The Massholes of the ocean

First off, I'm a natural born Baystater so I'm allowed to make commentary on everything to do with Massachusetts. We're a crazy bunch. If you've ever driven on our highways of (God forbid) been to a Red Sox game, you know this.

Anyway, my story. The Massholes of the ocean otherwise known as Orcas (aka Killer Whales aka Free Willy). Now these little bastards may look all cute and cuddly at sea world, but they are the greatest jerks in the deep blue sea. They are.

My evidence:

Ever watch NatGeo? I do. And killer whales are mean little suckers. Do you know what they eat? Seals and penguins. Now, besides the cute factor, I don't have anything against this. Whales have to eat, it's the circle of life, yadda yadda yadda. It's not what they eat that grinds my gears but rather HOW they eat it. Let me create this scenario for you, oh reader of mine.

You are a baby seal. You are possibly the cutest thing in existence. You are newly born, playing on the beach with all your seal friends when, all of a sudden, something is not right. Your mommy seal is barking at you to get away from the surf. "Why, mom?" you think, "I'm on the sand. Nothing is going to come up here and get me." WRONG baby seal because badass killer whales beach themselves in a quasi-suicidal manner in order to NAHMNAHMNAHM yo' ass. That's right, they literally throw themselves onto the beach in order to eat baby seals.

Jerk move. Seriously. It's like when you were little and playing tag and someone called the fence as safety and you, being the tag ninja that you are, reach that fence. But it doesn't matter because the tagger is a mean little butt head and slams into you, knocks you off the fence AND EATS YOU.

So there. Killer whales. They are Massholes- completely inconsiderate of all other sea life.

Crankerella: A modern day fairy tale

Keeping with the theme of dinner time epiphanies, here lies another brilliantly misplaced (and just weird) idea: Crankerella. As if the original tale wasn't Grimm enough (oh, puns). Disclaimer: this wasn't only my idea. I owe some credit to a boy with whom I was having dinner.

In this version, dear reader, there is no magic, only the cold and unwelcoming facts of daily life. Well, not really. At least not for me as I'm not a young crack whore attempting to make her mark on the drug scene like our protagonist. Anywho and anyway, Crankerella (we'll call her Cranky for short) still managed to hold on to some semblance of beauty, which, as a crack whore, is pretty gosh-darn impressive. She lives with her evil pimp daddy and two ugly crack whores in downtown Newark. Now, Crankerella is no princess; she's hardly what one would imagine as the answer to Walt Disney. Needless to say, she's pretty miserable. Life sucks, she has nothing to look forward to but the next high, etc, etc.

Cue Prince's Ball. By which I of course mean a dance held in the basement of an abandoned factory hosted by the city's drug king and his ever so available bachelor son (also the heir to his drug kingdom). See some connections here, reader?

Cranky desperately wants to attend this ball. Naturally, it's the greatest event her young, tragic life has ever seen. Problem: she is a crack whore completely dependent on her pimp, and since Ms. Cranky hasn't been making bank recently, he's none too happy. He takes his other two... um, courtesans?... to the dance but leaves poor Cranky behind to wallow in her misery.

Oh no! How shall this story come to a happy resolution? Why, don't fret, reader, there is always a miracle in the form of a Sugar Daddy just waiting to sweep in and save the day. And so he does. He tricks out his car with big wheels and the ability to do the raising up and falling down bouncy motion that all cool cars can do, gets her the sluttiest of slut dresses (think red with slits... lots of slits... and geometrically cut out squares... and mad short, brothaa), and sings her the "Bippity, boppity, boo" song to top it all off.

At the dance: ghetto dancing. I don't know, reader, if you have ever seen such a thing, but if you grew up in an inner city public school, you know what I'm talking about: sex on the dance floor. Literally. So literal, in fact, that when the young drug prince spies Cranky on the dance floor and is immediately seized by passion and forced to follow his... amorous desires?... towards her and ghetto dances the hell out of her, she is actually impregnated. And, what's that? The sugar daddy only lent Cranky his stuff until midnight because he had an early morning in the morrow and wanted some sugar of his own. Egads! She had to run out right after her "dance" with the prince in order to be back in time. As she left, she drops her monogramed coke straw, which the prince conveniently finds.

The prince had an amazing time with Cranky and wants to find her again, if only for another one night stand because, damn, that girl was goooooood. He searches low, he searches high, he searches sober, and he eventually finds the house with the pimp, Cranky, and her fellow mistresses of the night. Cranky, meanwhile, has discovered her pregnancy and is freaking the flip out. When the prince arrives, all, of course, claim to be his love, but since he was pretty much blackout, he can't really discern. Luckily, he has the coke straw! He places it ever so gently into the first prostitute's nose.

"No," he says, "Far too oblong."

He continues to the next girl, "No, too tight."

Finally, he gets to Crankerella. "Yes," he smiles, "Just right."

So he takes her home, finds out she's pregnant, and marries her. Hey, just because he's a drug dealer doesn't mean he has no morals. Cranky doesn't see the need to inform him of any of her other trysts; hey, who can blame her? Girl's got it made.

And this is how an everyday crack whore can become a queen. A regional drug queen, but still.

Cloudy With A Chance of Lesbians: Explained

It's dinner time.

We're crowding around a dining hall table because, dear reader, this is college and that's how we do things.

Talk, per usual, turns to stranger tides. Namely: the Queer community and how God-awful hard it is to find a soulmate in the midst of a hookup culture.

"Can't we all just wear signs or something?" says my lesbian Australian neighbor. "Like, 'Hi, my name is so-and-so, and I like women.'" Sure, that would be easier. But what if... what if, reader, there was another way? What if we could enlist the help of overactive imaginations and children's stories in order to create a world in which there was no wondering, no maybes, no chance of rejection and subsequent dejection but only progression in the name of romance? Thus, Cloudy With A Chance of Lesbians is born on a dimly lit oaken table surrounded by chattering students and clattering dinnerware, all blissfully unaware of my labor pains.

Here's the plot. Bear with me. The last lesbian on earth is quite a lonely woman. In this time and place, dear reader, there are no signs, no way of certainly knowing she is in fact the last of her kind, but given the amount of rejection in her life, she is positive this must be it. She is, after all, attractive, well formed, Yale educated (she denied Hahhhhvahd; they were simply too prissy), and all other positive adjectives and fun facts.

She lives on an island, somewhere pretty isolated, so her chances of finding a mate are lessened further. What's a girl to do? Why, build a machine that spews out potential lovers, naturally! Each day, she uses this machine to calibrate characteristics of her idea of an ideal mate. She makes a range of women from kind hearted and motherly to thick skinned and aggressive. Day after day, week after week she makes them. Day after day, week after week, her island is flooded with potential life partners. Day after day, week after week, she does not find Mrs. Right. On the plus side, all the other lesbians she made are having a grand old time meeting and greeting each other and slowly pairing up.

Frustrated, our protagonist brutally destroys her creation (the machine, not the lesbians. This is not a sick murder story, reader). Meanwhile, the old inhabitants of the island are partying it up with the lesbians, but soon they realize that there is a lessening pool of straight mates and eventually leave for more hetero pastures. This turns the island into a modern (post modern?) day Lesbos. La protagonista, however, is still alone.

All is not lost, reader! Lesbians from around the world who also felt alone and isolated have heard of this marvelous, isolated island where they are free to hit on all the women! Huzzah! So they flood in. In this crowd is a very special woman, reader, special because at one point she had a secret crush on our protagonist who, unknowingly, returned those feelings, fully believing they were in vain. They find each other. They fall in love. They adopt babies. They live happily ever after. Boom. Love story.