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| Viki's Voice 3 |
| note: Viki Reed is a talented, humorous and dare I say somewhat peculiar writer. She has agreed to write for our e-zine on a bi-weekly basis. Her columns will then be archived here for future genrations to read, laugh and probably get a little pissed off about. Braisco. Do All Men Aspire to Be Exhibitionists? A Tale of One Father, Maybe Yours.... You will forget you're wearing underwear that displays your crack to the world with a crescent shaped tear. Then your wife gets the giggles and yanks at the crescent, reshaping your shorts into a makeshift jock-strap. You, of course, continue to wear these underwear. Cut to ten-twenty years later and-BOOM! You're greeting the cable-guy in a towel, and you know what? There's no shame in the inevitable. "Yeah, I have a small penis, and I want free hook-up in the bedroom too." This could never be you, right? Don't be so sure. Life hurls enough crap your way and there ceases to be call-for frilly concerns like discretion. For women, the result is: panties turn into underpants and white bras outnumber the black lacey ones. Frankly men too busy griping about their wives' giant underpants to concern themselves with their own hairy-asses. For example: "Big Bear" as my father, is known (he's a large mechanic from New Jersey); has revised his body consciousness without fret, if with some chafing. I can only conclude that my father believes himself to be invisible. For most of my childhood, Dad walked around naked or clad in jockey underwear. These were shorts from years gone by; as close to him as the many hunting dogs they'd survived. After bouts with whiskey, a sour appendix, and a steady diet of roast-beef and gawumpkes (stuffed cabbage); Big Bear wore his jockeys just hairs above the zipper. The problem with even quality jockeys are that the leg holes do not contract to correct the open-spaces exposed when the elastic waistband has all but vanished underneath a manly gut. The wind shore straight through his drawers and past our heads, not to mention any passerby could see everything God gave him. Big Bear accessorized with a‘snot-rag'. (‘Handkerchief' to those of you who don't touch them except to fold them neatly into a pocket for decoration; ‘hanky' to those who occasionally need to use one. ‘Snot-rag' to Dad; which he'd reuse, returning it to it's keep-place: the elastic of his holey, ancient jockeys.) Why? My grandmother was Polish-Depression Era: a real immigrant. Economy infused every aspect of her existence. Dad got an ironed hanky every morning. Grandma would scrub-each one clean with her I Just Escaped Hitler Hands and then bleach it. Voila! Fresh hanky in the morning. Later Dad joined the military, where the anal-retentive life was reinforced and ultimately he marries my mother; who's housekeeping style is best compared to Fred Sanford of Sanford and Son. With Mom, Dad was lucky to get any hanky, much less an ironed and bleached one. Whatever boogers that flaked-off in the wash-cycle became crispy surprises for the whole family. Knowing that the next clean snot-rag might be days around the corner, the Polish part of Dad's heritage possessed him. Rather than buy tissues, he found ways to empty his sinus into every square inch of a handkerchief. He'd refold them like some crystalline form of origami, discovering dry patches. You'd watch him emerge from under the hood of some car: staring, turning, folding, and blowing. He'd crumple the snot-rag and tuck it away for later, refusing to acknowledge his desperate act. Eventually, Dad figured there was no reason to grab trou when company arrived. He worked at home. If Big Bear was in his Super Crust-Man outfit and someone needed to pay a bill, they also got a show. I remember easily distinguishing the new customers because they tended to listen in distracted awe as Dad babbled on about their cam-shaft or brake fluid. Ten more years of this M.O. and who's to say the customers will notice that you're completely nude as long as you stay seated at the table? We're all friends! Come on-in! Of course, Dad doesn't do this intentionally. It simply happens when his work is done and every filthy stitch has been laboriously removed. I've heard legends of customers seeing the flash of a 60-year old ass, en-route to a closed door, air whistling. He's not running for himself, he doesn't care. If lighting is low or the sun's set for the day, and you greet Big Bear shirtless at the kitchen table, odds are that his unadorned nuts are resting on the cold chair that someday he'll offer you when he's wearing more, like a snot rag. Or maybe he is invisible. Either way, he began like you, my male friends.  