Strangely Naked

If you have spent any amount of time skipping across the blog landscape, you have no doubt stumbled across the “April A-to-Z Blogging Challenge.” For those unaware, allow me to exhaustively explain the concept: Starting April 1, following the alphabet, write a post every day except Sunday…guess it’s not that complex a concept. For those who enjoy reading blogs, you must be either in euphoric pleasure or completely overwhelmed by trying to keep up with all the hastily crafted posts (says the person writing this in a frenzy at 6 a.m.) tidal waving your reader stream. Wanting to be a part of the group (ACCEPT ME!), I decided instead of following the post schedule, I have decided to cram the alphabet of posts into a handful of posts.

First, as I’ve seen people do, is my “theme reveal,” like it’s a new car on the Price is Right. My A-Z (or is it A-to-Z? Please don’t answer, it’s a rhetorical question. By the way, you know who isn’t participating in the A-to-Z Challenge? The A-to-Z Challenge website. Weird.) Challenge theme reveal is: Self-Deprecation (now does the title make sense?).

A: Anus, I am a living Anus. An anus with arms and legs that spews crap all day long, that’s me! Sometimes it’s runny poo, sometimes the human waste I spew is chunky, sometimes that crap is majestic (Stop flushing my poop so fast, motion-sensor toilets, let me admire my work!). My job is to carefully craft crap, mold that crap into a beautiful statue of crap that hopefully induces someone to think that poop is so beautiful that it deserves to be sponsored (that could describe a number of modern vocations). When people ask me what I do, I say, brain poop letter turds. Naturally, there’s no follow-up question to that, so the conversation moves on to, “what do you do when you’re not working?” “I brain poop thought nonsense on internets.”

B: Butthead. This was something I was called all of my life, and with good reason. I sometimes do buttheaded things. Have you ever caught yourself reaching for a hot pan barehanded? Me too, total butthead move. Wore a striped top with plaid bottoms, tried to sneak out a fart in a crowded elevator, broke a window trying to kill a bug, these are just a smattering of the dummy butthead things I’ve done and will continue to do. I think having people call me butthead really helped me grow into an only intermittent butthead. An occasional butthead? Prone to bouts of buttheadery? Thanks, people who pointed out (not bullied, rightfully observed and reported) my buttheadedness.

C: C-Word. I’m sorry, I know that causes some bristling to people. It’s a word I’m trying to not use. The problem is, I watch a lot–A LOT–of entertainment generated by United Kingdomians (don’t correct me, that’s better than any other collective noun you already have been saddled with, United Kingdomites). And yes, I know the difference between England, the UK and Great Britain. It’s the wider UKamians who pepper general conversation with the c-word, at least in movies and television shows that travel abroad. And in my car, in traffic, in fits of rage, I talk like a drunk Gary Oldman in a movie written by Irvine Welsh directed by a coked-out Guy Ritchie. But I also know that by doing that in my car, that language will sneak its way into my general conversation. So, I’m trying to watch more Mr. Bean to wean myself off of language in general. Of course I’m talking about the word, “chap.” What were you think…Oh, no. For shame.

D: Draining the Reader. I have just gone over the 500 word mark, meaning I need to split this up into multiple parts as to not beat you, wonderful, amazing, dedicated(?), exceptionally brilliant people to a pulp with words.

Sorry for my light mockery if you’re doing the challenge (I only mock what I cannot do…which I realize is not necessarily a compliment), and thanks to both participants and non-participants alike for realizing that I’m going to milk this premise for at least another post-or-five. This is because, even though I meant this to be a one-time satire, I actually got inspired, kind of like how that person started to write light erotica fan-fiction of the Twilight books and became a million-billionaire by ending up writing 50 Shades of Grey. Yep, this is the start of my millionaire plan: satirizing an esoteric minor subsect of a marginalized amateur-writing pastime that was moderately popular a decade ago. Should I start building my money vault now?