Janie Mo's Guide to Baby Prevention

Check out this preview of the new Lifetime special, The Pregnancy Pact: Super awesome, right? The scary thing, is that I can totally identify with those teenagers wanting babies just so they can dress them in cool outfits ("Henry" will have a bowl haircut and wear vintage clothes like that kid form The Shining). Anyway, as an older sister to a sassy 16-year-old, and someone who can barely keep a house plant alive, I got to thinking, maybe there is something to this whole protection, prevention type deal. I did some research, ladies. All your questions have been answered below. You're welcome.

Withdrawal: Ah, Coitus Interruptus. It’s cheap and the only babies you’ll be having will be of the sock or wall variety. Unless of course, your man has poor timing. Oops!

Rhythm Method: Perfect for soul night at the club, except that you don’t have rhythm to begin with. Can you even spell rhythm? I can’t.

Barrier Methods:
Female Condom, Spermicide, Diaphragm, Sponge
These methods are all from the 80’s. I don’t even know if they really exist. Have you ever actually seen a sponge? Oh, you found one? Kudos. Well let me ask you something, if you happened to capture the elusive Ivory-billed Woodpecker, would you jam that up your crotch too?

Hormonal Methods:
The Pill: The pill is great for grandmothers and their neatly organized pillboxes. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have time to sit around pill poppin’ all day or ponder when I did it last. I’m a gal on the go and I have no idea what day it is.

Depo-Provera: You will lose your fucking mind after this injection. Your toast laughs at you and the devil turns your fingers into carrots, but take comfort in knowing that your house is spotless and you’re not pregnant.

Nuva (Vaginal) Ring: Now that I know jelly bracelets can prevent pregnancy, I think being a ten-year-old would've been a lot more enjoyable.

The Patch: Ever see a hippie adorn herself with a patch depicting a baby? Didn’t think so. I see patches with butterflies in love, sunshine daydreams, and Allman Brother’s mushrooms. I see a blissful world filled with rainbow skies and cannabis clouds, where the only thing between you and heaven is curtain of cool beads… A world with no babies.

IUD: Made from copper and alien technology, this small device changes your cervical mucus decreasing the probability of fertilization, and changes the lining of the uterus preventing implantation should fertilization occur. And if that still doesn’t work, Sigourney Weaver will blast your alien baby with a grappling gun before hitting your internal self-destruct button.

Abstinence: This would be great except for the fact that there’s no sex involved.

Sterilization: Imagine a world without hunger. Now make yourself a five-course meal and throw it in the garbage, just because you can. Welcome to sterilization.

Dates with a Gimps’ Rights Activist

Two summers ago I took a job as a waitress in a pizzeria. The goal was to work somewhere low-key where I could rock high-tops. I might’ve made a career of it, had it not been for my ‘attitude’ and my haphazard task performances. Like steaming milk. Yes, I steamed that milk pretty hot. A little too hot. One day I saw my negligence pinned to the wall in a note:

     Jane, not sure how it came about, but Julia thought that your milk (steamed) was on the verge of being too hot. So just watch that.

Pretty outrageous behavior, I know. But to my credit I did list ‘crazy fucking misanthrope’ on my resume. Guess that was one bullet point they overlooked.

One good thing about the job was that I met Chris, a hot waiter who asked me out. That turned out to be bad though…

At the bar:
We had some drinks. He told me he is an activist. I shrugged and went home with him anyway because he was cute and I was drunk.

At his place:
He turned on the TV! Mama, why? Seinfeld came on and he actually left it there. I was repulsed because I know that television is for the lesser species that can’t differentiate between reality and anxiety ridden trite garbage. Except for CSI Miami. That shit rules. But I’m sorry, I just can’t relate to Seinfeld watchers. Jerry Seinfeld’s bulky ass white 90’s high-tops (not form fitting, streamlined ones like mine) and those laugh tracks drive me crazy! And why do people always bring up a Seinfeld episode when something really banal happens in their lives, as if they just got the point of the show? “Like, oh my god, we’re totally waiting in line for this cake. No way, it’s just like that Seinfeld episode when Elaine has to wait in line for that cake! Haha, remember that one?” Dude, SHUTUP! No one cares!

