I’d Rather Fall In Love With Butt Sniffer [Friday Thoughts With TeeCoZee]
Greetings and salutations. That was my best attempt at a bad Christian Slater impression. Not impressed? Whatever, let’s go get a Slushie. It’s Friday, August 28, Two Thousand and Fifteen. The weather in Brooklyn is 79˚ & clear [but not sunny?] and somewhere, somebody is dipping their hands into gray water. Not sure why they’re doing that. Probably for the sake and satisfaction of seeing me writhe in disgust. But they can’t see me. It’s all pointless. This gray water has meant nothing. I also have some things on my mind.
– I saw a gang of old guys hanging out by a fence. Such a rare and friendly sight. Usually, you see no-good-bad-doers, pitbull[s] and police [both of whom are also no-good-bad-doers] hanging out in front of fences. These guys were a breath of fresh air. Instead of hassling and catcalling, they were making sure that everyone on the sidewalk was having a good day. They used terms like “tootin'” and “cracker jack”, neither of which I understood the context of. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started a game of Pinochle.
Which got me to thinking about Pinochle. I researched what it was about 2 minutes ago, and yes, it is a card game. As a kid, I wasn’t totally sure what it was and I thought it was spelled “Pee Knuckle” because duh. I kind of thought that it was a variation of Bloody Knuckles, where the loser got peed on. All that I knew was that it was some grown up shit and only the older/cooler kids would maker references to it. And when they made references, it was always somewhat derogatory:
“Where’s your parents?”
“Playing Pinochle, what’s it to you, Booger Lips?”
“I heard your Mom and Mr Hadley were playing Pinochle after church.”
“What are they doing?”
“Playing Pinochle, how the hell should I know?”
Given those examples, I guess Pinochle=innuendo? Or am I just making all of this up? Did everybody else understand from day one that Pinochle is just a stupid card game? Why do old men always wear the same white Nike Airs? How do old men keep their shoes so goddamned white? You would think that if they walk worse than others, they’re more prone to dirty shoes, right? How in the hell am I going to write this piece, make two packs of cigarettes and pack for camping in 60 minutes flat? I guess I have to keep pushing. Or pay someone to finish this. Or stop asking questions. Or ask more questions. Or finish this paragraph. Or make it longer. Damnit. Go.
– When I look back at my endless romantic failures, there’s one that still sticks out in my mind. She might have been The One™, but I was too young to know better. We were both too young. But she was real good to me. She listened to everything I had to say, no matter how mundane. She always showed me affection, even when I didn’t want it or was embarrassed. The girl worshipped the ground I walked on and yet, I took it all for granted. Instead of seeing her as a shining light in my life, I treated her as a nuisance. Somebody who just wouldn’t go away. And then when she finally did, I didn’t know what to think of it. Her name was Butt Sniffer, the imaginary girlfriend that my sister and cousins made up to torment me.
My siblings initially set us up during an extended game of House. She allegedly had a mousy face, Coke Bottle Glasses and watched way too much CNN. She also enjoyed cold/dirty Pizza Rolls and the smell of her own farts. Whenever I least expected it, she would pop into the room and ruthlessly attack me with cootie-laden kisses. I tried so hard to make her disappear. I can’t remember how many times I broke up with her. I even tried it on Meat Loaf Night. No dice. This girl loved me, that was a fact. But she wasn’t made of stone. The details are still fuzzy in my head but whatever I said made her cry. She cursed my name incessantly as she packed her bags. I thought that she’d come back the next day, or maybe the day after. Weeks went by without a sight of her. A hole started to grow inside me. I’d try to chide my sister into bringing her back with no avail. She would sigh and say, “She’s not coming back, Troy. You did this”.
