TV Censorship: Are You For Monkeyfighting Real?

Last week, as those of you who know me in the real world are already aware, I was bed-ridden with what can only be described as the black lung my body entering a Guinness World Record competition for the most mucous produced in the shortest time span. Coupled with a sore throat, blinding sinus pressure, and a fever, I could have also probably won the Guinness World Record for grumpiest lady on a couch who hasn't showered in three days.

Naturally, I had to find a way to occupy myself that didn't involve speaking, moving, or leaving the apartment (or showering, as mentioned above). I resolved to spend my time watching y-rate horror movies that I had DVR-ed, much to Sam's chagrin, while eating countless granny smith apples and forcing my cat to stand upright so that I could play

Don't judge me. This movie rules.

her belly pouch like a guitar and make whammy noises with my mouth. You see, I'm plagued with this problem where if I see a movie that I love when surfing the cable guide, I just have to record it. This explains why I had "Aladdin," "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom," Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade,"  "Twister," "Hocus Pocus," and "Powder" on the DVR list, about 2% space left to record shit, and a very frustrated boyfriend who tried to explain downloading to me over and over again. Recently I had DVR-ed two really stupid horror movies simply because I hadn't seen them and I knew there would be a time. That time came last week.

The two movies were Boogeyman 2 (because the first one was so amazing AMIRITE?) and My Bloody Valentine (feel free to click the links and get a synopsis). They originally aired on the Sci-Fi Channel during what must've been some type of worst-horror-movies-of-the-past-five-years marathon and I figured if I watched them, that'd be two less DVR-ed movies for Sam to brood about. They didn't scare me in the slightest and were both pretty much on target with what I expected from them: a recycled plotline, a killer that has superhuman strength and unparalleled disappearing skills, and a lead chick who's helplessly and frantically running about as fast as her mascara is. What did scare me was the Sci-Fi Channel's use and disuse of censorship (which, I'm sure, also applies to most other television channels).

You see, while I was watching these movies I mostly forgot that they were recorded off of live television. With such imagery as a girl having her face split in half horizontally with a shovel, a guy drinking chemical floor cleaner and then foaming from the mouth while the corrosive liquid eats through his neck, and another girl with an eating disorder having tubes stuck in her veins, mouth, and stomach and being pumped full of her own vomit until she explodes, I thought that I surely must be watching some unrated, back-alley, Netflix Instant version of the films. Nope. I was not. And how was my memory refreshed? Because when the killer was discovered and tried to say "God Damnit!" all I heard was "...Damnit!"

I mean, don't get me wrong. Sometimes censorship is HILARIOUS. Take this TV-censored version of the famous "Snakes on a Plane" quote, for instance:

But this time, not so much. I'm still confused on whether censorship is a government-sanctioned parental control so that children don't accidentally see something too inappropriate or if it's adults censoring themselves as to not create a class of subhuman, violent, cursing, TV demons. Either way, what sort of message is censorship really sending out? Violent, brutal murder involving puke and gardening tools is perfectly acceptable but don't even think about using God's name in vain when you're caught. I mean WHAT? What kind of moral code is that to follow? Personally, I'd rather have language like Debra Morgan's be aired consistently on prime-time TV then have movies like the ones I watched go completely uncut. Also, it's so Judeo-Christian-centric to assume that the whole of the United States (and maybe the world, I'm not certain how global TV censorship works) finds it offensive to hear cursing that involves God, Jesus, Noah and his arc, etc. If you're going to censor based on what's offensive to religious groups, then you need to do so for EVERY RELIGIOUS GROUP. You got me? Also, murder is a sin/part of the Ten Commandments too and yet you still air that edit-free on TV. Explain.

Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is that censorship is pretty much monkeyfighting useless. You can't censor children or adults from the scariest shit out there: real life. The news will give them gruesome murder, peers will curse in front of them, and yes, non-religious folk will let the Lord fucking have it. If it were up to me, everything would just air on TV in its original state: curses, shovels, and all. But it's not up to me (unfortunately...there'd be so much more cheese, avocados, and cats if I ruled the world) and there will continue to be misplaced censorship as long as parents keep convincing themselves that the cursing on the tube transformed their kid into Ted Bundy and not their horrible, abusive parenting. Go figure.