     “Can we turn the channel?” I asked, about to go ape. He obliged and we settled on Tommy Boy.
      “I can recite this movie verbatim,” he said. Paused. And then, I SWEAR TO GOD, blinked a small river of tears down his face.
     “Oh shit. What’s wrong?” I blurted.
     “Chris Farley actually had a really sad and depressing life. I wrote an essay on him around the time of his untimely death. People only ever laughed at him, not with him, and he just couldn’t get beyond that. It’s really sad.”

I think I thought something to myself like “no fucking way is this fucking happening” and then faked a coughing fit and excused myself to retrieve some water. Looking for a glass, I opened a kitchen cupboard, and instead found a cacophony of herbal remedies and elixirs. There were approximately 5 boxes of colon blow tea, flower essences to increase ‘groundedness and psychic abilities’, and 1 bottle of probiotic pills. Wait, did this guy have a fucking yeast infection?!

Eventually we cut the chitter chatter and started to make out. It sucked that he kept saying ‘Jesus Christ’ over and over, but it sucked even more that he had such a boney body with a concave chest to boot. It also sucked that he was wearing those bullshit oversized boxers. C’mon boys, you gots to rock those hot tighties—preferably in a cute color from American Apparel, I don’t care how hipster it is. Fuck it, go commando! But please, kick those jr. high school saggin’ baggins to the curb. I mean, you don’t see me rockin’ my goddamn period underwear here, do you? I digress. So he kept trying to penetrate and I kept holding off because that underdeveloped part my brain was saying, “Slow down Jane, this could be boyfriend material here!”

     “I really like you,” he said lying on top of me.
     “Huh?”
     “I have the biggest crush on you,” he continued.
     “What?”
     “We must really respect each other.”
     “Really?” I queried. “Why?”
     “Because we’re practically naked and we’re not even having sex!”

Respect: What you get when you don’t let someone rape you.

Our next date began at the Griffith Park Observatory. This is when you drive to the top of a mountain and look down on a depressing shithole called Los Angeles. I was sick with a cold, so please no hiking was my only request. Of course, that’s precisely what we did. I was pitting out and not looking cool when we got to the top. And then he puked up something he referred to as “clarity and vision.”
     “I know what I want to do with my life.”
     “Really?” I inquired. This could be the most stimulating thing he’s said yet.
     “Yeah I wanna go back to school.”
Psssht. Join the club.
     “So, what exactly do you want to do?” I asked.
     “Design the Future.”
     “Huh?”
     “I’m going to be a social designer of the future.”
     “What?”

Maybe it was the altitude, but I started getting a freaky Xenu vibe. I needed to clear things up.
Eventually, I helped him to know that what he really wanted was to pursue a double major in two things he’d never heard of before: Urban Planning and Public Policy. On our hike back down the mountain, Chris sing-sang the letters: U.P.P.P. (YOU Pee PEE pee. YOU Pee PEE pee) as a mnemonic device to remember his new path in life and I too felt a moment of clarity: I was dating a moron.

We returned to his studio where Chris lectured me on the topsoil crises and the dangers of factory farming. Then he ate some pizza while I rubbed his sinewy bicycle legs. Soon, I became entranced by 5 long black hairs sprouting from Chris’ skeletor back. I fell into a vortex and reached Nirvana, which probably explains why I succumbed to having sex with him.

Our next and last date was not really a date at all. It was a time for Chris to tell me that he did not like me anymore, but not to worry because it was not my fault. He did this sort of thing—gets really into girls for about a week or two and then never talks to them again—all the time.

     “I have issues,” he informed me on our walk down Sunset in Silverlake.
Yeah, I know, they’re growing on your back.
     “There’s probably a roomful of girls out there who I’ve done this to.”
Yeah, I’m sure they’re all commiserating in a room together and reading Oprah magazine, speculating on how the magic was lost.
     “Yeah well, you’re a fucking douchebag—a guy who just wants to fuck, no different than all the rest. No big surprises here.” I said.
     “Hey now, that’s not true,” he said, “I’m not just some dick who goes around trying to get laid all the time. And anyway, when I’m horny, I simply meditate and channel that sexual energy back into my chi.”
I couldn’t wait to hear more, but just then we happened upon a really neat looking shop and I bid farewell to Chris.
     “Well, I’m having a really good time and all, but I’m gonna go in here now. See ya on the flipside!”

Rough Trade:

Rough Trade is a unique little store where you can purchase slave labor handicrafts from developing countries at an affordable price. I’m kidding. It’s a dirty nasty neighborhood sex shop! Here you buy handicrafts for your slave. Which reminds me.

