This morning I had to do some pressing research (Do hermaphrodites have ovaries?) so I swung on over to the esteemed reference site Google – because if it’s on the internet, it’s fact, right? Word to the wise: never, ever do research on hermaphrodites before finishing your breakfast, Interwebz.
It’s all Rocco’s fault. If he hadn’t started that fight the other night by saying Harry Belafonte’s greatest contribution to society was singing the “Day Oh!” soundbite they play at every Yankee game non stop, I might not have had to remind him that Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite while digging through countless boxes in the hopes of finding my VHS of Harry performing on The Muppet Show. That was the best episode ever. Let’s all take a moment to revel in his beauty, shall we? Harry’s beauty that is. I mean, Rocco is lovely and all but…
Yum. Now we can return to our epic battle which quickly ceased to be an epic battle and instead turned into a quiet discussion of whether or not men without balls had to take hormones.
Rocco: They definitely have to take hormones.
Me: Even if they have balls but they just haven’t dropped?
Rocco: Can that happen?
Me: Totally. Did you read Middlesex? And look at Jamie Lee Curtis!
Look Interwebz, I don’t have anything against Jamie Lee Curtis. I think she’s fantastic. But Rocco loves her a little too much and I have to keep his ass in line. I’m really not this mean. I can’t tell you how guilty I feel about calling her a hermaphrodite…and so soon after her father’s death. Frankly, this is only one example of why I can’t sleep at night.
(Yet again I have half a post written and I haven’t even begun started writing about what I meant to write about yet. It’s like the chicken stuffed vagina incident all over again.)
So back on Google I started typing “hermaph…” and it auto filled with “hermaphrodite lynch.” I thought maybe they meant Jane Lynch. That gal is TALL. She makes me look downright lilliputian. If someone with a beard and wearing glasses tried to convince me Jane Lynch was a hermaphrodite after I’d consumed a pitcher or two of beer, I’d probably believe them. (Especially if they were wearing a jacket with elbow patches. Unless it was a woman. Never trust a woman with beard.) But no! It turns out they (the all powerful Google gods, that is) meant Stephen Lynch. He’s got a whole song about his hermaphrodite ex girlfriend, apparently.
But still my questions were unanswered, so I went to the ever respectable Wikipedia. (Though I’ve started to doubt their veracity after they pulled down the informative synopsis of Warren G’s rap classic “Regulate.”) Before I could read a single sentence I was absolutely mesmerized (and more than a little disturbed) by the photo of two snails getting it on.
As if I needed anything to add fuel to my mental fire after Kelly and Elizabeth turned the comments section of yesterday’s post into a tutorial on how to incubate sea monkeys in your vagina. And that? That brings us to a second example of why I can’t sleep at night…
This is the longest week ever. Remind me to tell you about how Jessica Simpson tried to kill me. But later. I’m too sleepy.