What "The Human Centipede" And My High School Choir Have In Common

Mom, if you're reading this, please turn back now.


There, I feel better now that I have that maternal disclaimer up there. I don't think I could stand to look her in the eyes after I wrote a post that references The Human Centipede. When I went to IMDB to get the link for that last sentence, I noticed the actual title is "The Human Centipede (First Sequence)." Will there be a second sequence in our future? Since Harry Potter has now officially reached its end, I guess I do need a new movie series to follow (I kid).

"The Human Centipede" centers around a creepy douchebag whose main goal in life is to haphazardly sew women together in order to make a working centipede out of them. In the movie, which I have yet to see (the one star rating on Netflix isn't really swaying me either), he somehow captures three women and is able to make his centipede-y dreams come true. Don't ask me how he is able to successfully kidnap three women at once but hey, the female gender is just that helpless, amirite? EDIT: three people. There was a dude involved in the ass-to-mouth fun. In order to create THC (not referring to home-brewed weed here), he sews one woman's open mouth to the other's butthole and has them kneel on their hands and knees in a single-file line. Thus, with each meal the first lady centipede link consumes, she poops it into the lady link behind her's mouth, and so on down the line. Forever. Charming, right?

Upon hearing this description, it's natural to feel an intense wave of revulsion and anxiety. Go on, take your time to say "blehhhhhhh" aloud if you haven't already.

Now that that's taken care of, I'd like to state that I don't think being the Human Centipede would be all that bad. Before you freak out and judge my personal life, let me clarify: I don't think being the first in line in THC would be all that bad. Yea, I said it. Granted, I wouldn't choose to poop into some girl who was sewn to my butthole if I had the option, BUT, if I was forced into a THC-y situation, you best believe I'd volunteer myself to be the head car. If you ask me, that's the best seat in the centipede house.

Like this, except not at the Sears portrait studio.
Picture me as the little boy in front: soaking up all the
pleasure without giving a single fuck.

At this point you're probably asking yourself, "But Taylor, what does this have to do with your high school choir?" The answer? Massage trains. Each day, before we started warming up our vocal cords, our instructor thought it would be beneficial for us to warm up our bodies. Since we were in rows, we would start by turning to the person to our right and massaging their neck and shoulders. Then, we would turn the opposite way and massage the person to our left. This was to ensure that everyone both received and gave a massage at some point. If we didn't change direction, there would be someone in the front who was getting the wonderful pleasure of a tension-reducing massage without having to do any massaging themselves. This, my loyal readers, is the philosophy behind choosing to be the first centipede link. However, instead of giving the person behind me a mouthful of human shit, I was receiving a wonderful massage from a 16 year old peer.

So, if you're ever kidnapped with two of your besties and told that you're going to be sewn ass-to-mouth-to-ass-to-mouth, don't freak out. If you remember what you learned from high school choir massage trains (or girl scout camp massage trains or interpretative dance class massage trains...) and make your way to the front of the line, the future may be that much less like 2 girls 1 cup brighter for you.

Maybe You're Pregnant

If you're female, you have heard this suggestion at some point in your life. Sometimes it's legitimized and in response to something like "I haven't gotten my period in five months and my stomach feels like there are tiny feet playing a tiny soccer game in it." Sometimes, it's in response to mundane things that happen frequently to most of the population, including males. I'm writing this post now, on behalf of all women, to tell everyone that unless you are 100% certain that the person in question is actively trying to get knocked up, you should shut the fuck up and keep your pregnancy foreshadowing to yourself.

The future people force me to imagine.