     “Eww,” I said peering at a life-sized replica of a gimp strapped in his chambers. “Gross.”
Then, out of nowhere some idiot behind me barked: “Shhhh. God, Shutup!”
I turned around and the biggest idiot of all time materialized before my very eyes.
     “Um, huh? Chris?“ I stumbled.
     “You know these people take pride in their shop and the things in it. You can’t just come in here and criticize their products.” Then he acknowledged the big leather bear daddy behind the counter saying, “Sorry man, I’ve got to teach this one some manners.”
Uh uh. No.
     “First of all, Shithead. What are you even doing here?”
     “You said see you on the inside.”
     “Oh my god, I said see you on the flipside!” The situation was too retarded to even deal with. “I can’t even deal. I’m outta here. And by the way,” I said to the shopkeeper, “I’m sorry, but I just don’t like gimps.”
     “It’s okay, Honey,” He said. “You may not like getting fisted either, but I do. To each their own!”

Finally, some goddamned respect. Thank you, Mr. Leather Bear Daddy. Thank you.

Magnus Dumpus: Confessions of an Anonymous Greek

This story was published back in the day in a cool mag called Cool'eh. Here's a link to the back issue: BOING! (it's somewhere in there). It's based on a true story.

Magnus Dumpus:

     Confessions of an Anonymous Greek

 By Janie Mo

My cousin was a member of the fraternity Delta Sigma Phi at St. Cloud State University in Minnesota. He pledged with a man named Mitch. Mitch was an enthusiastic Greek who came to love Poli-Sci, forging life-long friendships, and sweet frosh tang. Before barely graduating, Mitch met a young woman who would become an innocent pawn in one of the most heinous fraternity acts ever committed. What follows is an estimation of what his confession would read like if he ever had the decency to write it:

     Someone invited Jenny. She was an indie girl, which means that she did not belong to any particular sorority. My brothers and I agreed to deny all indies access to our parties. But, she was really hot. And also blind. And I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t fit in. Like the first time I rushed, I got mixed up with this frat called Phi Gamma Delta. There was a Chinese, a Punjabi, 2 Africans, and a Mexican. Oh and the founder was a Jew. So I’m no stranger to being the minority. Even though Shaheen was totally my Nigga.

Anyway, like I said Jenny was smokin’ hot. I caught her smirking at me from the kitchen so I approached her.
     “Hey. What are you smirking at, yo?”
     “I’m not,” she said, “Half of my face is paralyzed.” 
Oops. My bad!

Jenny told me she was blind and asked me to describe my looks. I highlighted my best features for her: my Roman nose, my quads, and my New Balances. After 4 Bacardi shots, Blind Jenny grabbed my face and whispered “your sexy” into my ear. I felt kind of weird because I’ve never been hit on by “someone like her” before. But she seemed like a sure thing, so I went with it. 
We got to talking and Jenny said: “You know, how sometimes, you just wanna rock out? Well, right now is one of those times.” 

I knew exactly what she meant, so I put some Ecstasy in her next shot. A really good Dave Mathews song came on and my bro Teddy was like, “Yo, Mitch, get your back up off the wall!” Me and Jenny got pretty freaky on the dance floor. She grabbed my dick and I fingered her poon. Then, just when things were getting good, my bros stole me away and made me do keg stands until I tapped that shit dry. I almost puked, but I just did some blow and then I felt fine. Afterward, me and my bros drove my Blazer up on the lawn and pumped trance music out of it. I don’t really like that club shit, but dude, I fucking love listening to bass outside!

Before I knew it, it was 4 am. I took Jenny upstairs because I was hungry…for the pink taco! My boy Brody was totally passed out in my bed, so I dragged him into the hallway and shaved his pubes and glued them to his face. Jenny was really feeling the X and said she was burning up, so I helped her take her shirt off. I tied a rubber to the doorknob so my bros would know the deal. We started making out and she said that she wanted me.

I broke the condom, but this turned out to be a blessing, as I was able to perform my specialty—the money shot. After we banged, I held Jenny in my arms and we cuddled until she fell softly asleep with her eyes open.

