Dont Mince Words

In the age of broadcasting conglomerates, it’s hard to define community standards. I recently discovered that George Carlin’s seven dirty words should be expanded to include “God.”

Panic! at the Disco has a line in one of their songs that says, “Haven’t you learned to close the goddamn door?”

It’s a harmless sentence that is uttered in the context of an overhead conversation in a church. But, a Los Angeles Clear Channel, top 40 station chooses to bleep God out of the song and leave Damn in. Of course, the first time I heard this I laughed out loud. I’m sure the kids today, even a five-year old, could fill in the blank.

Los Angeles derives at lot of income from tits. I vote we take tits off Carlin’s dirty word list and add God. There are many deity forms, but tits are universally consistent in Los Angeles: big, perky, and in your face. How could anyone be offended by tits here when most five-year olds know them as boobies?

I got onto the highway late today, around oh-fuck-o’clock. I knew I was doomed to spend close to two hours in evening rush hour, but I didn’t. I sailed down the 10 doing close to 80 wondering if I missed an earthquake. Where were my rush hour peeps?

It dawned on me when I passed the Fairfax exit that it was a Jewish holiday. While all the Hollywood Jews were home atoning, I was having my Honda high holiday.

Home in 35 minutes.

I have a vacation ritual where I pack my almost-expired condoms with hopes they are deployed. My trip to Hawaii was extra special because I was going with my 71 year-old namesake. The Marna(s) were on a mission to meet the perfect Uncle/Nephew combo. We had seven condoms for the week.

I wasn’t sure if a condom’s spermicide fell under the FAA liquid or gel rule, and I knew the chances of joining the mile high club were slim, so I packed my condoms in my checked luggage. I was dizzy watching the Honolulu baggage conveyer belt when I determined my luggage was MIA. There was trouble in paradise. I had no toothbrush, bathing suit, or condoms.

At the end of day two, still wearing the same clothes, my Aunt and I were bar hopping. I was tired and just wanted my stuff. Instead, I settled for a lot of beer. Aunt Marna turned into Pimp Marna before my eyes. There was no Uncle/Nephew duo in sight, but she did have my back when I didn’t realize a waiter had been flirting with me.

“Give him your card. He thinks you are funny,” she pointed out.

The next night, when the porter delivered my bag, I rolled it into the room and announced, “the condoms have arrived.”

The rest of the week, we saw a lot of Hawaii and very few age-appropriate single men. On our last night, at my Aunt’s suggestion, we got crafty and took Hawaii scenic postcard samples, taped a condom to the backside and wrote a note. Our funny waiter got one with his tip.

My favorite postcard with my last condom, is sitting on my desk. It’s a shot of volcano exploding. Below the condom on the backside I wrote, “May all your vacations be filled with hot explosions. Marna(2)”

At least this year I didn’t fill them with water and launch them from the balcony.