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Ph-Double-D

July 28, 2008

Do you sometimes think of a really good name for something that isn’t particularly related to anything in your own life? In 2005, I wondered “Why isn’t there a Japanese language-learning program called ‘Rapanese’?”

It was also this impulse that caused me, in 2006, to purchase a domain name for the lesbian comedy site I’ll never start: funnylingus.com

The other day I wondered, “Why have I never before heard the term Ph-Double-D? You know, a pneumatic professor?” (And now that I think about it, “The Pneumatic Professor” isn’t a bad name itself).

So I go on the internets, and there she is. Glad someone’s making use of that. Pink website, Sex and the City music and all.

This reminds me of a similar, pre-internet game my friends and I used to play in junior high, usually when we were hanging out in the halls of a school building with pay phones. You’d think of a seven-letter phrase about sex, no matter how ungrammatical, and see if it had a corresponding 900 number, such as:

1-900-SEXY-SEX

1-900-MAN-BUTT

1-900-SEX-BOOB

Of course, you don’t get any sex when you call a 900 number from a pay phone — instead, you laugh hysterically at the recorded sexy-voiced man or woman who asks for your credit card number, and then you hang up, gleefully reporting to the assembled crowd that 1-900-SEX-BOOB does, in fact, exist.

I imagine some of these 900 numbers have gone out of business in the internet era, but feel free to give this game a try and post your results! 1-900-LADY-ASS is waiting.

Call me! I’m in 1982!

Suggestions of Alternate Elaborate Protest Actions for Frenchmen

June 17, 2008

A couple weeks ago, a French guy scaled the New York Times building at 40th and 8th, wearing a doofy t-shirt, to raise awareness for the cause of global warming.  

It has struck me that demonstrating an impressive edifice-scaling ability is disappointingly unrelated to one’s expertise in environmental science. It creates — I daresay — a credibility gap.   Lookatme, I ran around Madison Square Garden sooo fast!  Now give me a cooking show.

I also cannot help but recall the similar disappointment I felt at Weird Al’s Michael Jackson parody “Fat,” because Michael Jackson isn’t fat, and at “Livin’ La Vida Mocha,” because Ricky Martin is unconnected to the prevalence of Starbucks in our culture.  Why not rewrite a Michael Jackson song to be about plastic surgery, or owing a lot of money on a carnivalesque estate?  Why not write something like Livin’ La Proof to Middle America that Very Gay-Seeming Pretty Men Can Be Very Catchy and Energetic, Thereby Bringing Us That Much Closer to Equality for All.  But let us leave the late nineties behind.

As a further expression of my disdain for scaling a tall building to protest global warming via wearing your URL on your t-shirt and at various points jumping up and down screaming “Look at me!” in French because your mother never gave you enough attention, I have made a list: 

Elaborate protest actions that are more logically connected than scaling a tall building to protest global warming via wearing your URL on your t-shirt and at various points jumping up and down screaming “Look at me!” in French because your mother never gave you enough attention

• Climbing the New York Times building to protest the city’s lack of climbing gyms.  See?  That makes sense. It’s downright syllogistic.  Let’s keep going.

• Climbing the New York Times building to protest underdeveloped quadriceps.

• Raising awareness of global warming by carting a homeless polar bear to the front steps of the New York Times building.  See?  The stunt part has something to do with global warming.  Amazing! 

• Climbing the New York Times building to raise awareness of the shocking variation in population density between low and high altitudes.

•  Climbing the New York Times building to call attention to journalists’ ironic lack of privacy from athletic Peeping Toms.

•  Raising awareness of global warming by flooding the New York Times building with a melted fjord. 

I have never been a professional dishwasher

May 18, 2007

This may sound familiar to those of you who’ve seen my one-woman show, but I have a piece up on RagingFace.com:

Proof of the Qualities That We, as a Culture, Value in Standup Comedians — by Jennifer Dziura

Audio! Literacy recommended but not required.

March 4, 2007

Here we have a professionally-recorded audio clip of me reading my latest McSweeney’s piece. I thought you might like this if you somehow enjoy my blog but deeply resent being forced to process the written language.

A MEMO TO MY NEW BOYFRIEND…
by Jennifer Dziura

top article on McSweeney’s today!

March 4, 2007

Update: I am an idiot. I have fixed the link in this post. NOW click on it. Do not go back in time and click on it, or you will be sorely misled. Thank you.

