The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

You know the saying There’s nothing better than a good book?  Well then there’s nothing worse than a bad one.  Anything that forces you to stop, block out all life, and focus completely on a series of unmoving words page by page better be hot enough to hold your attention or so help it God it’ll get the rummage heap, I tells you.

I’ve become completely addicted to those Rice Krispies treats.  The big-ass bars they sell at the grocery.  I swear they insert cubes of the finest Columbian cocaine in betwixt those crispy, marshmellow-y kernels, ’cause once you start, you fucking cannot stop. Lorda mercy.

Fourth of July weekend and this nigga gets four days off.  I can’t believe 2006 is half way over. 

I feel odd today. Like the quiet before the storm, but a good storm. I feel like a living ying-yang symbol, where good and bad, dark and light coalesce and touch, and balance is achieved.

Do I sound like I’m on drugs? Well, that’s hardly anything new. It may just be that I accidentally took two multivitamins this morning and the resultant supersaturation of vitamins and nutrients has caused me to feel mildly elated and stroke-prone.

Good times.

Homosexual Pride came and went without much fanfare.  A combination of missed connections and lack of energy caused me to miss much of it, but que sera sera.  Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all.  I did get cruised once or twice, though.  Once by a really hot guy.  So, point for me.

I’d sent my niece a birthday card and got a Hello Kitty thank you note back from her yesterday that read, “Thank you for my birthday card and my ten dollars”.  Cute.

The air is getting thinner, my waistline curiously larger, and my vision somewhat blurrier. It’s the end of the world as per REM.

But the worst is when you’re brushing your teeth and you hit your gag reflex and barf.  (This is especially likely to happen if you’ve been drinking the night before, and drink many nights before have I.)  You puke through the minty freshness of your toothpaste, and the converging opposites make for a most funky way to start the morning.  Not to mention it means you have to brush your teeth all over again.

I saw "Weird Science" last night!  Exciting for me since I haven’t seen it in ages. 

Also exciting last night was a certain sneak peek I…snuck.  Holla Scholar rolled in circa 1:00 after I was asleep.  I awakened briefly and went to take a pee.  But as I was getting back into bed, I noticed that there was a delicious pot roast-y type smell in the apartment.  Burnt pot roast-y, but yummy nonetheless (said the vegetarian).

I crept into the kitchen to find a pot of the stuff still burning on the stove.  Quietly striding down the hall, I knocked on Ming Na’s door to ask if it was his. 

"Oh!" he cried, and darted from his room to the kitchen.  In nothing but black briefs, y’all.  Whoo!  Not that he’s all that hot or anything, but he does have a nice, tight little bod I’d love to break a piece off of, if you know what I’m sayin’.

As Holla Scholar would so nonchalantly say, "I’d tap it."

Yesterday, it was discovered that a drug-addicted prostitute was using one of our free, public bathrooms to perform her… job.  The sad part was that she had a little boy who was just wondering around the lobby, bored with nothing to do.  Reports claim that the bathroom had a "funny smell" afterwards, and a milky, gooey-type substance was found in the sink. 

I cannot say there is any truth to these claims as I have sworn off ever, ever using that bathroom again.  Businesswoman Barbie (our director) gave the woman a talking-to before sending her on her way.

After my co-worker Hillary explained the story to another not-so-bright co-worker, he asked, "What was she doing in there."  She responded, "Well, what do prostitutes do, Oliver?  Play checkers?"

We’re moving offices next year.  Nothing terribly glamorous, but at least we won’t be a stone’s throw away from the projects.  Fouler than foul, y’all.

I really rather dig dykes. Well, I dig and am envious of them. I personally know very few, but through the telling and unbiased lens of such shows as "Can’t Get a Date" and "Next", I’ve observed their actions and behaviors with some interest, and herein have included a list of reasons why it rules to be a lesbo:

1. HIV? What’s that?
Oh yes, this one tops the list. The risk of HIV/AIDS infection among lesbians is significantly less than among gay men. And having a fatal, painful virus associated with what is supposed to be the most enjoyable activity ever really, really sucks.

2. Whether butch of fem, keep on truckin’
Lesbians unflinchingly occupy the gender roles of butch and fem, and seek out other women accordingly. I would say about .04% of fags are out for a super queeny boyfriend. Nooo, we all want us a straight-acting Abercrombie ad made flesh since we are all of course such manly mens ourselves. But ‘taint nothin’ wrong with being or liking a guy with a big of sugar in his recipe. At least then you know he’s gay. Fags who act completely like straight guys kinda creep me out.

3. Two funginas are better than one
From the Britonna Aguilera kiss on the "MTV Music Video Awards" to your favorite straight porn, lesbian–or rather faux-lesbian–sex sells and gets the enthusiastic stamp of approval from society.

Why? Because it turns straight men on.

Why? I have never really been able to figure that one out.

Why? Because! I don’t understand how someone could be turned on by a sexual situation in which they could not potentially be a part of.