Pregnancy would absolutely ruin my life. I am far too selfish to care for something that isn't small, furry, and poops in a portable box. If I tell you I woke up nauseous and had to stay home from work because I felt pukey all day, do not, I repeat DO NOT, tell me that it's because I'm probably pregnant. Those are nightmare words for me to hear. Sentences like that cause horrible mental imagery of me holding at least nine spitting, crying, pooping babies and looking like my soul died. They also make me incredibly paranoid. I start thinking of all the scenarios in which I could be pregnant: maybe someone replaced my birth control with certs, maybe some guy jacked off into the washing machine and then when I washed my underwear some fusion occurred, etc. (THIS CAN'T HAPPEN BUT THIS IS WHAT THE WORD "PREGNANCY" DOES TO ME). I also don't want to hear you suggest pregnancy if I've been eating like a heifer recently. Maybe I'm just hungry. Maybe I eat my feelings (I do). There are plenty of other reasons why I would be consuming everything in sight other than having a bun in the oven. Also, don't you know how rude it is to comment on how much someone is eating? News flash: it's very rude.

I love how casual the
pickle outside of the jar is.

Lastly, if you're female and love pickles THIS DOES NOT AUTOMATICALLY MEAN YOU'RE PREGNANT. I just fucking love pickles, ok? When did they become emblazoned on the metaphorical pregnancy flag? They are low calorie, satisfyingly crunchy, salty, garlicky goodness. I would like to enjoy all my pickles or be able to freely declare that I want 54 of them in my mouth at once without someone gasping and saying "maybe you're pregnant!" Maybe you're making horrible, earth-shattering assumptions that will ruin my life forever (or at least for the rest of the day). So again, on behalf of all women who eat their weight in food, get nauseous sometimes, and heart pickles; please stop convincing us that we are carrying Rosemary's baby. Thank you and good day.

Germs And Worms

One leads to the other and for the past four or so years, I've been convinced that I have the latter. I told the following story on my Livejournal many moons ago and due to a recent influx in requests to retell it by my co-workers, I'm also going to retell it here.

Back in 2009, when I worked as a veterinary assistant/receptionist at a practice in Greenwich Village, I was told an interesting story by a patient of ours (or client I guess, since the patients are the animals and none of her pets were feeling especially anecdotal). She had come in for one of her cats' annual exams and I couldn't help but notice that she had lost about 30 pounds since I had last seen her. This was when I was at my heaviest, so of course, I had to know what her secret was. Here's where it gets creepy...

She had gotten extremely ill a couple of month earlier and it got to the point where she had to go to the emergency room because she couldn't stop vomiting. After a battery of tests at the hospital, the doctors decided that it would be best if they removed her gallbladder. Being very apprehensive about surgery (as most people should be) and big into holistic medicine (as most people should only somewhat be), she decided

All intestinal parasites look like
mini Beetlejuice sandworms, right?

to check into a cleansing facility and heal herself by removing whatever toxins were causing her to be ill. This facility started off the cleanse with a couple days of fasting. On her second or third day there, she went into the bathroom to do her business and when she got up, she discovered a long, white WORM in the toilet. Upon further investigation and explanation from the staff of the cleansing facility, she discovered that she pooped out a tapeworm and that it was quite a common event in that facility (can you imagine working in a place were tapeworms were the rule and not the exception?). According to them, when you don't eat anything, tapeworms often migrate down the digestive tract (closer to the colon) looking for food and will actually end up being passed with waste in search of said food. Horrified, she decided to go see a well-respected parasitologist stationed in New York City.

Upon further testing, it was determined that she had two different types of parasites in her body: one was the tapeworm which she had acquired on a recent vacation to Bora Bora and the other had been living in her body for 16 years. 16 FLIPPING YEARS. The worms were in her lungs and all throughout her body. They were causing her to be tired all of the time and, despite being an active person, hold onto 30+ pounds. They were also what was causing her to constantly vomit. She was given medication and once she finished her course and eliminated the worms from her system, she lost all of the weight in the blink of an eye. After her experience she referred three friends to the parasitologist to get tested (these friends weren't even showing any symptoms); two of them tested positive for different types of worms/parasites.

