Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Love in a Dumpster

According to today's NY Post, a couple was robbed while having sex in a Dumpster. Before we can begin to dissect this, for those of you not in the know, a couple of facts.

The NY Post is owned by Rupert Murdoch, which makes it part of the Fox right-wing conspiracy in some circles. It's not really known for high standards of journalism. When the ACORN brothel scandal broke, the Post made sure to have a picture of the girl dressed in her phony-hooker finery. The paper is written at a sixth-grade reading level, and in between the anti-Obama, pro-Iraq War screeds is a healthy helping of this kind of salacious story. Which is precisely why I read the NY Post.

Next, and I'm certain many of you did not know this, but when you write the word for the giant metal box in which you throw your garbage and dispose of your corpses, you must capitalize it. It's "Dumpster" not "dumpster." I'm not entirely sure why; I believe it's the same reason you must capitalize Gatorade and Band-aids and Coca-Cola -- it's a proper name. I've sometimes wondered if it's actually named after someone, like William Dumpster. In which case, I'm sure his mother is proud he invented the damn thing.

Now, on to the heart of the story... If you recall, a couple was robbed, at knife point, while they were having sex in a Dumpster. This occurred in Witchita KS, which surprises me because you'd think with the high number of discarded babies found in Dumpsters, and mob soldiers found in Dumpsters, this event would have occurred in good ole NYC. But no, Kansas it is.

How horny do you have to be to have sex in a Dumpster? You know how it is; you're at a club, and you meet Ms. Right (or Ms. Right Now), and you just gotta get your groove on. The stalls in the bathroom are full of people already having sex (or snorting coke -- wait, this is Kansas, so they're doing crystal meth). You can't go to your car, because you don't want to mess up your upholstery. And you can't stand to drive to a Motel 6, because, you know, you gotta have it right now.

So you propose the Dumpster. Now, was this thing full or empty at the time? This question oddly consumes me. Because it makes a big difference -- the one between fucking on a pile of smelly garbage, or fucking in an uncomfortably hard metal box. I'm not sure which I'd prefer.

How do you talk your impending sex partner to have sex in a Dumpster, anyway? "Hey baby, I really have to have you right now; you're so beautiful and I love you so much. Let's fuck in this Dumpster..." What amazes me is the other person agreed to this, instead of suggesting the back seat of the car or the aforementioned sex in the bathroom. Somehow, this whole Dumpster thing seemed like a good, viable option to them. Both individuals were 44-years old, so you'd think they'd know better.

Then, along comes two guys with knives to ruin what was, I'm sure, was a romantic moment. Or screwing in a Dumpster. I have a funny feeling these men were two homeless guys who were simply rooting around for food in Dumpsters and when they stumbled upon the couple they thought "ew!" But then they thought "opportunity." So they robbed the couple of their shoes, jewelry, and wallets.

(All of this has gotten me to thinking about the strangest place I've ever had sex. It was Toledo, Ohio. That's all. No phone booth. No airplane bathroom. No map room at the local library. Just, plain, old Toledo. Period. End of sentence.)

Thankfully, these criminal masterminds were apprehended soon afterwards, and the couple's property was returned to them. No idea if the sex-in-Dumpster-couple was given a citation for indescent exposure (or monumental stupidity).

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Meet the Real Life Buffy

This is just too good to pass up. Apparently, according to USA Today, a 16-year old cheerleader in South Carolina bagged herself an alligator. Cammie Collins, of Pelion, caught a 10-foot-long, 353-pound gator. She was out on a boat with her family, apparently with the intention of alligator-hunting (since they were in a swampy area, and used a fishing pole to lure the beast close to the boat). Especially since she just registered earlier this year for her alligator-hunting license. Oh, and she finally killed this giant, toothy eating-machine with a crossbow.

This just boggles the mind.

First, who in the hell goes out in a boat with the intention of hunting alligators? I didn't know you could do that, though the state of South Carolina actually hands out licenses to do so. Also, apparently, her father thinks this is a perfectly legitimate way to spend quality time with the family. "Hey kids, let's go out and hunt us some 'gators!" Kids: "Yay!" My father thought going out for Carvel ice cream was a suitable family outing. I don't know what I would have done if he'd suggested alligator hunting.