8/29/99 DON'T! YOU'LL GO BLIND! I purchased a copy of Playgirl. Like a fire, I couldn't look away from the news stand. Let's just say I'm one of those ‘do it' in the dark kinds of girls. With the bedroom lit-up there's too many distractions: mirrors, unfolded laundry, the new Vanity Fair that I haven't read, the cats. Buying this raunchola magazine was a break in character for me. Perhaps I'd read it and not only turn the lights-on, but set-up the video camera. Somehow, Playgirl wasn't the inducement for such a scenario. It was kind of arousing, but Playboy makes the mistake of forgetting that naked men look funny. They just do. God loves them, he made them, but he also gave women a sense of humor. I'm married, I get to see the unadorned male every day of my life. If my husband were home during the week, I'd see the unadorned male every five minutes. I gawk at the testicles. How can you not? Demanding an answer of The Creator, "How did you do that?! Is this some sophisticated form of computer graphics? Is it a blue-screen model? " I was afraid that this ‘science-project' factor would ruin my trip through the pages of Playgirl. It was unavoidable. The thirteen year old in my head snickered at the every image. I'd be romantically distracted if the guys in these photos were in a dark room with their wives But seeing a butt-nekked stud, standing on a soccer field-holding three balls while looking me square in the eyes...what can I say? Send me to the principal's office. I can't control the giggles. Page after page the same reaction. There's only so many things a naked man can do while still remaining erotic. Picking up Playgirl this is what you might think those things are... "Cliché "Spreads" In Your Average Naked Man Magazine": "I love my dog". Awe, girls, he's a pet-lover; if only he wasn't nude-spooning with his pooch. "I'm a construction worker on the job with my pants around my ankles, how do you like that?". Uhm. I'm calling the cops. I had flashbacks to every incident of sexual harassment I ever had. How does he keep his job? "Would you like to see the part of my body where my butt-crack meets my testicles?" Absolutely not. Pass. Don't ask me again until you shave down there, on second thought, not even then. If I have to hold my nose, I'm probably not going to get wet, you know? "Delivery, ma'am, phallic imagery for you." In this scenario, the model is performing a service. He's delivering a bunch of bananas, or washing your car with a fat garden-hose, practicing his batting swing, bringing you a surfboard, or taming a dangerous tropical snake. "Would you like to hold it?" Again, last thing on my mind. I'm sure he's not thinking so arrogantly, so let me address this to the photographer. You look too big for me to hold in one hand and besides, what if somebody walked by? You're doing fine, wouldn't want to take away your biggest thrill. There's only 24 hours in a day, you enjoy every minute of it. "Come on, SEVEN!" Some of these models cup themselves like they're high-rollers in Atlantic City. Stop playing with them! And how come if a woman does it, you say it hurts? There's no way to pose a naked guy and make me want to turn the lights on and tear it up with the hubby, they might as well be more entertaining. "Nude Male Photos You Might As Well Show Me In Your Naked Man Magazine": "Honey, what do you think this is on the tip of it?" It's much easier for me to stare at your penis, if you have a grotesque lump, scab, or rash on it. Women are nurturing by nature, remember? "And that's when the muggers took my clothes, Officer..." A guy trying to explain how he wound up naked in a 7-11 parking lot. That's a picture that tells a thousand words . "Mom! Will you please knock before you come into the bathroom?!! I'm 28, for Christ's-sake!" This picture would have to be taken very quickly because of the 'boner-kill'-factor. "Mickey Rooney nude". There's got to be a good reason why this short, old corn-ball has gotten so many women to marry him. "More celebrities". I can always look at a famous, naked man. I recently saw a picture of Roger Moore's 007's in Playgirl and it was worth the price of the magazine ($3.99) That's just under two bucks per ball. More than famous scrotum, it was famous, shriveled scrotum. "Honey, HBO isn't coming-in clear!" This is the common vision I have in my head of male-nudity: a man, with a bag of Cheetos under his arm displaying his charms while he's attempting to fix the cable