An Enormous Dick. Head.

Last week was a rough one for Homunculus. His sunburn started to peal, causing his arms to resemble molting snakes, and his raging case of mid-summer hemorrhoids, which he had vanquished and left for dead, returned with a burning vengeance. His job search continued to yield frustratingly fruitless results, as did his lady hunt. (In a sadistic attempt to profit off his misfortune, HJR’s friends -- both of them -- have started a pool based on which will happen first, Homunculus finding employment or Homunculus finding boobies?) Speaking of employment searches and copulatory disasters, John McCain and Bristol -- er, Sarah -- Palin took center stage last week -- and appeared to be a success. The pundits all agreed that McCain accomplished his goal of impressing even Homunculus with his acceptance speech. Not good for America, not good for Homunculus (who, despite growing up pampered in Silicon Valley, is now definitively a member of the working class (and by "working class," I mean lower-middle class, not people who are actually working)). To top things off, my beloved 49ers opened another embarrassing season by losing to a team quarterbacked by a member of Palin’s Christ Squad.

So, bad week.

Fortunately Steve Warshak was there to cushion the blow. "Who is Steve Warshak?" you ask.

I’m glad you did.

Warshak is the founder of a company called Berkeley Premium Nutraceuticals, best known -- or, more accurately, only known -- for a "natural male enhancement" product called Enzyte, the commercials for which you’ve surely seen if you watch a lot of ESPN Classic at 3:00 a.m. They feature "Smilin' Bob," an average-looking middle-aged man, and a jackass of biblical scale, who can’t stop smiling because of the improvements in his sex life. Here he is in action, sort of:

Now, be honest. How much would you pay to wipe that grin off Bob’s face with a swift kick to his naturally-enhanced male parts? I’d pay $60.00 -- which, coincidentally, is exactly the price I would not pay for a packet of Enzyte. Yet being profoundly retarded is the least of these ads’ transgressions. They prey on the single largest (as it weren’t) insecurity of every man (your humble blogger excepted, of course) and parlay those insecurities into ill-gotten revenue with patently false promises. In short, Warshak is a textbook mountebank.*

Or rather, he was a textbook mountebank. Now he is a textbook case of white-collar crime. In February Warshak was convicted of 93 -- ninety-three! -- counts of conspiracy, fraud, and money laundering. (I still don't know what money laundering is exactly, but I know it has something to do with being a ginormously corrupt piece of shit.) Last week Warshak was sentenced to 25 years in prison and ordered, along with several other defendants (including his 75-year-old mother!), to forfeit more than $500 million. Tough break there, Steve.

Here is a picture of the dickbreath:

Note the faintly dickish sneer, reminiscent of Maddox's "pedosmile." Good luck with that in the clink, cockbrain.

You might be thinking at this point, "Why does Homunculus seem so worked up about this? I bet he must be one of the millions of mediocrely-endowed men bilked out of hundreds of his hard-earned dollars." Wrong! You couldn't be more wrong. I simply love watching these pricks get caught. The only thing that gives me as much pleasure as when some homophobic senator gets caught tapping his foot under an adjacent men's room stall is when one of these greedy corporate bastards get nailed for fraud and money laundering. Yes, I live a petty, petty existence. But we've got to find joy in the little things, no?

After reading about Warshak and laughing maniacally for several minutes, I checked out his company's website. There's nothing too douchey about the site, though perhaps the "Berkeley in the News" page should have been a red flag for potential customers: every one of the "news" items was written by the company itself. Not too surprising.

What was surprising is that apparently Warhak and his dickolytes are still hiring. Well, lord knows ol' Homunculus could use a job. So, I applied. My cover letter is below. I'll keep you posted.

* I'll admit it. I only included that sentence so I could use the word "mountebank" in a blog entry. Finally.

To: recruiting@bpn.com

From: HomunculusJReilly@WOTE.com

RE: employment opportunities at BPN

Dear Sir or Madam (probably Sir):

After seeing Berkeley Premium Nutraceuticals in the news last week, I explored your website. I am responding to the open invitation on your “Job Opportunities” page to apply for a position with BPN.

Idon’t need any of your products myself (particularly Enzyte… if you know what I mean ; ) ), but I have plenty of friends who have tried them, and I have always been fascinated with both biochemistry and creative writing. I recently completed my MFA in fiction at [HJR's grad school]. In addition to a near-perfect grade point average and exemplary written recommendations (available upon request), I served as the editor of [HJR's lit mag], the graduate program’s literary journal.

Besides my "official" accomplishments, I (believe it or not!) study microbiology and pharmaceutical biochemistry in my spare time. Finally, I am “intelligent, imaginative, and ambitious” (especially imaginative), the qualities you stated you most desire.

