Your Choice – Live Like an Aristocrat, or be Miserable
This post will be unapologetically lewd, and in horrible taste. That is the only warning you’re getting.
What’s the best thing about fucking twenty five year olds? There’s twenty of them!
Do you laugh when you read or hear that joke? Do you cringe? Perhaps both. Does that make you a pedophile, or in some way dismissive of pedophilia? Of course not. So why do people get so uptight about jokes that make you squirm a little? This world is full of horrible things… the aforementioned pedophilia, racism, child abuse, cancer, AIDS… we can either wrap ourselves in misery as we contemplate all of this, or we can do as is within our nature to do, and find ways to cope; and what better way to cope, than with laughter?
I am generally careful about where I tell certain kinds of jokes, and to whom, but I always try to push the envelope a little bit. Nothing evokes a conversation like supposition that Rihanna should receive writer credit on “Hit Me Baby One More Time”, or that the surefire way to keep black men from jumping on the bed is to put velcro on the ceiling. My motto is if you don’t feel a little guilty laughing about it, it’s probably not that funny.
Jesus walks into a motel, hands the innkeeper some nails and says, “can you put me up for the night?”
Humor is an art form. We’ve seen art develop incredibly over the past couple of thousand years, but the one thing that rings true is that art always delivers to us both the beautiful and horrible things in our lives or imaginations. It’s a steam valve… it helps us to celebrate, as well as mourn. It helps us laugh, as well as cry. Humor is more focused on the laughter, but that’s no reason to ignore the bad stuff. It’s a coping mechanism, and it must be allowed to be just that for everyone. When my mom died, it was February 29th, 2004. Leap day. During the earliest gathering of family after the event, one of the first things I said was to point out that Mom was thoughtful right to the very end; dying on a day that required us to mourn only once every four years. I had to. I still refer to that joke, and people still chuckle/squirm at it.
A documentary I saw recently showed a support group of mothers living with “special” children of varying ages. For the sake of shock value, I generally refer to them as “SPEDS” (short of special ed- a term I learned from the friend of an ex boyfriend who worked with ‘special’ kids). The moms cried, and laughed, and shared all kinds of stories about their kids. Yes… I said laughed. They laughed at situations involving people who didn’t know better. Is that horrible; for a mother who lives every day with a person who will grow up and still require an intensive level of support to laugh at the fact her 24 year old wet his pants from excitement when he saw the trailer for Harry Potter? Or is it indeed cathartic. My vote is on the latter. And it is with that in mind that I encourage you to find ways to laugh about terrible things. Just remember… you’re not laughing at it, you’re messing with the stigmas, and discomforts that surround it.
I finish my blog with a joke that is legendary, and said to be rooted way back in vaudeville times. It is a sort of coming-of-age for comedians, and is told differently by everyone who tells it, with the only similarity being that it is told not as much for laughs as for shock value. There is even a documentary about it with the same name as the joke- “The Aristocrats.” Check out the movie, and prepare for Mattatonic’s spin on The Aristocrats.
A man walks into a talent scout’s office with his wife, their daughter and son, the family dog, and a three-legged goat. The scout says “Can I help you sir?”
The man replies “I hope so. I have an act I want to propose.”
The scout just lets out a sigh and says “I’m sorry sir, but nobody likes family acts anymore. It’s all about sexually ambiguous brothers like the Jonases.”
So the father throws his hands up. “Wait… before you say anything else, you have to see this… I guarantee it’s like nothing you’ve seen before.” And so the scout reluctantly sits back and folds his arms, while the family scuffle around and begin ripping off each other’s clothes wildly. In moments, they are wrapped up naked in a pretzel on a hand-drawn Twister board. The father reaches around with his right hand and and grabs his wife’s left tit. while the son stretches his foot just enough to shove his big toe up the ass of the dog, who (in a startled state) lashes out and bites the three legged goat, who begins to run around the room, shitting and stumbling as he goes. The daughter then bends her head backward, and plants herself face down in the goat shit, singing a medley of Bee Gees songs, with her pussy spread widely enough for the scout to see a family of gerbils, who frantically scurry from her exposed snatch.
Now the son, whose toe is of course free of the goat’s ass, flips forward, landing on his feet, and dives head first into the massive vagina of the well-traveled daughter. With a mad cackle, he leans forward and pushes himself up into a hand stand using the daughters legs to keep himself aloft, head planted firmly inside her.
By now, mother’s breast is red from all the twisting, and she kicks the father in the jaw, causing him to squeal in pain, and three teeth fly from his mouth. The mother gets up, reaches for the dog, and thrusts it forward into the crotch of the bleeding father.
By now, the daughter is losing her balance, and so too the son is as well. Dad’s crotch is being gnawed on by Fido, and the goat has just slipped and gotten its horns lodged in mom’s ass. Mom responds by screaming out, altering the pitch and tone while moving her hand up and down in the style of Mariah Carey. Daughter and son then topple onto mom and dad, and all wriggle around in bloody feces for a moment before standing up, putting their hands over their hearts, and reciting the pledge of allegiance, stomping their feet to kill the family of gerbils, while Fido fucks the three legged goat in the background.
After a moment of silence, the father smiles and the scout applauds wildly. “That was amazing,” he says. What do you call yourselves? And after a sly wink, and a turn to the side to spit out some blood the father grins at the scout and says “The Aristocrats!”