“What is, ‘Madonna and eat yogurt,’ Alex?”
“That is correct.”
The Yogurt Part
I’ve been eating yogurt for breakfast lately. I don’t have time to make anything good before work in the morning, so I’ve decided to go the exact opposite direction and eat something completely nasty. I was considering going the oatmeal route, but the thing is, oatmeal’s even more disgusting than yogurt unless you dump a pile of sugar on it—in which case you might as well have donuts or something—and it takes entirely too long to prepare. I’m generally running pretty behind in the morning, so I don’t have a lot of time to stand around cooking oats. I suppose I could wake up earlier, but I consider sleep more important than oatmeal. There’s the instant stuff, but again—so full of sugar that I might as well eat something that I’m going to enjoy eating.
This morning, I had vanilla yogurt. My favorite is blueberry, but sometimes I like to switch it up and try a new flavor. I’m adventurous like that.
The other day, I had coffee flavored yogurt. Coffee yogurt. As disgusting as that sounds, it tasted about two hundred times worse. Being adventurous doesn’t always work out for the best. (If coffee-flavored yogurt doesn’t sound disgusting to you, you should probably seek professional help, because you obviously hate yourself).
Vanilla isn’t too bad though, considering that we’re talking about yogurt—a product on which they advertise the fact that there are live active cultures inside.
I don’t even know what that means. I just figure the people at Yoplait are trying to make me feel bad about myself. Like if you got a burger and it came out with a note that said, “This was a baby cow’s momma. Hope you enjoy it, asshole!” I know that sounds paranoid, but if you taste that coffee yogurt, you suddenly realize that the people producing this stuff really do hate you for eating it. I wouldn’t put it past them to try to make your heart feel as bad as your taste buds when eating this crap. Oh, man—I just read the Wikipedia page about this garbage and discovered that they say “live active cultures” because there’s bacteria in the final product. Well…that at least explains why it tastes so awful.
Anyway, so I had my vanilla yogurt at work, right? I pull off the plastic lid and find another lid underneath. This one’s aluminum foil or something, and the little pull-tab works for shit-all, because when I pull on it, it just rips around the edges, leaving the bacteria-infested yogurt safe and sound inside.
Keep in mind that this is like six forty-five in the morning, I’m barely awake, I haven’t even had a cup of coffee—or a cup of coffee yogurt—yet. I just stare at the yogurt cup for several seconds, wondering what the hell is going on here. I look at the plastic spoon in my hand, but it offers no wisdom. I wasn’t really expecting it to help me out, if you want to know the truth, but when I’m trying to function early in the morning without any caffeine, I’ll look for assistance wherever I can find it.
I look back at the cup of yogurt. It’s still sealed and although I’m not quite tired enough to believe it’s taunting me, I wouldn’t be surprised, either.
“I’ll show you,” I mumble. I lift the cup to my lips and grip the edge of the foil with my teeth. I get a good hold, and then tear the foil back. There’s an audible pop, and I’m suddenly at the receiving end of a very happy cup of yogurt.
I don’t consider myself a homophobe, but there’s something very creepy about catching a money shot from a cup of yogurt first thing in the morning. Maybe if it had been later in the day, I would have been able to laugh it off, I don’t know. As it was, I just felt used and dirty.
And don’t try to take the moral high ground like, Well maybe if your mind wasn’t constantly in the gutter, you wouldn’t have made the connection between a bit of spilled yogurt and a man’s love serum. Because, trust me—even if I had never seen the end of a porno scene, even if I had never heard about it, even if the extent of my knowledge about semen ended after health class…I still would have made that connection. And you would have, too, so stop judging me.
So there it is, GOOSH, right across my cheek and my neck and my upper chest. I say something like, “Unreal,” but with more usage of the eff-word. I try to wipe some of the yogurt off with my hand, but it just smears around and looks even more like sin syrup.
And that’s when my coworker comes out to see what I’m mumbling and cursing about. He steps around the corner, looks at me, blinks hard and shakes his head, and looks at me again. Like a Three Stooges double-take, only he isn’t trying to be funny. He doesn’t say a damn word.
He shakes his head again—this time with more than a little revulsion—and walks back into the office from whence he came. I sit there for a second, feeling ridiculous. I can’t bring myself to lick the yogurt off my fingers, but the only thing handy is a roll of toilet tissue sitting on my desk (generally used for nose-blowing purposes). I start to use that to clean myself up, but it makes me feel cheap, so I decide to go to the bathroom and use paper towels like a real lady.
My coworker averts his eyes as I walk past.
I realize I’m still carrying the plastic spoon, and I briefly consider licking it seductively, but I decide against it because that would really suck to get fired for sexually harassing a fifty-year-old man.
I ate the yogurt, by the way, because I’m secure in my heterosexuality, and because I was real hungry.
The Madonna Part
I have had a crush on Madonna since I heard the song Sidewalk Talk back when I was something like ten years old. I’ve been into rap music since I first found about it. I was such a huge fan of movies like Beat Street and Breakin’ that I used to wear my windbreaker around all the time, hoping that it would help me learn to break dance (alas, I just looked like a dweeb—you can tell that this hasn’t entirely worn off by the way I say things like “alas”). She sang background vocals, but she was getting big at the time, so this guy Jellybean whom she had granted the rights, put her name on it as it was re-released. My point being, I had a compilation tape called Street Rap and she was credited as the artist performing it.