My resume is attached. I hope to talk with you to discuss my additional accomplishments and how I can contribute to your continued success. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Homunculus J. Reilly

P.S. I am willing to relocate to Cincinnati.

P.P.S. You need to update the “In the News” page of your website.

Transgressive

When people ask me about the gender breakdown at my school -- a formerly-all-women’s quasi-neo-countercultural liberal-arts college -- I joke that it splits about 40 – 40 – 10 – 10: forty percent straight women, forty percent lesbians, ten percent straight men, ten percent gay men. To be fair, at least a third of those lesbians are probably bisexual (I highly recommend this school!); a Venn Diagram might better depict the demographics than a bar graph.

With the general election not yet in swing -- it’s tough for the student body to stump for the Democrat when they don’t know the Democrat for whom to stump -- the latest passion project to play here was the recent move made by Transaction, the student-run transvestite/ transsexual-advocacy group, to abolish gender-biased bathrooms on campus. Late last semester, Transaction’s members -- many of whom were born with, ahem, members -- requested a campus-wide transition to gender-neutral bathrooms, “since a number of students’ gender identities are not the same as their biological sex,” as the campus newspaper reported.

Controversy ensued, of course, though not for the reasons one might have expected. Many of the bathrooms on campus were -- are -- “gender-neutral” to begin with, insofar as they have no urinals, only toilets, and are open to both men and women. Meanwhile, the remaining bathrooms, many of them men’s rooms, possess urinals and are therefore required by state law to remain men’s rooms (or, more precisely, men’s-only rooms). Transaction thus targeted a limited number of ladies’ rooms. Their proposal succeeded, and the dozen or so transgender students on campus now have more options.

One problem is the unavoidable side effect of the bill, which must have been transparent to anyone with a little foreskin-- er, foresight: Since the converted restrooms are now unisex, they are open to men as well, leaving fewer ladies’ rooms -- or, more precisely, fewer ladies’-only rooms -- on a campus predominated by women. PMS or long lines at intermission it ain’t, but the reduction in ladies’ rooms is still inconvenient news to the females whose biological sex matches their gender identity -- a drag, as it were, for the women not in drag.

The main controversy, though, has surrounded the signs on the doors. Transaction requested that the logo on the unisex bathrooms -- the traditional, internationally-identifiable stick-figure man, side by side with the traditional, internationally-identifiable stick-figure woman -- be changed to something gender-neutral. Here is what the school came up with:

Right. Well then. You can probably see where this is going--

...and when you’re done snickering, I’ll continue...

OK, good--

Oh. Sorry. Not done yet? OK...

Yeah, good? Good.

Now, as I was saying, you can probably guess how this turned out. According to the school newspaper, Transaction “argued that the current design -- an individual sitting on a toilet and reading a book -- was unsatisfactory, since it produced giggles in those who viewed it. They felt that these giggles deterred the desired message of gender-neutral bathrooms from being communicated.” Incidentally, those two sentences not only produced giggles in me when I read them but also deterred the desired message of the article from being communicated. A case of life imitating art imitating life.

Compounding the issue was the fact that the co-chairs of Transaction “interpreted the individual as a ‘man’ sitting on the toilet” -- as opposed to, say, a “woman,” whatever the hell that is. Transaction issued this formal statement in response: “We found the signs that have gone up to be neither gender neutral or [sic] even clearly indicative that they are restrooms.” Amen to that, sister! (Or brother!) The school’s response was that the above logo is what’s now being used in Scandinavia -- much to the offense, one presumes, of Danes who don’t read on the throne. (N.B. Upon reading that, Homunculus, for one, couldn’t help wondering if Sweden’s transgender blondes are as smokin’ as their natural-borns. Or at least, say, Britain’s natural-borns.)

Ultimately, the giggle-producing logo’s lifespan proved transitory. Transaction’s alternative suggestion was a sign labeled simply “Restroom,” with a picture of a toilet underneath. Sounds reasonable enough. The student life committee, however, found that one less than transcendent; they continued accepting proposals. Homunculus, I need not tell you, submitted a few of his own. Here is a sampling:

TRANNIES WELCOME

Unfortunately, the powers that be found my proposals unsatisfactory, since they produced giggles in those who viewed them.

In the end, the Student Life Committee went with a simple line-drawing of a toilet (similar, I've heard, to a piece at the MOMA called John in Profile.) Transaction, meanwhile, isn't finished. The latest word is that their next order of business is also loo-related: the transformation of two of the school's most heavily trafficked bathrooms.