She then decided to pass some of the doctor's insight onto me and, along with the story she had already told me, scare me into a wormy panic for the rest of my natural-born life. The parasitologist estimated that over 60% of the population is hosting parasites and don't even know it. Think of all the things you touch without washing your hands, all of the food you buy from a questionable source, everything single thing you do! And there I was, having worked as a vet assistant for the past six or so months, where I rubbed puppies and kittens all over my face only to have their stool tests come back the following day positive for disgusting shit like giardia and coccidia. I was convinced that I was infected with a plethora of worms and parasites. I could actually feel them crawling around in my intestines at the very moment she finished telling me the story.

Around this time, I went on my first date with Sam. Much to his dismay, I'm sure, I gushed about how I was convinced my bowels were infested with worms over our sushi dinner (I have absolutely no internal filter). I guess he digs girls who are good hostesses (get it?!) because this coming Saturday, we've been together for a whole year. What is wrong with him?

Anyway, a couple of weeks later and after hours of online research, I ended up buying some strange black walnut and wormwood tincture that tasted like fresh butts and cement. It was rumored to be a natural dewormer and after I started taking it, every bowel movement was a terrifying gamble with fate. Was this the time I would look into the toilet and see a giant worm? Lucky for me (or unlucky for me) it never happened. At least if I would have seen a definitive worm, I would know that I didn't have them anymore. There were only two options: either I never had worms (less than a 40% chance of that!) or the tincture was ineffective. I guess the only way to know for sure is to hit up the parasitologist and explain my paranoid wormy thoughts to him. One day.

Two Truths And A Lie: The Reveal

So since there was only one response to my last post, I'm assuming most of you must've made mental lists with your answers or even jotted them in a notebook at home. There is just no way a game THIS GOOD would go unplayed. So, without further bullshit ado, here are the answers:


1. I shoved a crayon so far up my nose that I had to go to the hospital to get it removed.

TRUE

To my mom's horror, she could not get the crayon out of my nose herself and had to bring me to the emergency room. Accordingly to her, I looked her square in the eyes as I slowly inserted the crayon deep into my nasal cavity. In the E.R., they had to strap me down with harnesses like something out of Girl Interrupted in order for me to stay still. They did manage to extract it though. No word on what color it was.


2. My father sneaked (I always thought the past tense of "sneak" was "snuck" but spell check is telling me NOPE) backstage at Woodstock.

TRUE

My father has always been quite the slippery eel when it comes to outmaneuvering people in order to do something awesome. This time, it was making it backstage at the greatest concert of all time. He noticed someone unloading equipment near the stage, picked up something that wasn't his, and wandered backstage saying he was with the crew. That never works right? Well, it did. It also worked for the friends he was with and all of them watched the entire show from the best seats in the house. That is, until one of his friends cut open his hand and had to get air-lifted by helicopter out of Woodstock.


3. I was born in Brooklyn, New York.

FALSE

My dad was born in Brooklyn, New York. I was born in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. I have dual citizenship yay!


4. I have never had the chicken pox or the chicken pox vaccine.

FALSE

I did have the chicken pox vaccine and fell into the .0000001% that develops pneumonia from the vaccine. I also fell into the percentage that develops chicken pox from the vaccine. As the cherry on the itchy sundae, I was also allergic to the pneumonia medication, Biaxin, and broke out in hives everywhere (including my fucking EYELIDS). I don't know how I survived my 12th year on Earth, to be honest. I have a strong memory of thinking I was healthy enough to eat, snarfing down a container of my father's roasted peanuts, and then vomiting extremely fresh, organic peanut butter into the bathtub less than 30 minutes later. Parents are saints.