Months went by like a flash. I couldn’t recognize the boy in the mirror. My vision blurred and I started gaining weight exponentially. I was a shell of the person I was with her. When Butt Sniffer left, she took my happiness with her. I tried to fill in the hole with football, video games and MTV, but there was and always will be a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. Every time I walked by the dumpster outside a Chinese restaurant, I imagine her hiding behind it, watching me, getting misty-eyed, shoving rotten House Lo Mein into her chapped food hole. The thought of her watching the ’96 election or Jerry Lewis Telethon without me made me want to die.
I looked her up on Facebook a couple of weeks ago. I could’ve done that years ago, but I was afraid of what I would see. To my surprise, she actually lives in Harlem. I quickly grabbed a C train to Fulton Street, hopped on a 2 train that got rerouted over the Lextington Ave Line to everybody’s disdain, got off at 125 and grabbed an M60 SBS to Malcolm X and then grabbed an R-68A 3 train to 145th st, realized that it was the wrong 145th st station and just took an Uber to her crib. She hadn’t changed a bit. Her mousy face, her ammonia scent, her runny nose, her birthmark that looks like a turd, it was still the girl I knew 20 years ago. She’s been living in New York for 5 years now. She’s an editor for Madd Magazine, something she had always dreamed of. We took a stroll around the hood and recalled fond memories. Like the time she threw a booger pie in my face. As we ate discarded skins from a trash bag outside an Obama Fried Chicken, we locked eyes. It was possible that the last 20 years only made our love grow stronger. I took Butt Sniffer by the hand and asked her to marry me. It was all crazy. I was blinded by nostalgia. She tackled me onto the pile of trash and screamed yes, as she laid snotty kisses all over my face.
And then I woke up. As I gazed out my bedroom window, it slowly dawned on me. She didn’t live in Harlem and she didn’t work for Madd Magazine and most of all, she still probably never wants to see me again. Maybe it’s all for the better. But still, what did this dream mean? Does it mean that I can finally get over her and move on with my life? Or does it mean the opposite, that I’m doomed to strike out because of how badly I treated her. One thing I do know, Butt Sniffer, if you’re out there, I miss you dearly. I hope you’re happy, curdled up on the inflatable couch eating a warm can of Spam. I hope you met someone that could appreciate you for who you are. And most of all, my dear Butt Sniffer, I hope you’re happy. Because if you are, then maybe I have a chance at finding happiness, too. But until then, I’ll just keep whispering your name into the wind…
– This weeks edition of Ad Nauseous is brought to you by the MTV Video Music Awards, airing August 30, Live on MTV, home of the VMAs!
You can’t be serious, right? This? THIS?!? What is the appeal of THIS? Why is this plastered in every single subway station across the city? Who are they targeting? People on acid? That makes up about 0.005% of citizens! This just screams out “You should watch the VMAs. It’s hosted by some crazy bitch and SPRINKLES SPRINKLES FUCKING SPRINKLES AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH SPRIIIIINNNNNKLLLLLLEEEEEESSSSSSSS DEAD LIBRARIANS AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH IT BURNS SO GOOOOOOOD”. Also, not to mention, it’s just downright frightening. This isn’t some privately displayed art piece in a gallery. This is a mass-produced shock tactic that can and will be seen by billions of people ages 0-110. And for that fact alone, they should be a little more sensitive about whose lives they’re going to scar. Because trust me, if 8 year old me saw this ad, I would never ride the subway or watch TV again. This stuff is pure nightmare. It’s killer clowns in your closet, waiting for the right time to attack and when they do, it will make absolutely no sense.
– This weeks Letter From Coze is another response to the response about my response to pooping myself:
“But you’ve never seen me cry”
You cried 2 minutes after saying that. Joke’s on you, crybaby.
– Just to keep the poop streak going: I don’t see the shame in carrying toilet paper. If I buy a roll from the deli, I’m not going to hide it in a bag. I’m going to flaunt it and say, “My name is TeeCoZee, I like tossing toilet paper in the air and guess what, my ass is clean after I poop!”
Try this trick over the weekend: Give a random stranger a roll of toilet paper. Tell them they need it more than you do. Then exit while laughing manically.
Have a giving weekend, everyone!