A MEMO
TO MY NEW
BOYFRIEND
RE: CLARIFICATION
OF OFFER PURSUANT
TO SECURITIES AND
EXCHANGE COMMISSION
REGULATIONS AND ALSO
MY TROUBLE WITH
MONOGAMY.
BY JENNIFER DZIURA

Addendum: A lawyerly friend of mine replied:

There is some question as to whether a contractual bargain that extends into perpetuity must be written to be enforceable, per the applicable state Statute of Frauds, which (if the common law of Merrie Olde England is anything to go by) covers contracts of marriage, contracts for the sale or transfer of land, and contracts not by their terms performable within the space of one year. Thus, mere oral agreement to love someone “forever” (assuming time lasts for more than one year) would not be enforceable. However, there may be applicable state glosses on the applicability of the statute to contracts involving vague or imprecise terms, like “forever,” which should be researched. More importantly, your original promise to love was that — a promise, not a contract. To be enforceable, a contract must extract consideration for performance — i.e, a thing of value that will be given to you in exchange for what you offer to give up. While you may have promised love indefinitely, it was not (as stated) in return for something else, and thus your offer cannot be enforced against you, either at law or equity.

So there!

McSweeney’s

February 16, 2007

I had another piece accepted to McSweeney’s! Here are the first two, in case you missed them:

• SELF-HELP BOOKS FOR HIPSTERS

• AN OPEN LETTER TO JAMES RANDI REGARDING HIS “ONE MILLION DOLLAR PARANORMAL CHALLENGE”

The new one should go up in a few weeks.

Skanks on a Plane

November 29, 2006

Here is some voiceover work I did for The Bob & Tom Show in August. (I didn’t write any of this, and the other female voices are not me — in fact, I only first heard the not-me parts when I received a CD of the clip in the mail).

Skanks on a Plane!

It’s my McSweeney’s Day (part II)

November 1, 2006

I have a list on McSweeney’s today!

It’s much shorter than my last McSweeney’s submission.

Survivor: Ultimate Edition!

September 18, 2006

An article on Salon by Heather Havrilesky about the current season of Survivor, in which teams are broken down by race, contains this hilarious account of the depravity of European-Americans:

A member of the white tribe steals a chicken from a member of the Asian tribe, and is unrepentant, saying later, “I saw a chicken, I grabbed a chicken, because the chicken was free.” Upon arriving on their island, the white tribe members congratulate one another on “kicking ass” and grabbing so much good stuff so quickly. Later, while chatting about her nickname, one of the tribe members accidentally sets both of the two chickens free. The tribe members chase the chickens, but can’t catch them, and the guy who stole the chickens is extremely angry. Later that night, the first night on the island, two of the cute young people, Adam and Candace, cuddle…. Is this really “Survivor,” or some kind of ominous fable depicting the rise and fall of Western civilization?    

Apparently, Survivor has engaged in similar demographic hijinks in the past, like separating people by age or gender. You know what I’d like to see?

 Survivor: Democrats vs. Republicans!

Episode 1:The Republican team attempts to annex the entire island in the name of Manifest Destiny (and Jesus). Someone immediately begins drilling for oil. The Republican women submit dutifully to the men, except the strident blonde one, who loudly proclaims that everyone on the Democratic side of the island rapes babies. When host Jeff Probst points out that the Democratic team has no babies, she sharpens a stick with her serpent-teeth and writes SLANDER: Lies from the Democratic Side of the Island, Which by the Way is Full of Baby Rapists Who also LOVE TERRORISM. Two male members of the Republican team build a “log cabin” and are promptly ostracized by the rest of the group, until it comes time to vote.

The Democratic team promptly breaks down into oppressed minority groups, each with its own coalition. A debate ensues over whether to found a coalition for transgendered group members, even though no one in the group is transgendered. The deaf lesbian declares the area between the river and the westmost coconut tree to be a “safe space for women.” A debate ensues over whether, were the transgendered coalition to gain any members, those members would be welcome in the safe space for women. The discussion breaks down in the absence of a sign language interpreter, at which point the Democrats realize they are late for a Challenge against the Republican team. They promptly lose, while nevertheless agreeing that they are, once again, oppressed. Returning to their side of the island, the Democrats use palm fronds to build primitive computers and huddle together to develop their “netroots strategy.”

married to a snake

June 22, 2006

This is a traditional Hindu wedding between a woman and a King Cobra (the snake didn’t show, so a brass replica is standing in for him):

Dan Henninger on Fox News said:

A woman in India last week married a snake. I would like to ask the proponents of gay marriage–which violates, after all, traditions going back through all of human history–to now absolutely, positively guarantee that the next movement is not going to be allowing people to marry their pet horse, dog or cat. And you know What? Given the “anything goes” culture we live in, I don’t think they can deliver that guarantee.

Stephen Colbert’s response (we are “manning the barricades at Fort Marriage!”) is here.

According to the Khaleej Times, this was a love match, and Bimbala Das’s neighbors were delighted that she had fallen in love with a snake, because they believe the marriage will bring good luck to the village. (From an AFP story: “Snakes and particularly the King Cobra are venerated in India as religious symbols worn by Lord Shiva, the god of destruction.”)

Hrm. So the conservative argument is: if you can marry someone of the same gender, it’s a slippery slope to … snakes!