5. My aunt and uncle used to own an ostrich farm.

TRUE

Yep! They had two breeding couples and would sell the eggs to a nearby restaurant and the shells to jewelry makers. I still have a hollowed-out shell that they gave me on top of my kitchen cabinets. They almost feel like porcelain. I wish I laid eggs. What am I talking about? Anyway, after a particularly harsh winter, one or two or all of the ostriches died and that was the end of that endeavor. I can say I learned three things from my visits with them during that time: ostriches do not stick their head in the ground/sand, if you put your ear up to their necks while they drink you can hear the water going down, and you never want to see ostriches breed up close and in real life. Trust me.


6. I can speak four languages, including English, French, Spanish, and Russian.

FALSE

Yea, right. Like I'm that wordly. I speak English, a bit of French (enough to get me a bathroom, a snack, a drink, and a friend if I were lost in France), and Pig Latin.

 
7. I used to weigh about 200 pounds.

TRUE  

All those cheeseburgers and spoonfuls of Nutella eventually do catch up with you. At 5'7", I topped the scale at 196 pounds my senior year at NYU and my Wii Fit categorized me as right smack on the line between "Overweight" and "Obese," if I remember correctly. Due to my intense fear of the line tipping over into "Obese" and me hitting the 200 pound mark, I decided it was time to lose weight and start being healthier. I started counting my calories every day using one of the many websites available, eating lots of fruits, vegetables, lean meats, and whole wheat carbohydrates, and eliminating snack foods such as french fries, candy, chips, chocolate and basically everything that I loved (don't get me wrong, I did let myself have these things sometimes, but I didn't make it a habit). I also used my Wii Fit for exercise in the beginning until I was in need of more of a challenge. At that point, I switched to running 2-3 miles daily and then when that got that old and it got cold, I switched to Jillian Michaels' 30-day shred. As of right now I weigh 135 pounds. I still eat the same way as I did when I started my "diet" but I don't need to input my calories into a website anymore (it's all tallied up in the ol' noodle). It was a lifestyle change for me, but not everyone would benefit from this. If you're 5'7" and 200 pounds and you feel happy and healthy, then more power to you! I didn't and so I had to make some changes. I still eat like a monster every now and then though.


8. My dad drummed for a Billboard Top 100, Number 2 song.

TRUE

My dad is a recording engineer and when he was sitting in on a session and ~learning the ropes~ from a more experienced engineer, the band's drummer didn't show up. Having played drums for most of his youth and dropped out of college to play drums in a band, my father was able to sit in and play for them on the recording. He's not credited for the track anywhere and we certainly do not get any royalties for it (IF ONLY), but you may know it:

9. I hate all bugs and immediately kill them when I find them in my apartment/personal space.

FALSE

I heart bugs and I never kill them when I find them in my apartment. Usually, I will place a cup or glass on the wall or floor that they're crawling on, slide a piece of paper over the top to trap them in the cup/glass, and release them safely outside.


10. I am half Chinese, a quarter Native American, and a quarter English.

FALSE

I am not one of those nationalities. My heritage can be summed up by the following drink:

White Russian

 
11. I have a scar on my upper thigh from riding my bike too slowly.

TRUE

Unfortunately for Sam, this is why I'm so unwilling to go on whimsical bearded hipster Brooklyn bike rides with him. That, and when my bangs blow back I look exactly like Joe Dirt. How does one get so severely injured from riding too slowly, you ask? Well, first of all, if anyone would, it would be me. Second of all, I just let the bike slowly tip over onto the ground and didn't dismount. I don't know if I was distracted by a Backstreet Boys song or something (I was 10) when it started to tip over, but when I hit the ground, some sharp, evil part of the bike went right into my leg and cut a hole (BONE DEEP) that required ten stitches. Yum.


12. My mom is a blonde republican.

FALSE

My dad is a salt and pepper republican. My mom is a blonde democrat (naturally a brunette democrat). Thank God one of my parents has some political sense.


So, who should win the prize of nothing? I hope everyone had fun learning a bit more about me and the nonsense that is my life. Maybe you already knew me but didn't know any of these things. Now you'll mention it in conversation next time I see you and I'll get all freaked out because you obviously creep me on the internet. Just kidding, I'll play it cool.

