It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 27

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Choking the Chicken.

So tonight I had a totally different topic in mind but I needed some help so I walk into my bedroom and Current Husband is lounging in his comfy pants, one hand on the remote and one hand sort of stuck just in the top of his waistband, eyes glazed over and watching TV.
ME:  "Don't judge my Whoreticulture Friday topic, but do you have any weird stories about..."
CH:  (still looking at TV) "Choking the chicken?"
ME:  "Wha...No.  No, it was not about choking the chicken.  It was about..."
CH:  "Pullin' the Pud?"
ME:  *sigh* "Why don't you tell me all of the slang terms you know for masturbation."
(I can be very Zen.  I will use his current energy flow to my advantage instead of fighting it.  My hormone of choice is EstroNinja.)
CH:  "Okay!" (Now he's excited about the blog.  This rarely happens.) "Um, there's..."
AND HE DRAWS A BLANK.  No pun intended.  I guess that would be "Shoots a Blank" to be a pun, but I'm a lover not a fighter.
ME:  "How about Spanking the Monkey, or Shining the Brass Knob?"
CH:  "No, you can't use Shining the Brass Knob, that's a blow job."
ME:  "I don't think so.  It sounds more tactile than oral."
CH:  "Whatever.  It's a BJ."
ME:  "I'm going to Urban Dictionary."
And THAT, folks, is a snapshot of the marriage of The Wife and Current Husband.  Your welcome, Hallmark, on ideas for next season's anniversary cards.

FRONT

To the man whose brass knob I would shine any day.

INSIDE

But that's NOT a blow job!  Happy Anniversary anyway!

Don't you love how Hallmark can get away with a lame joke by saying "anyway"?  

We invited the fire department to your birthday

...to put out the candles!  Happy Birthday anyway!

 Hallmark, you crazy sonofabitches.  Back to whacking off...

I called a couple of friends and said, "Do you have any weird or crazy stories about masturbating?" and they all pretty much said, "I have stories about masturbating, but they are generally disturbing more than entertaining."  And then I realized I have the most awesome friends that they don't bat an eye when I call them at 9 p.m. and ask them about beating off.  So we're back to Urban Dictionary, the Official Go-To Guide for Whoreticulture Friday.

Masturbation- The act of touching oneself to produce a favorable feeling in the groin area. Usually accompanied by some sort of mental, visual, or audio stimulation to assist in reaching climax.

But you already knew that.  I like the examples better:

No honey, I don't want to tonight, I'm tired from watching Oprah. Why don't you just go masturbate? 

That dumb broad got me all worked up and left me; so I had to spit-shine the old water pump manually if ya know what I mean.

Sometimes, when I wake up, I have an erection, so I have to beat off until it goes away. Sometimes, it comes back so I beat off again until it goes away. Once, it kept coming back so I just chopped it off. It hurt bad.

After Urban Dictionary, I Googled "Masturbation", and as I hit Enter, I cringed as I thought about all of the porn sites that were now going to spam me.  What really surprised me is the sheer number of "How To" sites on masturbation.  Really?  Is it that hard?  Couldn't anyone learn the basics by watching "9 1/2 Weeks" or "American Pie"?  If you are a little behind the curve, here is a whole list of sites from About.com, but for the REAL thrill, you have to visit Wikipedia.  There are a variety of pictures, from the artsy, by Gustav Klimt, to the incredibly disturbing sex offender self-portrait by Egon Schiele.  Even better, there are incredibly smooth and Brazilianed people "demonstrating" it.  For Science, OBVIOUSLY. 

I did get a couple of interesting masturbation stories, but those all involved a vibrator, which I will save for another Friday because THAT is deserving of it's own post.  Since you are all so well-versed on masturbation, today's post will serve to help broaden your knowledge of alternate terms for masturbation.  Feel free to add your own in the Comments section. 
 