What I haven’t heard anyone mention is that alternatives to traditional marriage, however restrictive or weird, have long been sought out by gay people living in societies restrictive to gays. For instance, nunneries were at one time chock-full of (along with girls who’d gotten knocked up) women who simply couldn’t bear the thought of marriage to a man — so being a bride of Christ, along with lots of other chicks, seemed a suitable alternative.

Das says “Though snakes cannot speak nor understand, we communicate in a peculiar way. Whenever I put milk near the anthill where the cobra lives, it (the snake) always comes out to drink.” She will now live in a hut near the snake’s anthill.

Hrm…. Maybe Bimbala is pulling a fast one, no? Here are the choices — get married off to a man twice my age, be a slave to his jealous mother-in-law, have his kids, and do everything he says until he dies, after which, fortunately I won’t be burned alive, but I’ll still be considered basically useless; or … live by myself at this anthill! Do some embroidery, cook whatever I want, maybe get a Netflix membership….

…and maybe my best friend Priya can come over, scented with cardamom, and we’ll have privacy, glorious privacy, as long as we don’t get strangled by a cobra mid-cunnilingus.

porn with mustaches: my practical joke from 2004

January 24, 2006

In 2004, I had a profile on a modeling website, and I would sometimes receive offers to do porn. One time, I decided to write back. I was able to do so anonymously because it was clear that I had received a mass email, so if I wrote back from a different address, the porn producer would assume that my false identity had been on the list.The original email:

I am a producer for anew and innovative adult film company. I am looking for fresh new faces, some that dont look like they have been around the block. i need girls ages 18-30 for adult film modeling. how far you go is all up to you. Average pay is $1000-$2000per film which would include at least 2 scenes. In your response I would prefer a full body picture, but headshots are acceptable. If you do only send a headshot please describe body style. also, please let me know if you have any preferences such as only girl/girl, boy/girl, oral. let me know if you have any specialties as well. Females only! Also looking for fluffers. This is an easy way to make money ladies! i would pay for any expenses incurred while in LA.  

I wrote back and decided to play naive. Also, since I was asked for “preferences,” I figured I’d come up with something:

Thank you for the email. I am interested in the adult film industry. I do have some preferences. Actually, it’s kind of weird. I can only have sex if the guy has a mustache. I don’t trust men who don’t have mustaches. Can you work with that? My favorite specialty is this thing I learned in India that the girls do with their elbows while they are turned around from behind. You have to see it to believe it! I recommend that everyone go to India.I have not seen many adult films. Can you recommend some titles so I can see what kind of work you do?What is a fluffer? 

The reply:

that sounds kind of kinky! please provide a picture of yourself, preferably a full body shot. also, where are you located? is there anything you would not be willing to try, besides a guy without a mustache?  

Somewhere in here, there was also an email about whether I could provide female friends to act as fluffers. Also at this point, I figured I’d better come up with a picture, so I sent him the only naked-lady photo on my desktop — one of a girl who had hit on me on Nerve, wanting to arrange something with herself, her boyfriend, and me (never happened). But since she was freely sending her naked pictures to total strangers, I didn’t feel too bad forwarding this one. I did feel I had to explain her grooming preferences:

Hi, here is a picture I took of myself in the mirror. Do I need to shave my pubic hair? My boyfriend is French. He likes it all bushy. You know how the French are. Um, I’m sure there’s stuff I wouldn’t be willing to try, like animals or something. I’m not sure, what kind of things are you thinking of? Also, can you recommend some movies that show what kind of stuff you make?About the fluffers — if the girls are off-camera, why do they have to be good looking? I have a couple of friends who might do it but one is fat and the other one isn’t very attractive. She has nice tits but they’re fake. 

Although the photo was believably candid, the porn producer wanted further proof.

hey what is your name? is that really you in that picture? you have an innocent look to you which is perfect for what i’m looking for. what i’m thinking about is having innocent looking young girls and older men. i’m talking about men in their 40’s. so its nothing that extreme like animals or anything. when i asked what you wouldnt be wiling to do i meant like oral sex or something. and just to make sure thats really you in that pic send me a couple of pics in which you’re wearing clothes holding a sign that says hi.  

Since I couldn’t comply with this request, I never wrote back. (Also, I never succeeded in getting him to send me a list of porn film titles that he recommended as “research”). That was in 2004. Today, I receive this:

hey i just saw that i still had this email… would you still be interested?  

My reply:

Hey, thanks for the email. Actually, I am working with an adult film company now. They make retro-seventies type films, all wood-paneling, men with hairy chests — and mustaches! I’m actually shooting tomorrow for ‘Mustache Rider XIII - The Handlebar Incident.’”  

