Monologue, Pt 1

Ok, let's try these out.

I'm a proud Feminist - go Feminism! But there are a few things that I'm jealous that the guys have/get to do. No, I'm not talking about what it's like to have a penis so that I can pee standing up or to write my name in the snow. None of that BS. *pause* Well, I digress. I would like to have a proverbial penis (imagine me with one) so that if I'm suckin' at being a stand-up comic and some asshole yells "Play Freebird" during one of my pauses, I can point to my package and say "I got your Freebird right here, buddy." And it would work! Now imagine me without one, as.. um, normal, with me sayin' "I got your Freebird right here, Fucktard." It just doesn't work.
I'd also like to have facial hair. I'd have an Elvis pompadour, some chops, and a handlebar mustache. Very 70's porn. Throw in some chest hair and we've got a deal. OR, I'd have one of those really elaborate mustaches that you can make shapes and shit- the kind that wins contests in Alaska and one of those goatees that hang down my chin to a point so that I can rub it thoughtfully and mutter, "Reeeeally". But this get something straight here - let me clarify something; my goatee would be a specific goatee with a specific purpose; not one that's on my face because I'm too lazy to shave my chin but can't commit to a beard. Geattes, for me, are a deal breaker - even more than chewing tobakee. Yeah, I know, that's super shallow of me to say, but there are huuundreds of men than have rejected my fabulous self just because I've got some junk in my front. I know, they could be Mr. Prince-fuckin'-Charming, but if they gots a goatee, then nope. Oh! It's really bad on like online dating sites cause you'll get a dude who will email you and say "I saw your profile and your pictures are really cute and" da-da-da, and so you click on his profile and he's got this big, fat face with a big ol' hairy goatee lookin' at you, giving you the finger. And I can tell he didn't actually read my profile because, you know, under likes it has stuff like: rainbows, kittens, marshmellows; and on dislikes it has stuff like: Nickleback, quicksand, goatees - and you know that he must've just skimmed my profile, saw the word "goatee" and thought that that would be his ticket in to Larry's Magical Cuntland where the mustache rides are always free! Quite the contrary! You know what's even worse? Blond goatees! Red ones are the lesser of the three evils - they look very Viking-ish. But blond goatees are creepy! They remind me of Arkansas. Or Nascar. I don't know what it is. It's like, if you have a blond goatee, a mullet must not be far behind the head.

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*start shimmyin'*
Shimmy! Shimmy!
You guys remember shimmyin'? I remember when I first heard of shimmyin'. I was in 6th grade and we were in some kind of class of some sorts and they had us watching some work out video a la 1982 where this one chick who looked like something straight outta Olivia Newton John's "Let's Get Physical" video was having us jump around and all kinds of crazy shit. It was odd, but we did it. Then she started to move her shoulders all weird while saying "shimmy! Shimmy!" What an odd thing for her to do. What a lapse in judgment of the faculty to show us this because with us being 6th graders, we took it to the extreme and started to convulse until we had laughed ourselves into a stupor. It was like our running joke for the next few months. Shimmy! Shimmy!
And then puberty hit because I woke up one morning (I swear, it's that quick) and discovered that I had grown a boob... and a half. Needless to say that my shimmying days were over. I grew to hate my boobs but over the years, as the hormones took over, I started getting over it. I even named them: BiggieSmalls. And when I would get hammered, out they came! I even took them to Mardi Gras in 2004 and tried to find the Girls Gone Wild turds; all we could find, though, were the copycat crew called Wild Party Girls. The friend I was with had huge knockers, so I'm hoping that when they got her, Biggie managed to make a guest appearance. It was so funny trying to get beads because I'd go to lift my shirt and I'd hear, "how about I only give you half a strand." So I had some very elaborate chokers. As the night wore on, though, and the guys got more intoxicated, I'd start to receive whole strands because apparently the guys were seeing double by then.