YAY!  It's an interactive blog!


jacking off * jerking off * wanking off * hand job * spanking the monkey * beating off * spanking the monkey * beating the ugly stepchild * choking the chicken * flogging the donkey/dolphin/log/hog * spit-shine the water pump * flagging the mule * slapping the salami * beating the meat * rubbing one out * pocket pool * buffing the banana * walking the dog * roping the pony * beating the bishop * burping the worm * wonking your cronker * bleeding the weasel * corking the bat * pumping the python * buttering the corn * pull the weasel * tug the rope * polish the knob * do the 5-finger shuffle * slide the snake * toss off a batch of orphans * peek-a-boo the mole * pay the babysitter * plant the carrot * stroke the one-eyed monster * burp the baby * choking the man in the pink turtleneck * jacking the beanstalk * yankee-ing the doodle * waxing the wood * caulking the cracks * tickle the pickle * shizzle the nizzle * cream-filling the donut * cleaning the pipes * juicing the Twinkie * punching the clown * shaking hands with Dr. Jolly * roughing up the suspect * feeding the geese * shaking the shark/Pringle can/shit/bottle/change/gadget/iPod

Consider yourself educated, America.  Doesn't it seem like ANYTHING can be a term for masturbation?  Now go on and Fill Your Friday or Greet Your Weekend or Call Your Mom.  It can be creepy, or a drinking game.  Your call.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

It's On Like Donkey Kong.

Current Husband and I have an interesting relationship.  There are lots of words that describe our love, like "odd", "immature", and "inexplicable", but I think the word that best describes it is "competitive". 

This week's Parade magazine had a cute article in it by Connie Schultz called "My Family's Scrabble Wars" about how competitive she is with her husband when they play.  CH and I play lots of hard-core Scrabble (as in we play competitively, not in that we play in leather and chains and it's somehow X-rated), so I had CH read the article, and he said, "Yeah, that's good.  You should write something like that, about how I kick your ass at everything we do."

Oh really?  No sex for you, CH.  

Who wins now, jackass?

We have been going mano y mano since we met.  It started with pool, then darts, then video games, and yes, he pretty much beat me at all of that.  But come on, those are traditional testosterone activities, and I held my own.  Then it would be things like "Who can get to the door first?" when we lived in our apartment.  One time, we were walking back to the apartment from doing laundry, and I took off to beat him back to the door.  CH saw me take off, and instead of trying to beat me, he just kicked the back of my foot, causing me to launch the laundry basket, full of FOLDED WHITES, on the grass in front of me.  I started punching him, and he just laughed and laughed.  It's a miracle we didn't make it on COPS that night.

This is what I deal with on a regular basis.

Don't believe me?  Here is a list of things we've competed at in the past year:

• Who gets the last bite of a shared dessert at a restaurant.
• Who gets the last cookie.
• Who gets the last glass of wine in the bottle.
• Who can find the remote faster (I think he may be tricking me into finding it for him.)
• Who's stronger.
• Who's smarter.
• Finishing the crossword first.
• Who can win Wii bowling/skiing/balance board/anything.
• Losing weight.
• Shooting baskets.
• Grilling meat.
• Playing ping pong.
• Playing air hockey.
• Playing Guitar Hero.
• Trivial Pursuit.
• Teaching the dog to talk.

You may think I'm trying to by funny, but I am deadly serious.  We stayed up until 2 a.m. once trying to beat each other's Wii skiing time.  And yes, CH beat me at that.  The bastard.  But in the words of Lenny Kravitz, It Ain't Over Til It's Over.  Which, strangely enough, happens to be "our song".  I told you our love is odd.

We are the worst at Scrabble, probably because it's something at which I can beat him regularly.  And he HATES it when I beat him.  He gets all quiet and focused, and he starts taking about 20 minutes every turn so he can get optimum points, and I'm such a giver that I don't call him out on time, because according to Scrabble rules I believe you are to take THREE minutes per turn.  (Since I am smarter, I figure giving him more time to think evens us out.)  We are pretty well matched in Scrabble, because I have a bigger vocabulary, but he is a logistics king.  I'll throw down a word like "Tithing" or "Redundant" and only get 18 points, and he'll put down an "X" on a Triple Word Score and make two words like "Ox" and "Axel" and get 75 points.  It's really annoying.

There are things we respectfully refuse to compete over.  He has finally conceded that I am a better storyteller (after years of people telling him so - he took that kind of hard), and I know that I will never be able to achieve his level of skill in breakdancing.  Other than that, everything is game.

And to that?  I spell B-R-I-N-G. I-T.  Because it is on like Donkey Kong.  And I can probably beat him at that, too.  What does George the Superpet say about it?  Right now it's "Brrghhhhh..." but by the end of the year, it WILL be "Julie".