Throw Up

Vomit. Puke. Hurl. Losing your lunch. Tossing your cookies. A mouth volcano. Old unfaithful.

The serial spewer herself sporting her summer 'hawk.

I don't know about you guys, but my tolerance for the above has always been zilch. Just the sound, smell, sight, or mere suggestion of regurgitation sends my own stomach for a threatening loop. Even piles of my cat's barely-digested Purina cat food pebbles make me think twice about having eyes (and a cat). This issue has not only affected me, but can be seen taking its toll on sick, drunk friends without a hair tie, roommates with cat vomit-covered socks, and even helpless six-year-old girls with a bad stomach bug. The latter will be my subject for today.

Babysitting is the easiest thing in the world, which is why I spent most of my adolescent years and even college years sitting on babies as much as I could in my spare time. You get to be very silly for a couple of hours, maybe even sit on your ass and watch a Disney movie like you would be doing on a Saturday night anyway (just me?), and then you put the kid to bed (usually around 9:00pm or some other early-as-fuck bedtime) and watch your stories on the TV or troll the internet until the parents come home.

About two years ago in the West Village at around 9:00pm, I was doing just that. I had sang just about every Disney song in my repertoire (which is just about every Disney song in Disney's repertoire), tucked her into bed like a little Chipotle burrito, and placed her over-sized Dora the Explorer stuffed animal at the food of her bed. Then I sat in her room with her and proceeded to troll the internet from the comfort of a nearby chair.

About an hour later, and with absolutely no warning at all, she bolted up from bed and into a right angle and projectile vomited all over the end of her bed and Dora's face. I immediately picked her up by the armpits and carried her to the bathroom where she continued to toss her cookies into the more-deserving toilet. After managing to be somewhat comforting despite the fact that watching her made my insides want to be on the outside, I got her changed and brought her back into her bedroom. There I was met with the horrible realization that in order to put her back to bed, I would have to clean up all the throw up. There was no one there to save me and shirking responsibility would mean the parents coming home to a child who was sleeping in her own stomach contents. I looked down at my charge, who was holding my hand and looking very sleepy, and I knew that I had to just forget about my sensitivity to this mess and be a motherfucking adult.

A relevant coloring book illustration by Aparna and myself.

I went over to the bed with all of the paper towels I could find west of 6th Avenue and tried to scoop off what I could. The second I got within a foot of the bed, my gag reflex kicked in like I was getting x-rays done at the dentist, only worse, because at the dentist there is no giant, smiling Dora dripping with vomit. I could only conclude that before I came over to babysit, this little girl had entered a hot dog eating contest or consumed, at the very least, an entire pizza. I thought not being able to smell the disaster would help me be more efficient so I grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen and tied it around my face so that only my eyes were visible. I was the Upchuck Bandit.

Despite the fact that I could only smell dingy soap and assorted crumbs, my body would not allow me to clean up the mess. If I continued to force myself, it would only be a matter of time before the only thing adult in the room would be the size of the addition piles of puke on the bed. I took the entire comforter, including Dora (who, at this point, was definitely mocking me) and dumped it into the bathtub. Had this not been an NYC apartment and had there been a washer, I wouldn't have been so cruel about my placement of the bedding but hey, I didn't have much to work with. The bed was finally clean and I was relieved. I closed the bathroom door behind me and let myself forget that throw up ever happened that night. It wasn't until the parents came home that I let myself remember and recount what happened (I had called them earlier during the incident and left a message, but they didn't pick up or return my call). Her mom went straight to the bathroom and immediately started dealing with the barf-encrusted detritus. Not a single gag could be heard as she waded elbow-deep into the filthy remains of one of the worst nights of my life.

This was the moment that I realized that I might not ever be able to have children. If I do, they will either have to throw up alone and then promptly clean it up or watch as their mother retches along with them every step of the way. I guess I can only hope that my baby daddy has absolutely no gag reflex (that's what she said!).