Freud is Choking on His Big, Fat Hog

Brother only seems to have road rage when there's a car in his way. A few weekends ago, when we were on our way to watch vintage motorcycle races at Road America, a pokey driver finally moved over to the right lane when he was good and ready and my brother grumbled, "Fat lop of....look at him! Smokin' a big, fat hog!" Having not looked up from book two of the Twilight obsession, I burst into laughter and inquired, "WTF is a big, fat hog??" Apparently the man was smoking the biggest cigar Brother had ever seen. Another simply put phrase that had me cracking up and now I must use ad nauseum. Sorry. But the story below does tie in with Freud. You'll see. Though I don't get the whole cigar thing...

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When we of the Kuj Tribe were much younger, there was a time when us siblings engaged in the truly Polish/German sport of bowling. Every Saturday morning, hanging out in a gloomy, smoke-filled bowling alley, participating in the kid's league. I sucked. I considered it a good day if I managed to keep at least one ball out of the gutter. Little did I know that once I was old enough to drink (in pub-lick, anyway), I wouldn't give a crap if I threw the ball behind me, because bowling had become an excellent excuse to spend time with favored friends and co-workers, and for swilling mass quantities of beer.

Of course, Brother was better at bowling than me. He of the plaques, trophies, patches. Naturally, when one of his birthdays approached, the decision was made to have a bowling birthday party. My mom hired a Superman to show up at the party with balloons for the b-day boy and to do party tricks. Oh, how much damage this would do.

This "Superman" was a short, skinny, hirsute guy with a gold chain and a porn/cop mustache. He wore a near-accurate version of Superman's red and blue costume, except that I'm fairly certain the real thing didn't have a padded suit. PADDED. Padded biceps, pecs, thighs. Mental damage enough, you say? Sure. Cheesy? Most heinously. He told jokes, made balloon animals, did a little prestidigitation. I hope that, at the time, he at least entertained my brother and his friends despite the blatant misrepresentation. Otherwise, if I run into him again, I WILL demand he pay my mother all the money she shelled out for his cheese. I figure I just have to stand over him and flex my Pilates-hardened thigh muscles.

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Trish (you remember her....she used to blog too?) has been my best friend for so many years, she deserves some kind of award. Or maybe I do. I think we met in high school marching band, but the specifics escape me. Despite a handful of years apart, we reconnected a few years ago and, again, talk to each other in one format or another nearly every day. Before I moved away and her gorgeous husband stole her from me, WAAAAY back in the mid 90's, Trish had asked me to stand up in her wedding to said gorgeous husband. Now that I'm thinking about it, I'm the one who deserves the award. That dress. That's a whole other story.

I was invited along with the other bridesmaids to the requisite bridal shower and bachelorette party. I apparently have a gift for memory recall. I've been incredibly astounded, as proven through Facebook, by my ability to remember bits and pieces of events as far back as high school. Unfortunately, this is one particular event I just can't get rid of. I would've hoped it had disturbed me enough to repress. I'm not so lucky.

After opening her gifts, we were interrupted by a knock on the door and the cry of the hormone, "Ooo! The stripper's here!"

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Male strippers. That has got to be the most disgusting form of entertainment known to woman. Now before you formulate and postulate about my er, orientation, please understand that I'm like any other red-blooded, all-American heterosexual woman. Me likey man. But I'm picky on the visual. Just as any man on the street will pull a Pavlov when a hot woman walks by, I also like to observe male hotness in its most natural state: mowing my lawn. Okay, mowing any lawn. Okay, really, doing anything the Brawny paper towel man would do. But, specifically, manfully. Not outfitted in a bow tie and cuffs, women's thong underpants and...jiggling.

The image of the male reproductive anatomy, in my poor opinion, does not inspire grand, sweeping anthems of brass and bugle. It does not shout out in a growly, "Yeeeesss!" It's more of a "wah, wah." Yes, I realize this could be construed as mean, but the specific equipment is utterly and completely functional. There are far more important parts of the male gender that kick-start the furnace, if you know what I'm saying. I realize the human body is never perfect, but even on the scariest looking human being, there's something of incredible visual quality (my eyes, thanks for asking). Sure, his eyes might be hopelessly smoldering. It might be the small of the back. Maybe it's the ab muscles. It could be the graceful arc of a deltoid. It's possibly the broad muscular span across the scapulas. It's definitely that little indentation between the pelvis and gut muscles. Whew.

This? As Alanis Morrisette (the rotten bitch) once sang, "You are a slice of God on a platter..."

I could stare for days. Is he a deep thinker? I don't care. Does he love puppies? Big whup. I prefer my eye candy still...posed, not doing the electric slide with Grandma on stage. Stand still Chippendales, and I will perv out.

So you see where I stand on the whole stripper thing. If your purpose in life is to entertain women while barely dressed, it's far classier to me to just hand out pictures of yourself, than to parade around on stage with Fabio hair (gech) and s-pulse your meat and two veg at my face.

* * *

Hue and Cry. "The stripper's here!" Ugh. I see through the throng of ladies, a polyester cop uniform. "Hello ladies. I hear there's a bachelorette here who's been naughty..." Ugh again. A flash of a plastic badge (I'm welling up right now at the horror). The crowd of women makes way for the focus of our attention....and it's the FREAKIN SUPERMAN GUY!

I'll pause here for the collective outburst....

Seriously. The very same short, skinny, hairy guy (with the gold chain still). As a stripper cop. I remember wishing I could fart wings and fly. I shrink into my chair hoping against hope that, as he sets down his boom box and "Party All The Time" (who cares what song it was, really) blares from the twin speakers, I can will myself to be one with the powder-coated steel and vinyl.

This probably wouldn't be such a big deal if he was just a craptastical stripper, I understand this. As it was, he really was bad. Easily torn off pants and shirt (which is good, because as skinny as he was, I doubt he'd get through a real button), boxers, bikini, thong (really? Three pairs of underwear isn't overkill?). Climb up on a chair and shake his junk two inches from Trish's face (take that, alleged BEST FRIEND! Put me in this multi-color, poofy, organza-coated dress, will you? Karma! AVENGE ME!).

And yet, he still never got completely naked. The hair suit stayed on for some reason.

One wonders if this is the first thing one should share with a therapist upon first session.