinyan called Zoo (!) that did quite well at Sundance. The guy holding the camera, btw, was fined $300 and sentenced to community service. All true!
Is that too brief? How about this: NO. FUCKING. WAY.