I have no idea what made me shit the bed—I haven’t done that since last year after eating too many Hot Pockets. Anyway, this time was hella NASTY! I was freaked. I remembered what my father, a Sigma Phi Epsilon legend, once said to me: “Never throw a brick straight up.” For those of you not familiar with this old quote, it basically means; never do anything that would get yourself hurt or in trouble. I didn’t throw a brick, I laid one. Nonetheless, I figured out a way to save my rep. Jenny was still passed out so I cleaned myself up, snuck downstairs, located a spatula, and then slammed a cup from the WAP for needed strength. With spatula in hand, I carefully transferred my deuce from the bed to Jenny’s ass, spreading it in between the cheeks and down the back of her thigh. And then came the theatrics.
     I screamed, “What THE fuck?! What the FUCK!!!”
Jenny came to scared and confused: “What? What’s the matter?”
     “You shit yourself! That’s what’s the matter!”

By this time the whole fraternity had come running to my room. Everyone saw what she had done. And I mean everyone. Teddy even got it on videotape. Jenny left the house naked and crying with my shit running down her legs. But her “escape” was totally pathetic because she had to move slowly, feeling the walls in order to find her way out. She made it to the front lawn and then tripped on a stump. I think somebody finally called her a cab. The incident ruined Jenny: she didn’t leave her house for like 3 weeks and when she did return to class, people started calling her Poopsnake.
Spring semester came and life went on; Jenny transferred schools and I bought new Bob Marley sheets. I haven’t seen or heard of Jenny since that night. And yeah, I know what I did was wrong. I lost my shit and she never even saw it coming. And I feel really bad about it, but I mean, let’s face it, she never would have pledged—and in Greek times, she would’ve just been thrown over a cliff anyway.
             

Game Over: or Booooooop Wah-Wah

There’s a place in Brooklyn called Barcade. It’s a bar/arcade, so it’s not just a clever name. Last week, my friend Suzanne and I stopped in for a drink. We enjoy alcohol, guys, and Tetris so we figured what the hell. Lo and behold; an awesome Belgian beer list, oodles of dudes, and nobody playing Tetris. Snap. And damn, what a sausage fest! Must've been twenty to one. The place was like a crowded urinal, rows of arcade players lined the walls; only here they were checking out each other's points and leaking secret moves instead of piss. We scanned the crowd for potential mates hoping to find an anomaly amongst the socially awkward, avoidant, and indifferent gamers who still skateboard, watch cartoons, and wallpaper their rooms with magazines. Mercury had recently gone direct so we figured now was as good as time as any. Unfortunately, the whole thing was out the window. Was it the excited kid with braces (yes, on his face), or the subtle essence of ball-mulch (sweaty underwear dingle berries) with a touch of warm Beer Nuts breath in the air? Probably the Beer Nuts in the braces that made me think of ball-mulch at all. One may never know.

Suz and I sat at the bar and wondered when pretending to be poor became in vogue. Like, I’m sure your ugly-ass Velcro shoes were really $2, but we all know that faux-hawk you’re sporting was like $100. Plus $12 for the blow-dry. So, I know you have money. And I don’t care where you’re getting it from, but is it too much to ask for you to buy me a goddamn drink? And by ‘drink’, I don’t mean PBR. That piss gives me diarrhea.

So I saw this hottie playing Donkey Kong. He was tall, with ice-blue eyes, and product-less dirty blond hair. Of course, I had to make the first move, because the only guys that ever approach me first are disgusting mutants with greasy hair and nerd confidence. I asked the hottie if he wanted to play 2-player. He said yes. We dodged fireballs and climbed broken ladders. Then a series of red flags came up which I ignored. He was an actor. His name was Mathew— straight guys have no right using their full names like that—Christopher, Michael, David, these are the pompous, self-righteous assholes of the world. And whenever I made a joke, he didn’t laugh. He just said, “Come ahhhhn.” Ah well, I went home with him anyway. I had just gotten waxed after all.

For $2,000 a month, Mathew lived in a gorgeous loft with a Doberman Pincher and a pinball machine. He must work really hard to be able to afford all that—ahem, trust fund baby. He turned on his flat-screen TV and then played with his dog. I still had a bit of a Tetris hangover and I was wondering how in the hell I was going to get that computer to fit into his L-shaped couch. Mathew ate spicy chips before we made out, which I thought was pretty inconsiderate.