 Photos are of Ryan Scott, who won a mustache contest.

and I owe this moment of fame to … the gout

June 7, 2005

This appeared in Virginia’s Daily Press newspaper on Monday, May 30.

the gout

May 17, 2005

I saw a cafe in Brooklyn called “Le Petit Gout.” I looked up the word “gout” when I got home, and it means “taste,” which makes sense, but still — the gout? Gross. If people’s first reaction when they see your cafe is to think of a hideous swelling ailment, that might cut into your scone sales.

Le Petit Gout is certainly better then Le Grand Gout, but really, any gout is just too much gout. Ask a nursing home resident.

An Open Letter to the Marketing Executive Who Names Shades of Pantyhose

February 24, 2005

Dear Marketing Executive Who Names Shades of Pantyhose:

I know that I’ll never be “suntan.” Even when I actually have a tan, my legs are far, far paler than “suntan.” I grew up in Virginia Beach, where, despite the presence of the beach, everyone goes to tanning salons to darken up all the fat they’ve accumulated from eating too much barbecue.

If I’m not “suntan” (and I’m certainly not “mocha” or the colors that are even darker than that), it looks like “beige” and “ivory” are the next couple of notches down, but again, my skin is paler than both of those hues. I wouldn’t want to be “beige” — that would make my complexion sound like the old family computer or the waiting room at the DMV — but, apparently, I am lighter than “ivory.” Having never physically juxtaposed my legs to the tusks of elephants, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt on this one.

Your next lightest shade on offer is “nude,” which, in some kind of Aryan color hegemony, indicates “a color paler than ivory.” But even “nude” is too dark for my skin. Yes, I am that pale. But if my nude legs aren’t nude, what (or who) is? And what about all the other women, carmel and mocha-colored women, whose nude legs obviously aren’t your idea of “nude” either? Call the guys over at Crayola — they changed that whole thing about the crayon called “flesh” way back in 1962. Now, you can go to the store and get a box of sixteen special crayons called, literally, “Multicultural Crayons,” so you can color a little United Nations of variably-hued people. Take a hint!

Now that we have established that I am not suntan, beige, ivory, or nude, well … now what? I once dated a Mexican guy who commented that instead of saying I have a “snow-white” complexion, I could alternately say I was the color of salt, cocaine, or aspirin. (Dear Mexican guy: Thanks for the compliments!)

According to the package of pantyhose my mom bought me because she’s the same moon-like, blinding shade of talc (and your pantyhose matched her perfectly!), the color designation you have afforded me is: “oatmeal.”

I am oatmeal-colored. This is not sexy, Mr. Pantyhose Man. If dark-skinned women get to be “carmel” and “mocha” and “espresso,” I want to be “fresh milk” … or “Zinfandel.” Shredded coconut? Raw sugar? Throw me a bone here.

Your loyal customer,
Jennifer Dziura

hot septuagenarian erotica — plus half-fare metrocards!

October 6, 2004

Today I attended the first meeting of my fiction writing class. I am excited to see how my work will play among the over-55 crowd. Last time I took a daytime class, it seemed to be full of actors and waiters; this time it’s retired people.

This is by no means a complaint, as I enjoy interacting with people who remember decades of perhaps more import than the last few. But it’s also entirely possible that somebody will just be kind of miffed or offended.

Maybe I’ll just continue writing my usual perversion-and-lurid-interest stories and simply make all the characters septuagenarians.

“I’m not a lesbian,” said Mabel, swallowing. She had always been shy. “But maybe for you I could make an exception.”

Slowly, Hattie scanned up and down Mabel’s floral-clad figure. And in one swift movie, Hattie had Mabel’s wrists behind her back and was staring into her eyes with the intensity of stark-white cross stitch on black linen.

“You’ll be whatever I tell you to,” said Hattie. “I’ve been watching you since the very first night you came to bingo.”

Hattie’s hands were strong despite her arthritis, and her will was even stronger. Her grip on Mabel tightened, and Hattie’s face belied the slightest sly smirk.

I’ve been shrinking over the years, thought Mabel. I’ve gotten shorter. She looked up at Hattie, Hattie who was nearly five-foot-six in her Dr. Scholl’s pumps, whose hair was perfectly marcelled, whose silver cane was always polished to a pure, bright shine.

Mabel was scared. She trembled like a schoolgirl back when coyness was still a virtue; she shook like the three-layer gelatin ambrosia she always brought to her grandchildren’s birthdays.

I’ve always wanted to know what it was like, thought Mabel. She imagined the sapphic pleasures that lay ahead of her, the thoughts that had overtaken her mind ever since the first widows’ group meeting. She imagined everyone playing “strip support group,” wherein each lady had to remove an item of clothing for each time she shared about overcoming her loss. Of course you miss Walter, they would say. Now take off your girdle.

“We’re going to my room,” said Hattie.

“I’ll tell the nurse we’ll be playing Chinese checkers,” she continued, “and that we don’t want to be disturbed.”

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