Daily Aggravation 53: Public Denture Removal

The other day on the 6 train downtown, I sat across from a woman whose shrunken face and whopping height of 3’2″ made it obvious that she was 180 years old. Her eyes contained centuries of wisdom, but apparently, none of that wisdom pertained to how to act on a New York City subway.

At first, all she did was eat sunflower seeds – so many sunflower seeds. I was wondering what she was doing with the shells; they seemed to disappear as soon as she spat them out, which, quite honestly, I was thankful for. Then, I turned to my right, where I spotted a gaggle of young, Italian tourists all staring in the general direction of the old woman with their mouths agape. Clearly, something of note was going on with her –  and it turned out to be the most disgusting act I’ve ever seen on the subway (and I was born and raised here).

The old woman had removed her dentures, leaving a puckered, anus-like hole in place of the normal-looking mouth she’d just had, and was proceeding to suck and lick her dentures clean. I honestly didn’t even know what to do with myself besides continue to stare at her, trying to figure out how to make sense of this horrific display.

It was then that I caught the eye of a younger gentleman, who broke into a big grin and whispered to me, “Disgusting, just disgusting,” in a thick accent, referring to our friend, the immortal pig. Turning to my left, I saw that a middle-aged man was absolutely dying with silent laughter; tears were rolling down his face as he tried to contain himself. The Italian tourists got in on the fun, too, as did a beautiful young teenager who was, unfortunately, sitting right next to the old woman as she worked her dentures like this was her last meal for the next six months. We all grinned at each other, totally horrified but bonding through mutual disgust.

At long last, we arrived at my stop, and I got off the train, both utterly scarred and glowing with the satisfaction I get from having real, human interactions with strangers on the subway. We may have the weirdest people in the world living here, but damn, do I love this city.

 

Human Ken Determined to be Fiercer Than Human Barbie

The real, human versions of Barbie and Ken met each other for the first time the other day, and The Daily Mail wrote an article about how much they each hated the way the other one looked. See the news story here.

Here’s the problem, though: Human Ken isn’t Human Ken as much as he is a clone of Janice Dickinson. Go look at the photo of him in the link above and then come back and click on this one. Am I wrong? They have the same face, for crying out loud.

It would’ve saved this guy an awful lot of time if he’d just taken a photograph of Janice Dickinson throwing shade to his plastic surgeon and said, “Give me that face, but make it even FIERCER.”

Daily Aggravation 52: Having to Work Past Your Prime

I think I had the somewhat dubious honor of being the passenger of the oldest cab driver in New York City today. My initial fears about his competency were confirmed when I said, “I’m going to 78th and Madison,” and his response was a confident “78th and York!” 

My first thought was, ‘Well, maybe he just didn’t hear me,’ because I’m sorry, but there is NO accent or weird moment that could make ‘Madison’ sound even remotely like ‘York.’ Then I thought, ‘Oh, God. What if he just has no memory left? Now I have to spend the whole time worrying that my cab driver is going to forget how to drive while we’re crossing Central Park.’ Luckily, we got home just fine, and after shouting and repeating directions about where to pull up and let me off, I was out of the cab and on my merry way.

It is a grave injustice that my extremely elderly cab driver is still needing to work at 154. Sounds to me like someone danced with the devil in the pale moonlight!

Daily Aggravation 51: Unwieldy Rollerbladers

I experienced a new level of disgust and irritation today when I was peacefully walking down the sidewalk, headphones in, and almost got mowed down by a frizzy-haired, middle-aged woman on rollerblades. She came out of nowhere, staggering quickly towards me in an unwieldy fashion like she was doing an old-timey slapstick routine. From her helmet, ankle/knee/wrist/elbow guards and mouthpiece, I could tell that she had invested a good amount of money in looking so embarrassingly stupid and neurotic. Her socks, which looked like they were thigh-highs that had been bunched up and then pulled down, were neon yellow and glowing in the sunlight.

At the last minute, she made a sharp turn and headed across the street in the other direction, her arms flailing as she just barely maintained control over her portly body. A delivery guy on a bike and I watched her leave, and as he turned to me, we shared a look that said, “Hey, bitch – it’s 1:00pm, the sun is out, and we can see you too fucking well already. Next time, leave the day-glo socks at home.”

On The Indignity of Spray Tanning

As I’ve mentioned before on this blog, I was born with a pale yellow complexion akin to a discolored tooth. I have dark hair and dark eyebrows; I just look better with a tan. So today I went to the Beach Bum Tanning Salon on 86th Street to get a spray tan. 

First of all, you have to be buzzed into Beach Bum, an establishment that sits under a massive awning announcing the fact that it caters to the lily white and vain among us. This means that I stood waiting outside for a good three minutes, which doesn’t seem like that long a time when you’re not waiting to be let inside a tanning salon but really does when you are. After climbing the flight of stairs to the salon, I was rung up by a freckled girl who was animatedly grooving to the City High song, “Caramel,” while she was charging my credit card. Then I was led into the Mystic Tanning both and given a set of complicated instructions. 

