When I was a kid, I had a long-standing Saturday night date, and her name was Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. I miss those days. I wish I also had the opportunity to miss seeing tongue-kissing on television. But I wouldn't miss it because really I hate it, and that's too bad because I don't think it's going anywhere. If the visuals weren't bad enough, there's the slurping, soft-porn sound effects that go along with it.
It's kind of gross to see someone's big disgusting mouth-muscle dripping with expectorate probing another, with big gobs of drool and lines of bacteria-ridden spit flying about. Luckily, it's much less repulsive when I do it. Although, in the spirit of full disclosure, I have paid a steep price for my mad tonsil-hockey skillz (to this date, the only sport I actively participate in): yes, in my senior year, I contracted the nasty orally transmitted disease often referred to as the kissing disease. My grandmother still looks at me rather pointedly when she says those words (somehow, she works it into the conversation around the Christmas table every year without fail). I've tried to explain to her that rum & cokes are expensive and a girl's got to kiss a certain number of faceless, nameless, gropey men to store up enough stories for 10 years down the road when she's married and swapping much less spit. Long story short: french kisses are the reason I never eat at Wendy's, and why I never saw the end of Mission to Mars, and why my grandma thinks I'm a slut.
Where I come from, they call them "frenchers", and I can't help but wonder what is so french about them. If there is a common denominator between french toast, and french kissing, and french onion soup and french horns and french braids, it's eluding my silly french-canadian brain. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I realize if there is a connection, I don't want to know about it.
I also don't want to know what kind of undergarments the pope wears under his robes. But I do wonder. I wonder if he's a boxer or briefs kind of guy, I wonder if he matches his panties to the colour of his hat. I wonder if he goes commando under there (my rational is: a robe is dress-like as is a kilt, and we all know the scots like to go "regimental") but I try not to think too hard about it since I'm pretty sure that thinking about papal dangly bits is probably sacrilegious.
The pope sure does make some "interesting" fashion choices though. Funny how he never lands on the worst-dressed list. My grandfather also wears some funny hats, but has thus far only landed in the papers for occasionally winning raffles. Sometimes he wears a ten gallon hat when he takes my grandmother line dancing. The cowboy hat gives him such much-needed height (so do the cowboy boots with lifts), but really I think country music just brainwashes people. What else could explain that many bollo ties all in one place? The mere thought of that many denim-clad people who don't own pick up trucks and have never shovelled pig shit all doing the boot-scoot-and-boogie is pretty much my idea of hell, and given my proclivities for talking about pope-penis, I should probably get used to it.
I can see the upside to hell, though. I mean, the warm climate is a great draw for a snow-bound Canadian such as myself. And I imagine it will be populated with all kinds of interesting characters, stumbling and slurring around, just like me. Kind of like I imagine Florida must be like: crowded and hot, but a nice contrast to the great white north.
Not that I'm anxious to experience the nine circles of hell. What I am anxious for is diving between my cool, just-washed sheets, or getting the first hint of tan, or finding the cell phone that I lost 10 ten days ago, or finding a skirt that makes my hips look "curvy" instead of "fat", or...okay, you got me. What I'd really like is to settle into my big comfy couch and watch a season or two of my ex-girlfriend, Dr. Quinn. You know, for old time's sake.