Itch, Scratch... I Was Taking a Nap

Every Friday is Improv Friday at Said Panties. On Facebook, X and J take a poll of their friends for a topic (any topic) to write on. The most popular, ridiculous, or random is selected, and both X. and J must write about it. This week's topic, bedbugs, comes from Jonathan Kuhn.

We New York City folk have a lot to deal with on a daily basis. Every day we get showered (assuming we have water), eat breakfast (assuming the rats or roaches or asshole roommates didn't eat all of our Kashi first), brush our teeth (assuming our teeth weren't stolen by New York's roving tooth bandits), get dressed and try to catch the subway (assuming it's running, and not on fire) or a cab (assuming they haven't been knifed by Islamophobes) to get to work (assuming we still have a job, in this economy). And that's just the beginning. Subway manhole covers explode in fiery blazes into the sky. Terrorists plot to blow up our garbage cans, office buildings, cars, and major tourist traps. Muggers abound, waiting to take our cash at the blade of a knife. This isn't even covering the wandering crazy people, the piles of uncleaned dog poop, or the other thousands of things that stand between us and existing comfortably. We don't need any more challenges every day.

But we just got a new one, anyway, and it's invisible to the naked eye. No, I'm not talking about The Invisible Man or poisonous gas (although I'm sure we have those as well.) I'm talking about bedbugs. They're the newest citizens of New York City, and they're sick and tired of us ignoring their presence - so they're stepping up their parasite game.

As a youngster, my parents often kissed me goodnight and said that tried and true salutation: "Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite." I always thought it was simply a cute thing they were saying. I assumed that there was no such things as bedbugs - that they were made up creatures who came to put me to sleep and give me pleasant dreams. Little did I know they were actually fuck-ugly crab/spider creatures that really DO exist. In hindsight, I feel that any parent that says this to their child should lose their offspring to child services, as they are no doubt acknowledging that they don't care for their child's welfare, and that they are living in such a highly concentrated level of filth.

But I digress (don't I always?) Bedbugs in New York! They're like tourists, except they don't carry cameras and ask you for directions to Central Park down in Battery Park City, they just invade your clothing and furniture and bite and feed on you until you are covered in unsightly welts. I (knock on digital wood) have never had to deal with these beasts. But we New Yorkers are very paranoid about that double-B word. If you DO have bedbugs, you make sure not to ever admit to it in public, lest people near you regard you as they would plague victims with open, seeping sores. Apparently getting bedbugs sucks big time. You can never know when you're actually rid of them, and the process of ridding them involves basically incinerating all of your worldly possessions and shaving off every follicle of hair on your body.

Once upon a time, bedbugs were a nightmare story you heard every now and again. But it's as though the bugs hired a PR firm in an effort to increase their visibility. And they are going places. Literally. Hollister's flagship store in SoHo, Abercrombie's 5th avenue flagship, a Victoria's Secret, the AMC Super-Plex on 42nd street. Not a week seems to go by that I don't read about another business shutting down to set fire to all of their merchandise. And then I'm that MUCH more paranoid. As it stands, anyone who's seen a movie in the past few weeks, any woman with a push-up bra, or any guy dressed like a douchebag with a polo with popped collar is potentially infested with these vermin.

Bedbugs? More like Every-Fucking-Where bugs. And, of course, every itch I get, my mind explodes in fear and worry. Did I finally get bedbugs? Is my apartment suddenly swarming with them? It's been a few weeks since I heard of another bed bug attack, and so I am waiting, one eye forever open. Where will they strike next? Jennifer Convertibles? Some meatpacking district restaurant with beds instead of chairs? The Pleasure Chest?

Luckily nowhere I go has been affected by the intrepid critters. But the day I hear that bedbugs have lain itchy waste to a Gamestop, gay club, or Dunkin Donuts, will be the worst day of my life. Imagine! No, don't imagine. Be terrified.

What no one ever says about bedbugs is that they are a more politically correct form of crabs. They are classy crabs that you can get in totally innocent situations. What sucks is that you can now pick up something itchy and contagious by just going home with someone and making out with them in their bed. Are you horrified yet? I am. All my future hookups will take place on cement slabs in vacuum sealed safes, just to be completely certain.

The other thing about bedbugs is that they are not THAT horrifying. It's not like they'll kill you. And they don't skitter around your apartment, catching your eye, like rats, roaches, waterbugs, or CIA wiretappers. When they get to you, all they do is nibble. And so you itch, and scratch. It's no worse than chicken pocks or sunburn, really. It's just the realization that there are thousands of gross things crawling all over you like you're a shish kabob dropped into an anthill.

Okay. Maybe they are horrifying after all.

Wait. I spoke to soon. The latest attack has happened, probably as I began writing this post. Google's New York office has been infested. No doubt by an employee wearing a super-cleavage bra, or a programmer who just HAD to wear that faded and distressed visor he bought a few weeks ago at Abercrombie. And now that the bedbugs have arrived, they'll probably start fucking around with the search giant's algorithm, forcing thousands of Internet workers like myself to completely re-code and re-tag their websites to regain top search result positions against sites the bedbugs decided were more important.