reception and complain to me simultaneously. Copyright of Viki Reed 1999 Viki can be reached at divilo@pacbell.net 8/15/99 Really High Concepts (HOLLYWOOD) Being poor in the movie business is beyond depressing. I've been in Hollywood since 1989. I've seen one dopey, intellectually retarded concept after another catapulted into production. That means money for a lot of people. How could "Alf", or "Different Strokes", or "Full House" get made? How could "Kindergarten Cop", "Twins", or "Waterworld", or "The Swarm" or "Undercover Blues" get made? It's easy: High Concept. Simple as that. You throw a log- line (a movie in about one sentence) that has explosive elements and it gets made. If Ralph Kramden were alive today, he'd be the King of Hollywood. It's all about stupid get-rich-quick schemes. Get the right actors, a high-concept script and you've got 'cash-money'in the bank. So in the effort to avoid waiting-tables again, I have created some high-concept vehicles that are sure to get the bucks rolling in. Daisy Force One: Its just like "Driving Miss Daisy" in a fully armed Military Chopper. 12 Angry Men: A remake of "Twelve Angry Men",relying entirely on the cast of "Mummenschanz". Pretty Detention: "The Breakfast Club" meets "Pretty Woman"; high-school miscreants suck peter when they're supposed to be writing disciplinary essays. The 13 Steps: An ambitious actress uses the Alcoholics Anonymous program to meet famous producers and directors, and becomes embroiled in a tale of international espionage. Defiant Penises: A soft-core porn-action-adventure buddy picture-remake, featuring the penises of Denzel Washington and Harvey Keitel. My Dinner With Elvis and Me: A made-for-TV-movie about a waitress, who is invited to sit-down and have dinner with Elvis Costello. Strip-Draft: A stripper channels her self-hatred into a side-career of arson. Nipples, screaming fire-engine sirens and crackling-flames galore. Jurassic Fart: A colossal case of prehistoric ass-breath is primed to erupt over Los Angeles, and Kate Capshaw must stop it. Dirty Old Divorced Wives: A wacky mix of "Ex Wives Club" and "Dirty Old Men". Three, 45-year old women try and remarry the 65 year old men that left them for younger women. Three: Brad Pitt reprises his role as a cop on the path of a serial-killer obsessed with the "Three Stooges". Copyright Viki Reed Viki can be reached at divilo@pacbell.net 8/1/99 "Remembering Velcro" Velcro died in 1989. He was no ordinary cat. He lived many years in, with disabilities that would be insurmountable for the average person, let alone dumb cat. Velcro was born, under my bed, along with six other kittens. He wasn't the cutest, but he was the runt. According to my parents, the runt is one you keep. Gray with yellow eyes and white cheeks, and feet. He had extra toes, as did most of our in-bred cats. Even though I was in HighSchool by now and our family was a house of animals, I'd never been charged with the care of a litter before. Usually my eldest brother, Willie, was The Master of the Cats. All that weren't loners or retarded followed The Master. Possibly because he got them all addicted to his saliva and phlegm, which he doused them-with daily. But these were my kittens this time. Within two weeks of the litter's birth, I had done something that made me never want the responsibility of pet-ownership again. I was doing my routine floor exercises straight out of Mademoiselle Magazine. First girly push-ups, then girly sit-ups, then stretching, then...peddling the bicycle. To do this exercise you must prop your hiney and legs up in the air. I stared at my knees, thinking about being famous someday, peddling my feet. I dropped my butt to take a break, and I heard a sickening crunch. Like a pomegranate with a crunchy shell. Ooh...it gives me chills to recall that sound, and that feeling that something was underneath me. It was Velcro. You must understand, Velcro hadn't gained his name as yet. That's right, if you can believe it, he lived. I ran downstairs frantic, devastated, telling my mother to hurry-up, take the kitten to a vet and put it out of it's misery. I begged my Willy to get a 22 caliber rifle and ‘do-it' quickly. Mom looked at the cat, which was spinning, pivoted from his head. His eyes closed, his little legs sort of flailing. She wrapped him up, took him to a vet and chose not to put him down. Maybe mom thought I would be seriously damaged if the cat died because of me. Maybe she was just OUT OF HER FREAKING MIND. "Well, he definitely has nerve damage, he's not paralyzed, although you broke his hind leg and tail