If you ever want to feel really old, just say something like, “I had a crush on Madonna.”
Because let’s face it: these days, Madonna is pretty much a half-step away from being your crazy old grandmother who doesn’t understand the constraints that time demands she operate under. I dare you to watch that video without at least once thinking about some old woman who has had too much to drink at a party.
For any of you youngsters roaming around, let me just say: Madonna really was a hottie at one point. Also, get off my lawn, you whipper-snappers!
Even as a kid, I hated most of the crap that got pumped into our ears throughout the ‘80s. Just recently I had an argument with Rik about the fact that Michael Jackson was always a creepy goofball. She said he used to be normal, while I argued that he was always gross and disturbing. Hey, Rik, any time the whole of your argument for normalcy revolves around the defense of, “He had that one glove and it sparkled,” you’re losing.
But Madonna was always awesome in my eyes. She was hot, for one thing, and she didn’t give a damn about nothin’ for another thing. Plus, I always thought that most of her songs were kinda catchy. And then, in 1991, I read an interview with her in Rolling Stone Magazine. Carrie Fisher was doing the interview, and they talked about all kinds of stuff that I had never read about before. At one point, Fisher goes, “The quickest way to a man’s heart is through blowjobs.” And Madonna goes, “I don’t like blowjobs.” And Fisher asks, “What do you like?”
And Madonna goes, “I like getting head.” I was a freshman in high school at the time. I knew about oral sex. But I had never heard a female refer to the act of receiving oral pleasure so…raw. I wasn’t in love, but only because I thought Madonna would be sorely disappointed in me for being in love.
“If you could have sex with anyone in the world…?” Popular game when you’re young. My answer was always Madonna. Most of the time I got a response something along the lines of, “Are you kidding? Madonna would destroy you!” And my solid reply went, “That’s how I wanna go out, man. I want Madonna to screw me to death.”
There was never any doubt that she would break me, and there was never any hope—however imagined—that I would be able to satisfy her. But you just look at her, and you can tell that she knows about some stuff that would blow your mind. This was back before the internet was all over the place, though, so imagine how she had to find out about that stuff.
I remember a few years ago when I was living in New York. It was either stupid-late or stupid-early, depending on whether it was night time or morning. Trey and I were rambling on about whatever, and he said something like, “It’s always the quiet ones who are monsters in the sack. You meet a girl who acts like she’s all about sex, she’s generally pretty boring.”
“Not Madonna, I bet,” I said without thinking.
“Of course not Madonna,” he said. No argument whatsoever, and this is from the guy who will more than likely show up at the Pearly Gates and argue with St. Peter about being dead. “That chick’d break you.”
So I was young and lusting over Madonna, and then she had to go and make it worse. Nothing has made me want to be a gay backup dancer more than the Human Nature video. I know, I know: if you’re turned into a gay man, how will you appreciate being able to rub all over Madonna, right? I have complete faith that as long as I have a penis, and the chance to be rubbing all over a young, taut, latex-covered Madonna, I will never be gay for long. I could start out the day butt-sexing a dozen guys, but you throw a young Madonna into a latex bodysuit and let me touch her, I’m done with dudes forever, I mean it.
And then I kind of got over her, mostly because I graduated high school, moved away from home, and didn’t have access to any sort of media where she would be waved in my face.
But then one day I saw this. I don’t know what it is, but something about her in her tight little jeans and her hillbilly shirt, it just set off all my bells. And when she does that little dance with her thumbs tucked into her waistband? Good grief.
At the point where all those cowboys are dancing around her, I generally have a stray thought that goes something like, “Man, I wish I was a cowboy.” To a lot of people—myself included—this idea is even more far-fetched than the idea of me being a homosexual (I’m lookin’ at you, Babyface Brenda). I suppose it’s sort of understandable. I don’t have a problem with being gay—it just isn’t’ for me. On the other hand, I have viciously attacked cowboys for years. They irk me.
And yet, there was a point in my life where I would have immediately taken off my backwards baseball cap and donned a hat of cowboyish proportions. I would have stripped away my loose-fitting jeans and my oversized t-shirt and voluntarily shrink-wrapped myself into a pair of Wrangler jeans and an outrageously vulgar button-up shirt. All in the name of Madonna...and being able to dry-hump the ground at her feet in a music video.
I’ve grown up, and Madonna has grown old. I’m slightly more mature; I’ve quit smoking and quit fantasizing about the attention of skanks, no matter how fine-ass they are. She moved to England, usurped an accent, and is going through some weird baby-adoption thing. I’m happily married, and she’s a freakin’ lunatic.
What I’m saying is, I’m over you, Madonna.
But I’ll always wonder how much of my life you ruined.
“And for the second time in Jeopardy! history, there’s a three-way tie!”
“How so, Alex?”
“You see, Ray: you, Madonna, and yogurt have all come in first place in the ‘Creepy and Gross’ category.”
“You know what, Alex? I’m cool with that.”
You have to take your victories where you can find ‘em.
Peace out, Strangelanders.