“Here,” said the employee tasked with explaining how to use the machine to me as she handed me two plastic bags. In one were sticky foot shaped pads that I was instructed to affix to the soles of my feet so I didn’t end up with leathery-looking feet like a Hobbit. In the other was a shower cap. “Get undressed, wait until the machine is ready, then put barrier cream all over your hands and go into the booth. Wave your hand in front of the sensor and the spray tanning will begin.” 

When she left, I quickly disrobed, trying to minimize the amount of time I stood in the room in just my underwear. The Mystic booth is a closed chamber, but you have to do all the preparing outside of the booth, in a closet-like space that looked like there might be a hidden camera in the vent. I quickly stuck the foot pads onto the soles of my feet, then applied the barrier cream to my hands like I’d be told to. When the machine announced that the ‘warming-up period’ was complete and it was okay for me to get in the booth, I gingerly opened the door and took my position. 

Inside the booth, there were four numbered foot-shaped tiles on the floor. A robotic voice instructed me to place my left foot on Number 1 and my right foot on Number 3, and when I’d done so, the voice piped in and told me that “the spray tan [was] commencing.” 

Let me tell you – there’s nothing quite like standing half-naked in a weird booth in a weird tanning salon while a machine sprays an ice-cold mist all over your body and face. I felt kind of like I was being waterboarded, and I was concerned that I was standing incorrectly and setting myself up to be half orange, like a Bridge and Tunnel version of Two Face. Luckily, I seem to have succeeded in getting a pretty good tan, except for one thing: my hands are a different color than the rest of my body and look like I just got a hand transplant.

To the guy in CVS with Rabbit Foot Hair:

Excuse me, guy on line in front of me at CVS: could you please explain to me why you shaved 99% of your head but left a small patch of hair intact on your crown and then dyed that hair green? Is that your good luck chunk of hair or something? Has a bird shat on that spot on your head a record-breaking number of times? I’m really at a loss here. Moreover, why green, the color of fungus, algae and rotting flesh? It’s not even a nice green – it’s more of a sickly chartreuse. Just horrible.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that your ‘cool,’ ‘subversive’ hairstyle looks like something in a movie about bullying where the popular boys glue a gangrenous rabbit’s foot to the back of a nerd’s head while he’s passed out after drinking his first beer at his first party or something. It’s bumming me out just looking at it, and I think you should shave it the fuck off immediately, if not sooner.

A Merry Belated Krampusnacht to One and All!

A Merry Belated Krampusnacht to One and All!

I was super bummed when I realized yesterday that I missed Krampusnacht this year. Now I feel like I have to pour one out for my homie, Krampus, because I didn’t get to party with him on December 5th. BOO.

For those of you who don’t know who Krampus is, he’s a fun-loving bitch who likes to do festive things around the holidays like stomp on ornaments with his one cloven hoof and stuff badly-behaved children into a burlap sack. (As an aside, I’m pretty sure this is also exactly how Swiss people sexually role play during the winter.)

The origin of Mr. Krampus dates all the way back to Pre-Christian Germanic tradition. In fact, up until relatively recently, he was still considered by those living in the Alps to be the ‘yin’ to Santa’s ‘yang.’ So what does that mean, exactly? Well, basically, where Santa’s purpose in life is to do lame shit like ‘spread joy’ and ‘give kind, thoughtful gifts to children and old people,’ the Krampus lives to get trashed, make kids cry and scare the living daylights out of anyone who sees his devil-ass-looking face. Apparently, he’s also kind of a lech, and he particularly loves the company of zaftig ladies. I’m positive that he and I would get along like a house on fire – specifically, a house that’s on fire because he’s torched it for a laugh.

So hey, even though I may have missed Krampusnacht this year, that doesn’t mean I can’t still drink a few glasses of whiskey one night and trip a pitchy caroller in honor of Krampus, the O.G. (Original Grinch). Let the belated wild Krampus begin!

Daily Aggravation 49: People Who Wear Santa Hats

What’s with people who casually wear Santa hats for the whole month of December? Unless you’re an actual elf who is employed by Santa himself, there is no reason to top off your outfit with a cheap, felt Santa hat, you festive douche. And if you are an actual elf, why the fuck are you dilly-dallying around in NYC when there are presents to be wrapped up North? I’m pretty sure you elves aren’t covered under the “Right-to-Work” law, so get the hell out of here and go do your job.

The Creepiest Sweater Ever?

The Creepiest Sweater Ever?

This is an actual sweater for sale in a store. I don’t really know what the creature woven into the front of it is supposed to be. It looks like a bunch of different weird things, including a flasher, a cockroach, and a cockroach flasher. My boyfriend thinks it looks like an omen in a scary Japanese movie that would pop out from behind trees and shit to remind you of your mortality. Whatever it is, its red eyes and the fact that it looks like it’s fleeing from a predator seriously give me the heebie-jeebies.