Time For a Beatin'

"...Then Pa growled so terribly, his hair was so wild and his eyes so fierce that it all seemed real. Mary was so frightened that she could not move. But as Pa came nearer Laura screamed, and with a wild leap and a scramble she went over the wood box, dragging Mary with her.
'You shouldn't frighten the children so, Charles...
Look how big their eyes are!'" - Ma, Little House in the Big Woods

It's one thing to read the Little House books as a kid in the 70's, but it's quite another to read them with your young children today. They dislike Little House in the Big Woods for reasons other than pig killing. It's because throughout the book, when Pa isn't murdering the forest creatures, he is either spanking, telling stories about spanking, or acting like he's on peyote. These all qualify with my kids as "Reasons to Dislike Charles Ingalls."

Pop.

That's the sound of my "Oh the kids will come to love the Little House books as I have" bubble bursting.

Their cultural references today do not cover discipline, because no one on Disney or Nick ever gets disciplined. The mom on The Suite Life of Zack and Cody isn't cutting a switch from a tree in the lobby of the Tipton and beating the tar out of those kids (oh, but they so richly deserve it). Spencer, Carly's brother on iCarly, doesn't go all Mike Tyson on her when her friend Samantha eats all of their food or floods their house. And Spongebob doesn't run around acting like he's on peyote. (Oh wait. He does. How else do you explain a sponge in tighty whiteys who lives in a pineapple under the sea and is friends with a starfish in OP shorts and a squirrel in a dive suit. But it's really funny, so that's okay.)

My sister and I grew up in the 70's, when it was becoming uncouthe to beat your children. Semantics dictated that it was no longer discipline and was now to be called abuse, soon to be followed in the '80s with the banning of leaving kids in the car while grocery shopping and making them fetch your rum and Cokes at parties.

My worst physical punishment on record, and believe me when I tell you that I wholeheartedly deserved every punishment I got, was when I sassed my mom in the car. As you can imagine, I was very...um...verbose as a child, and knew which pointy sharp words to use on appropriate occasions. We pulled into the mall parking lot and I was in the back seat when my mom made some stern comment, probably about my attitude. I retorted with a statement designed to escalate the situation, knowing I was safe in the back seat. My mom got very quiet, put her cigarette carefully in the ashtray, and tried to lunge over the backseat to slap me. She made contact only once, since I was not wearing a seatbelt and was still in my Sears Toughskins slim jeans, and then she realized people in the parking lot were watching her. She told me to sit in the car and think about what I had done while she went into the mall, presumably to find a bar and an adoption agency.

Did I sit in that backseat and think about what I had done? Au contraire, my friends. Pa would have spanked me, then regaled me with a story about how his father had been caught breaking the Sabbath by sledding and then hit a pig (loose pigs were apparently very prevalent back then) and his father had to wait until the Sabbath was over to get his beating, and I would have felt ashamed and contrite.

No, I sat in the backseat of the car repeatedly slapping myself in the same spot my mom had hit me so I could get a bruise, or at least an angry welt, and then when people would say, "What happened to you?" as they surely would because my life was so important to them, I could say, "My mom hit me". Believe me when I tell you that my mom gets very nice Mother's Day cards today.

I think my sister's worst punishment came when we didn't pick up our toys like we were supposed to, and after telling us to pick up forty times my dad finally came unhinged and started throwing our toys up the stairs to our rooms. One of the items Dad launched up the stairs was my sister's beloved doll, Goo-Goo. Goo-Goo was one of those 70's dolls (whose brand name escapes me) that not only drank a bottle and peed, she ate food and pooped. Goo-Goo came sailing up the stairs in slow motion, her bright yellow and olive green frock floating gracefully around her as she hit the wall, at which time her head popped off and she shat herself.

Whoops.

The next person to come unhinged in my family was my sister, looking at her beheaded doll laying in a puddle of her own poo. But I can't blame Goo-Goo, because anyone who has witnessed my dad coming unhinged knows this is a common response. Goo-Goo took one for the team that day. Dad sort of shuffled off in horror and I tried unsuccessfully to hook Goo-Goo's head back on her body, but alas, that doll had taken her last crap.

Pa's disciplinary measures may not have survived into the 21st century, but his storytelling with a message lives on. Today, my sister and I like to tell our kids about how Grumpy broke our favorite toys while high on peyote, just before the liquor and the beatings, and that if they don't shape up we'll invite Grumpy over to the house. It's far more effective than cutting a switch.