4. Here comes mama!
Until they invent a way for two men to have a genetically-related baby (note: research is being done, so have hope!) gay women will always have the upper hand when it comes to kids since all they need’s a little sperm. We, on the other hand, have to face discriminatory adoption standards or involve a birth mother who may not be all that copasetic with bringing a new life into the world and then never seeing it again.

*Sigh* So, for those reasons above, I submit to you that it’s pretty much better to be a lezbo than a homo. The End.

After a random trip to the beach last Saturday, I suddenly found myself with two, new syphilitic-looking cold sores on the side of mouth: Laurel and Hardy.  They are, I assure you, just cold sores since there weren’t no hanky panky down at the beach.  But I’ve been coating them with Carmex for days, and they’ve only mildly subsided.  So, guess who’s not going out clubbing this weekend!

No matter.  Next weekend is Pride, and Holla Scholar is coming to visit, along with his Lebanese motherhood and auntie.  Should be fun, pending our tolerance for the doubtless feast of flesh (more like a $5.99 buffet of flab, I know).

Remember "Mystery Science Fiction Theatre" on Comedy Central, where those two puppets watched some cheesy B-movie and made hilarious commentary throughout?  That shit was funny.

I love how you can add tonic water to any alcoholic drink, and it makes it taste all 7-Up-y.

Old couples are so adorable.  I hope I one day get to be part of one.

If you haven’t already heard, conservative psychobitch Ann Coulter (fitting, as she does have the face of a horse) has attacked a group of widows of 9/11 in her new book "Godless: The Church of Liberalism", and went on "The Today Show" in all her bulimic glory to speak about it.  Sporting a skimpy black dress and long, stringy hair, Coulter claimed these women were simply out for fame, and got upset with Matt Lauer because he was glib (had to slip that one in there) enough to question her comment.

You know, of all the people to attack–gays, immigrants, rappers, whatever–could you have picked a more helpless and traumatized group than widows of 9/11?  Ann and her male counterpart, that bow-tie wearing, buck-toothed, backwoods fuck Tucker Carlson, better not ever set foot in San Francisco lest I rip they little closed-minded heads off dey bodies.  I mean, you’d think these people would at least ask themselves, What good does this do for the general public? before they say the shit they do on national television. 

And by the by, do any of these bigoted belles from the south who always end up on these news shows lambasting gays and shit realize that the designers they’re wearing or the Mac makeup they’ve got glazed all over their face are all made by fags?  I mean, these women always seem to be so spectacularly done up. (P.S. Is or is not pride the greatest of the seven deadly sins, ladies?) 

I guess those who are ugly on the inside must do quite much to pretty themselves up on the outside.

Aaaaaalways nice to start the morning off with a bus driver who’s a distant relative of Evil Knievel.  You know, the type who rides the gas hard and the breaks even harder.  Nothing like a nice hard stop to start your day off right, mm.

I care not a jot for white people who act black for a living.  Now, I openly admit I love to pretend to act black as per my quigga (= queer wigga) wont, but that’s in private and done jokingly.  I’m not like Eminem (who’s like what, of Danish, Swedish descent or something?) striking a thug pose on the cover of "XXL" lookin’ the ass.  All such people can kindly find the nearest cliff and give chase.

A new study has found that coffee cuts down on cirrhosis of the liver.  Starbucks, here I come!

Call me crazy, but I wish they had a radio station of just elevator music.  I could listen to that shit all day.  "Girl From Ipanema"?  Go on withca bad sewf.

"Sobriety leaves a lot to be desired."
Patsy Stone

Saturday saw the unthinkable miracle of my ass getting up before noon on a weekend *and* actually getting out of the house.  It’s all on account of my being too poor to party this past week, consequently causing me to remain completely sober and well-slept (overrated, both of them).

But did you know how much you can get done in the morning before the rest of the public has awoken and decides to glutton the city streets?  And the Municipal was like it’d had liposuction or something (that is, it was less full, you see).

I even had time to visit the San Francisco Botanical Gardens, which were like a bounteous green heaven until I become lost in its labyrinthine bushery, and frightened.

But I managed to escape and make it home in time for an afternoon showing of one of my favorite flicks: "Pretty Wigga".  Nooo, just kidding, I mean "Woman" (but that would make a hysterical satire, no?).  A cherished film, truly.  But does anyone realize that the "prophetic" black guy who sort of opens and closes the movie hollering, "What’s yo’
dream?  This is Hollywood.  Everyone has a dream…" is basically a crack addict?

Anyways, I miss "That ’80s Show".

How stupid is Richard Hatch?

Ashlee Simpson has a new album out entitled "I Am Me".  Her last one was called "Autobiography".  Just… how much do you think we want and/or need to know about ya, li’l noseknocker?

I’m all for a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage.  But only if it’s written by President Bush all on his own and he gets every word right.  After all, should you really be allowed to be leader of the free world if you haven’t even got a basic command of your native language?