I unbutton his jeans to see what I’m in for because I’ve had a string of small dicks and big bushes lately and I’m beginning to think that God hates me. Whew! His joystick was not child-sized and he had freshly man-scaped. Game on! He starts fingering me and I show interest—make one little noise—and he starts going crazy. I’m thinking, Jesus Christ, relax! We’re not playing Space Invaders anymore; you don’t have to kill anything here. Why do my keep-doing-what-you’re-doing signals always translate into harder-faster ones? Hey Mathew, my 7th grade boyfriend called. He wants his technique back. George Carlin is on the TV talking about the difference between pussies and twats and then Mathew pauses, looks at me, and says: “This is nice.” Barf.
     “What time is it?” I ask. “Oh my God, it’s 5 in the morning. I should go.”
      “Please stay,” he says, “We can cuddle.”
Oh hell no.
      
I call a car and he gives me fare for the ride home. As I lay in my bed, listening to the pigeons coo, I replay the evening and I realize that he never washed his hands after the bar. All those dirty buttons! Before passing out, I wonder, can I Purell my vagina?

I had forgotten about Mathew almost entirely until I saw him on the street one week later. He looked so tasty that well, the superficial sex-crazed fiend in me invited him to play with my X-box.
Anyway, what a waste of an outfit. He shows up at the bar around 12:30am, after his play performance, which I hope was better than last week’s with me. I want to get right to it, but he orders a beer and then we have to sit outside because he smokes. Gross. He starts stroking his mental penis and pumping up his ego-nads. I mean, wow. He’s really going off.
     “You, know, I never tried to be an actor. It just happened…can you imagine? I have to hold the attention of an audience of, like, 100 people and I’m the main protagonist. It’s a lot of pressure. Anyway. I’ve got to quit smoking. It’s really bad for my career. My mouth gets dry and that’s not good when you’re talking to, like, 100 people.”

Finally, we leave Barcade and enter his pre-paid loft. Again, he turns on the fucking TV. Who does that? Just dim the lights and play some of your bullshit emo music for Chrissakes cause I know you don’t have D’Angelo. Then he sits on the couch and pats his chest, inviting me to lie on it. I do and we watch a Discovery Channel show that he has  TEVOed. The show is about the world’s weirdest homes: A guy lives under a bomb shelter, someone else lives in swamp boat.
     “Wow. That’s just soooo weird.” I say.
     “Yeah, but, don’t you think this is interesting?”
     “Not really,” I say turning to face him. “I don’t watch TV.” Maybe we can fuck now. “Yeah, but this guy, in the shelter; don’t you think he’s interesting?”
What the fuck!? Did I stutter? No! At this point, his oafy Doberman jumps on the couch and knocks the drink out of my hands, spilling grape Kool-Aid all over my cake-colored cashmere sweater. And I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that he says nothing or that I’m drinking Kool-Aid. I go to the bathroom to clean up and notice the brown shit-scraps lining his toilet bowl—minus 70 points. This says two things to me. One, you’re lazy. And two, your ass is dirty. If you can’t take the time to clean your porcelain after you punish it, then what’s to say, you’ve taken the time to clean your ass properly? 3 words: baby butt wipes. I get back to the couch.
     “What did I miss?” I joke. He says, “I gotta pee.”  Good luck fighting your way through all those trimmed pubes on the floor, buddy.
I’m strapping on my red heels when he returns.
     “Oh. You’re leaving?”
     “Yeah. Sorry I’m not more captivating than a wrinkly old dipshit who has chosen to live underground with moles and radioactive materials, but I’m gonna go.”
     “Wow,” he says, “You just made a really good point. I guess you’re not that interesting to me.”
        
First of all, if this motherfucker says interesting one more fucking time, I’m going to snap. Secondly, my friend, if you want to philosophize about Foucault’s theories on discipline and punishment, or bell hooks’ stance on misogyny in gangsta rap, or maybe the fact that your failure to make enduring social relationships with others may have something to do with the lack of reciprocity in
your interactions—since your conversations revolve only around your self-centered ass— or why it is that you can’t deal with anything real so you drown yourself in a world of pixilated fantasies, then we can do that. I don’t have a degree in Cultural Studies for nothing.
     “Oh. Now you’re mad,” he says. “Don’t worry,” he says, “This is good. Now we just know that it’s not going to work out between us.” Thanks. Because I really wanted to get married and have your boring asshole babies.

I got home and Suzanne and I googled him. There was one article about his role in the off off off Broadway play. The critic “just didn’t buy” his performance. Mathew was “as uninspired and self-fulfilling stiff” as he had ever seen. And I’m glad it didn’t “work out,” that I didn’t waste an orgasm on such a brainless wonder with video-game mentality and an interestingly shit-stained toilet.