and it won't be clear until he gets older and heals as to how well he'll be able to get around." So mom nursed him back to a state I wouldn't exactly describe as ‘health.' I couldn't bear to look at he little guy. I was pissed that she was going to put this creature through a life of obstacles. She had no idea what Velcro's life would be like. He got bigger, over time, so subtly that I didn't notice. One day I noticed the little fella wasn't bandaged up, and he was getting around on the floor. He exuded a kind of ‘happy-ignorant' energy. Yes, he was independently mobile; but it was a strange kind of a walk. His rear left leg had healed into a straight line, acting as something of an unintentional pole-vault. His tail was frozen into a right angle, which intensified and enlarged with muscle-mass as his tail became a necessary ‘rudder/tripod-leg'. This furry, filthy hockey stick eventually became as thick as his legs. Because I had crushed his head, the little guy had some intensive nerve damage. His voice-box was accordion-ed and he could not meow like other cats. He more or less emitted a strange croak that you had to listen for. His pupils dilated and contracted randomly. I don't know what nerve you have to destroy to cause that, but I apparently struck a geyser. I cannot tell you how closely the image of his pupils enlarging to black then shrinking to slits in front of your eyes resembles a psilocybin trip. He didn't seem to know why or care that he was squinting and blinking out of synch. I also destroyed his ability to control his claws; which extended and retracted without warning. However, one night my brothers realized that once the little fella had gripped onto something, he hung on for dear life. He wasn't one of those cats that could land on it's feet every time, and he seemed to know this. My brothers (all younger than I) had this hobby of tormenting the cats for a laugh. We were all determined to stay 4 years old forever. What we discovered: Tossing cats is more enjoyable than you'd imagine. Of course, you must have some aim and skill as a tosser. You can't just randomly fling a cat. You have to aim it at something it can grab onto or land on. You kind of lob it like a softball. I didn't enjoy this, but my brothers always liked watching the cats make this: "OOOHHHHSSHITTTT! I'm gonna claw you when I get down!" Well, my brothers flung Velcro one night. He stuck on the edge of a couch. He really stuck there. He hung there, straining his neck, freaking eyes exploding like cartoons, tail maneuvering to maintain position, and with a crippled clutch into the fabric of the furniture. Light-bulbs went off in everyone's head: HIS NAME IS VELCRO!! Of course, they needed to test the theorem before officially naming him. Every time it worked. They threw him on my brother's back. One-Hundred Percent Cotton and one-hundred percent human flesh make for a good grip. Velcro it was. Velcro scampered happily, so to speak for years. There was no end to Velcro's sight-gags. He could not go to the bathroom like other cats. Generally, he fell over in the litter box while taking a dump or peeing on himself. Forget covering up his mess with litter, he was the mess. He had no problem scattering soiled litter across the floor. He had to fling his whole body out of the box to get out. He became a regular Kitty Stuntman. As I mentioned before, his rear leg was literally a pole-vaulting pole. Velcro only moved when he had to. He got up to eat, drink, ask for food-he usually fell over into his dishes, shaking like Ronald Reagan in his slow efforts to get back on his feet. Or if a dog or another cat got playful or scary suddenly, out of the corner of your eye, a gray mass would fly by. But like any animal, he just got old. One day I came home to find him sleeping in a weird place on the floor. But he was cool, and stiff. He wasn't exactly sleeping. Even in death, Velcro was endearing, you see, rigor-mortis had set-in, and his L-Shaped tail made for very convenient transporting to his burial site. There probably is a moral to Velcro's life; a message we can all take with us. All I can come up with is: don't let a dumb teenage girl take care of kittens. (c) Copyright Viki Reed 1998 edited by braisco Viki Reed is wanted in three states, if you see her, you are to consider her armed, dangerous, and a big complainer. Contact the FBI or your local law enforcement agents should you see Viki Reed. She is known to grow a beard to change her appearance. You can contact Viki Reed at Divilo@pacbell.net |
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