You go, girls!

The Booger Man

For the last two weeks -- maybe it was a karmic spank-back for the Spanx® episodes -- I’ve been suffering from the most persistent, painful booger of my life. To even call it a booger is to do it gross justice (as it were). It is more like two tentacular masses, one for each nostril, crustily coating my nasal cavities and emerging as true boogers only once they have been unceremoniously dislodged from their brothers-in-tissue, by a tissue, and extracted from their home.

Not that I feel bad for them. On the contrary, I have launched myriad attacks on the little buggers -- left and right (nostrils), from all angles, pinkies and index fingers alike. Sometimes, Kleenex; other times, it’s bare-knuckled brawling. The pinky nail has been my most potent weapon. (I highly recommend it as an alternative to the index finger.)

Now, I don’t have to tell you that there are few things in life as satisfying as a successfully picked nose. An itch scratched. A sinus cleared. Tangible rewards for the effort. I can’t shake the feeling, however, that while I win the occasional battle, I am losing the war. My victories have been tainted by the growing sense that this may be a war that cannot be won with conventional weapons. Far too often, I leave the battlefield empty-fingered. Just as often, I retreat with little but a bloody fingertip to show for my digging. Even my victories are pyrrhic: a nice, solid booger, under the nail… followed by a ghastly trail of blood. They’re like the aliens from Aliens. Kill us, they taunt, and pay the price, motherfucker.

On the bright side, they have not metastasized -- boogers cannot metastasize, according to webMD.com. But they do seem to have mutated into a highly evolved species of regenerative superbooger. Pick one, and another grows back -- bigger, badder, bloodier, and boogerier than the last. The insides of my nose have been left a raw, bloody mess.

I’m not sure how it started. It could have been the cold, dry winter air. Or maybe a virus of some sort, or my deviated septum. Regardless, it has to stop. And only self-restraint will stop it. I hereby resolve -- my New Year’s Resolution, nine days late -- to cease and desist with all future picks in this particular booger war.

I am counting on my environment to provide backup. Tomorrow Winter on the Equator leaves for the equator. In winter. Homunculus and the rest of the Reilly family -- Mr. & Mrs. Reilly and Sister Homunculussa -- are heading to Costa Rica ("Coast of the Rica" en Americano) and the soothing humidity of the tropics. I make no guarantees, but I have a good ol’(factory) feeling that change is in the air. If I could smell right now, it would smell like victory.

Do Your Ears Hang Low?

It’s been said a million times: we all have our imperfections; we all have things we don’t like about our bodies. In our world of glossy dual-page spreads and celebrity idolatry, those imperfections -- the things, as it’s been said a million times, that make us human -- inevitably merge with what we dislike about ourselves and become the very things we cover up, disguise, minimize, lament.

Me, I’ve never worried all that much. And trust me: it’s not because I don’t have my fair share of asymmetries, blemishes, and strange-looking nipplage. I’m as bent-nosed as the next guy (or at least the next guy who got clocked on the schnoz by a Pogo Ball as an eight-year-old). I guess I’ve always just had bigger problems to worry about. Lately, however, when my obsessive-compulsiveness (one such bigger problem, incidentally) has flared up and rendered me particularly obsessive and/or compulsive, I’ve noted for the first time all the imperfections I previously merely noticed. My response has been neither lamentation nor the happy acceptance the same beauty magazines that airbrush their models exhort their readers to feel (“Embrace your curves!”). Rather, I’d classify my reaction as one of... oh, let’s call it amused curiosity. I look at my nipples and think, "Damn, that’s some fucked up shit right there. Nice going, Darwin." I suppose I view my nipples as proof that nature has a sense of humor.

Here is more proof:

• When I urinate, it comes out in a spiral. I shit you not. (Er, I piss you not.) It’s true that once it hits the toilet bowl (or misses), it has already normalized into what I presume is the more traditional "taut spaghetti" form. But right out of the eye, it’s shaped like a helix, and it’s been like that as long as I can remember. [Incidentally, we have a urologist cousin who has made quite a name for himself (or as big a name as you can make as a urologist, anyway) by using his patients’ urination, uh, trajectories to determine the health of their, uh, urologies. Again, I piss you not -- his vanity license plate is "WEWEDOC." No joke. Anyway, Cousin Norm, if you’re reading this, feel free to drop me a line and let me know if I should get that helix thing checked out. (And also that burning sensation -- is that normal?)]
• I have freakishly large pupils. An ophthalmologist once told me I had the biggest pupils he’d ever seen, which is basically akin to having the largest feet a podiatrist has ever handled, or being the best lay Paris Hilton’s ever experienced. In other words, it’s sayin’ something. Anyway, we all know what they say about guys with big pupils… That’s right: they end up with terrible red-eye in photos. I’m not the most photogenic person to begin with; eyes that glow like tale lights don’t help the cause. It’s ridiculous, really. If you were to look through my old photo albums, as I do whenever my unnecessarily dilated pupils don’t get in the way, you would find dozens of group shots of me with the people in my life. There -- those are my family and friends, smiling and presenting as normal, happy people. And that there -- that’s me, with my arms around them, looking like the spawn of Satan Himself.
• My fourth toes curl under my third. That may seem impossible -- or at the least, impossibly uncomfortable -- given the mechanics of upright locomotion, and you’d think the same thing were you to see my toes (and you should be thankful you haven’t -- they’re not a pretty sight). But there’s really no better way to describe it: each of my fourth toes doglegs inward and slips neatly (if I may say so myself) under the middle of each third toe. And the only effect it’s had on my locomotion is on the shape of my footprints. Apparently the condition is genetic: my paternal grandmother’s toes do the same thing.
• I can turn my tongue upside down. This is another one I’ve heard is entirely genetic. (My dad can do it; my mom cannot.) I can only flip it clockwise, though, and it’s far less exciting than the cherry stem thing (which my sister can do).
• When I cross my legs, man-style (ankle on knee, rather than thigh-over-thigh, which, I still maintain, must have deleterious consequences on one’s sperm count), I can only go left over right. I assume this is a flexibility issue as opposed to a genetic one, but the disparity between the two positions is extreme: it’s not so much a preference as a physical limitation. I literally cannot put my right ankle on my left thigh without lifting it with both hands and then simultaneously pushing down on my right knee with my elbows. My New Year’s resolution for 2011 is to start doing yoga. Maybe that will help.
• My left nut hangs lower than my right. I am pretty sure yoga will not fix this, but I’m not overly concerned, since apparently most men suffer from some, uh, asymmetry on one side or the other. (Yes, I looked it up.) (What, like you wouldn’t have?) My own discrepancy seems to be rather extreme, however, and widening every year. By 2019, when I have that right-over-left thing mastered, my left nut will be bouncing off the curb. On the bright side, it’s a well-known fact that left-nutted people are highly logical and facile with numbers; I credit the 800 I got on my Math SAT to my testicular imbalance.
• There’s a strange hair that grows out of my stomach, at the bottom left can in my six-pack. It’s all alone and perfectly white and longer and finer than any other strand on my body (or head, for that matter). At least an inch, I’d say. And whenever I pluck it out, boing! -- it sprouts back at some random time, seemingly to full length overnight. I’m looking at it now, as I type this, and wondering if perhaps I should leave it alone this time, if it might not be a source of some power I just haven’t harnessed yet.
• I cannot straighten my pinky fingers. When I hold out my hands in front of me, as flat as they will go, the pinkies remain slightly bent at the first joints, forming perfectly imperfect 170-degree angles.
• My left ear sticks out further than my right. I noticed this particular irregularity a while ago, but it didn’t occur to me until a year ago what caused it: sleeping on my right side my whole life. As resilient as the human body is -- I assume it does what it can to maintain its symmetry -- twenty years of eight-hour load-bearing sessions will do that to a flab of cartilage. When I realized my sleeping habits were to blame, I immediately attempted to reverse two decades of habit by trying to fall asleep on my left side. The thing is, I actually prefer the aesthetics of my somnambulantly altered ear -- the "natural" one sticks out too much -- so sleeping on my left side into the mid-2020s would actually create an artificial symmetry more handsome than the original, plastic surgery be damned. The problem was -- and is -- that I can’t fall asleep on my left side. I thus settled for a happy medium: I now sleep on my back. My ears will be forever imbalanced, but only moderately so. Worse things, I suppose, have been borne of childhood.

So there you have it. That’s me: warts and imbalances and freakish disfigurations and all. My self-portrait is below. Since this will forever remain an anonymous blog and I will never post my photo, the MS Word drawing tool-generated version below is the closest you will come to glimpsing ol’ Homunculus. However, the devoted readers of this blog who know me -- i.e., my parents -- can attest that it is a fairly accurate representation of what I actually look like.

Now it’s your turn. If you’ve read this and become inspired to catalog and then reveal your own endearing deformities, please do so by posting them in a Comment below. The readers of this blog -- i.e., my parents -- might respond by growing brave themselves, and it could soon snowball into some revolutionary sociological experiment and eventually put every beauty magazine on the shelves out of business. That’s what my magic stomach hair is telling me, anyway.