Second, clearly this girl has issues. When I was a kid in high school, no cheerleader I knew would even go fishing, much less hunt an alligator. Isn't she supposed to be worrying about her hair and nails? Isn't her day supposed to be consumed with texting about boys? If I were a guy in her class, I'd think twice before asking her on a date. Lest I get a crossbow bolt in my head for, you know, doing what you're supposed to do when you date a cheerleader.

And really, it's the crossbow element of this story that propels it from "interesting" to "bizarre." If I were going to hunt alligator, I would think "gun." Not "crossbow." It's not like the crossbow is a speedy weapon. You've got to crank it, noch a bolt, fire. Hell, a bow and arrow is faster. What would this family have done if Cammie missed the first shot? They'd be gator chum. How does a cheerleader even learn to use a crossbow? It's all just too medival.

This whole thing smacks of a bad real-life immitation of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. All I know is, when the vampires or zombies finally attack (and you know they're coming), I want Cammie on my team.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

She Sinned for Your Shoes

Puma, the running shoe company, is running a new ad campaign in the NYC subway system. I'm not sure if it's being run elsewhere, for the simple reason that I don't live anywhere else. They've taken over an entire tunnel at the West 4th Street station, which means you cannot escape the intense Puma-ness. I'm often overwhelmed when a company does this, simply because it smacks of some kind of Soviet-style propaganda campaign; the only thing you see is one thing, the thing they want you to see. And it's overwhelming. But that's not what bothers me in this case.

It's the actual ad campaign. Puma wants you to come meet one of their employees. Her name is Jessica L. and apparently she runs across the rooftops of NYC. I didn't know you could do that. I would imagine a large number of people would call the police if they saw someone vaulting, parkour-like, along the skyline.

The billboards exhort you to come by the Puma Store to meet Jessica L. and hear about her exploits. Naturally, she does this in Puma sneakers. Maybe, after you speak with Jessica, you'll be inspired to buy a pair of their sneakers and run, Parkour-like, across your own neighborhood rooftops. I'm not entirely sure the NYPD likes this ad campaign.

Personally, I have only two questions for Jessica: 1) Do you wear some kind of superhero costume while you do this (I'm betting it's Spiderman)? and 2) why in the hell would you do something like this when there are perfectly non-high places where you can run? Then again, I was raised Jewish, and my mother thought playing anywhere near a street was dangerous, that little Jewish boys were better off reading than running around, and that I should wait an hour after eating before I go anywhere near any kind of water. I didn't learn to ride a bike until I was in junior high.

Jessica L. herself looks like a young Farah Fawcett clone, which creeps me the hell out considering the latter just died from ass cancer. (I'm certain I just offended someone with that one, but that's what "rectal cancer" is, and I think it sounds nicer). So is the motivation to get you to talk to Jessica L. about her running exploits, or to have a line of sketchy men asking her for her phone number all day long? (And would she give it to me if I bought a pair of Pumas? Please?) Would any of us care if Jessica L. was actually Jesse L., a hairy, 300 lbs. tub of lard? (Then again, such a person wouldn't be running anywhere, I suppose).

What really caught my eye, however, were the hours when you could meet the lovely roof-top running, Puma-wearing Jessica L. Monday to Saturday, 10 to 8, and Sunday, 11 to 7. Apparently, Jessica, trooper that she is, works seven days a week; and she works a ten hour day most days, and an eight hour day on Sunday. Now, I'm pretty sure this is illegal for an hourly employee, so someone in government somewhere should drop by and have a little talk with the Puma slave drivers. Does she even get a lunch hour?

But moreover, if Jessica L. is the hardest working woman in the shoe business, working 68 hours per week, when in the hell does she have time to go galavanting across the rooftops of NY? Is she out there at all hours of the night, leaping from building-to-building? And if she is, maybe she should consider wearing a superhero costume after all. Maybe this could be Puma's next ad campaign, where you can talk to Jessica L. and find out how she beat up Green Goblin, or that time she took out the Riddler.

Or maybe, it's all a put up job by some corporation, and Jessica L. isn't a real person at all. In which case, I wish they'd take their damn annoying propaganda campaign down.