KillerWhalePettingZoo

All of a sudden using the word fuck is cool again. Popular websites like LookatThisFuckingHipster, TheFuckingWeather, and FuckMyLife are more rampant than The Salvation Army ringing bells and panhandling outside of department stores.

The first and definitely last time my mother heard me say fuck, we were in the parking lot of the San Diego Zoo. I didn’t want to see the zoo because I was hungry and the caged elephant made me sad. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no advocate for animal rights by any means; I consume meat like it’s going out of style. I just hate the smell of stale urine in a cramped environment while little kids on a sugar high bump into my legs. Take that same swarm of children in India, and I would’ve had my wallet stolen and succumbed to identity theft before I even got out of the car.

More so than losing a credit card, I have an irrational fear of losing a winning lottery ticket. In Lake George, NY during the summer of 2002, a man won the Powerball jackpot of an unprecedented $389 million at the same convenience store my Dad and I bought a ticket 20 minutes prior. Clearly ours was not the winner because I wouldn’t be writing this blog and I’d be living on some island in the fucking Mediterranean Sea while dark-haired sluts fed me aged cheese and performed fellatio at predetermined intervals. Dad was always pissed off about that, not the lack of aged cheese, but about not winning the lotto. “We came so close!” He vowed to never gamble again.

I used to collect and save my fortunes from fortune cookies. You know those one-liners that are more obscure than an astrology reading in the newspaper? Yea, those. I tried playing the digits on the back as my lotto numbers for several years. I would rarely hit two or three numbers, but nothing more. I think the distribution company closed because on the back of the fortune the writing changed from my lucky numbers to, “Learn how to Speak Chinese.” Where’s my lucky numbers? FUCK YOU FORTUNE COOKIE WRITER YOU MOTHERFUCKER does it look like I’m travelling to Beijing to try to seduce some well-mannered and docile Asian chick with the ass of a 10-yr old boy?!? NO.

36-23-36. At first glance that seems like a random 3-digit combo that might win big in that quick play 3 number game. Actually they’re the measurements of a recent girl I slept with, or should I say “fucked” in Manhattan. Yea, that sounds cooler, might earn 5 bonus street cred/hipster points by writing fuck. The only reason these digits are relevant is because Pamela Anderson’s body measurements in her prime were 36-24-36, so basically this girl had a 1” skinnier waist which made her ass look an inch bigger than Pam’s. Her face wasn’t that great, but once I realized the mathematical similarities there was no turning back. It was as close as I was ever going to get to having sex with Pamela Anderson. I tried to get her to wear a red bathing suit, but she wasn’t having it. Pam’s ass was pretty good, but the TV show was always about her bouncing tits. Baywatch rarely featured her running down the beach away from the camera, just towards it. I heard she recently auctioned off that red buoy she carried around on set. Not that I’d buy it, but shouldn’t it be donated to the National Lifeguarding Museum?

Besides reminiscing about my delusional sex life and a near decade of losing the lottery, next time I’ll talk more about going to the zoo with Mom and the tortoise who threw up a piece of banana. Maybe I’ll touch upon the fact that I sported khakis and collared shirts in public school till I was a teenager because I aspired to be successful like my father. By the way, that trip to the San Diego zoo… was when I was 4 years old and I just learned how to swear. Mom spanked me so hard, even she cried. But c’mon give me a break, at that age I just wanted to dress and talk like Dad, help him rake leaves, wash the car, mow the lawn, and do everything and anything that he did because it was cool. By the time I reached high school, I remember saying to myself, “Fuck that.”