I'll tell you the best thing about bedbugs, though: free days off from work! These stores often have to shut down for days while people dressed up like the Ghostbusters show up with indescribable tools and doodads to rid the space of the invisible marauders. You can imagine that the employees of all of these overtaken businesses and offices were laughing their way to be deloused and have all of their belongings forever destroyed.

Did you start itching while reading this post? I know I did.

Itchy and Scratchy: it's not just a cartoon any more.

J.

YouTube State of Mind

No matter where you are from, be it Los Angeles, Washington State, Staten Island, South Florida, or a state of senile insanity you probably have a comfortable feeling of belonging as you go about your life. Sure, you may have stressful situations, poor weather, high crime, or too much hair gel seeping into your township's water table, but it doesn't matter; each and every one of you has a YouTube parody of Katy Perry's "California Gurls" to call your own.

And since Katy released the Song of the Summer which quickly became the Spoofmeat of the Summer, I have sat and watched from my office desk as these sometimes good, most times terrible parodies made the rounds. Each time, something inside of me died. Because where was New York in all of this? We get a thirteen second cameo in California Gayz, only to be hit by a vehicle.




Allow me to add that I am still trying to figure out how the director accomplished this feat. I think maybe it's similar to how Regina George gets hit by a bus in Mean Girls.




And, one more quick topic deviation. Please watch "Regina George hit by bus" spoof video. It deserves to be shared.





Now, you might say: "But New York gets made fun of in everything! Isn't Staten Island Gurlz good enough?"

Yes, it is true that I come from New York. But ask any New Yorker: we are a huge bag of stereotypes, not a single, convenient, insult-worthy one, but MANY unique insult-worthy ones. As evidenced by the previously mentioned Staten Island Gurls spoof. Staten Island claims their own sovereignty, which is fine, as I only use them to hold my trash while it composts, and allow me quick passage into Pennsylvania when I visit my old college.

I'm not a New Yorker, that is too broad. I am a Long Islander. It's not something I am particularly proud of, but it is something I must admit when participating in lie detector tests. So to shovel me a standard "New York-centric" spoof of something is like calling a Puerto Rican hispanic. It's not true, and it borders on insulting.

Furthermore, to even classify me as a "Long Islander" is a bit too broad. Long Island, as per its name, is a VERY Long Island. (Much like "Fire Island", as per its name, is a horrible place entirely engulfed in never-dying flames).

Long Island has farms. Cows. Amusement parks. Hicks. (including an entire ville where they apparently live.) We have beaches and Montauk and everything in between. And even though I lived there most of my life, I never saw any of those things! It is because I am, to be technical, a Nassau County Long Islander. Which means a lot! It means we have no cows. It means we're near to the beach. It means we're less than an hour train ride from Manhattan. It means we're better than those Suffolk Folks, who could be considered hicks or out of touch with New York.

I can certainly understand why, until now, there's been no spoof that speaks to me. Besides this famous Long Island mother kvetching about a Christmas Tree.




But this was a sneaky video. It doesn't have "Long Island" or "Nassau County" written anywhere in its description. I defy you to ask any Nassau County lady or fellow you know: this drag queen is doing a better impression of our mothers than our fathers or stepfathers could ever do. And when this video hit the Tube, Nassau County citizens flocked to watch, tears in our eyes, that SOMEONE had finally made something just for us.

Well, I am happy to report that, years after Christmas Tree Mom, a new Nassau County video has emerged into the mainstream. AND it makes me a part of the "pop spoof" club! Well, almost. The spoof I am referencing has been traveling through Facebook status updates over the past few days, earning a ton of plaudits, shameful head shakes, and drunken, fist-pumping cheers. It is called "Nassau County State of Mind."

And while it's barely accurate in regards to my life and behaviors before I fled the Island for NYC, I can at least relate. Because the Jersey-Shore-esque douchebags singing about where to get a good bagel, and where the garlic knots are always plentiful are the same douchebags I grew up with.

The gel. The muscles. The bad voices. The expensive backyard pools. It's all there.

I am, of course, upset that it is not a "Nassau County Boyz" spoof. But I'll bet these guys think it's too gay to deal with anything performed by Katy Perry, even though most of them probably jack off into their ankle socks to her new album cover on a daily basis.

It also explains a lot about Nassau County: these guys are probably still jamming out to this song regularly. While the rest of the pop world has moved on to new ditties, the dudes in Nassau County are bouncing their Hummers down the street to this gem, and probably still will for months to come. As an example, I'm pretty sure that reggae song "I'm in love with a man nearly twice my age" and "Mambo Number 5" are still played on quasi-heavy rotation on our radio stations.

Again - let me be abundantly clear: I AM NOT ONE OF THESE GUYS. But man did I ever walk high school hallways and shopping center byways with them. Feel my pain. Understand why I ran here as fast as my Skechers would carry me.

I present to you, Nassau County State of Mind:





Your brother in fist-pumping,
J.