Miami and the Minge

Aren't we just darling?Don't tell anybody, but we're models.

As odd as it might sound, the tone for this past weekend's Miami trip was set by a Southpark episode that D and I were fortunate (and lazy) enough to catch on Thursday night. The episode was a dupe on James Frey's book, A Million Little Pieces. The part of the episode that caught our attention was Opera Winfrey's speaking vagina. The vagina referred to itself as "Opera's Minge*," and it was pissed at James Frey for stealing the attention that Opera could otherwise be spending with it... A logical concern for sure. Needless to say, D and I were laughing our asses off; commenting on the how perfect it was that the minge spoke with a British accent. His nextdoor neighbor, the asshole, was named Gary. We thought that Gary should've had a more clever name, so we renamed him Gomez.

D and I went to town with this the whole weekend. We couldn't say 'minge' enough. We even named our minges (we decided that, for our purposes, 'minge' could refer to both sexual organs): Juanita and Boris. It was an over-abused private joke, just like our fake grillz of last month.

On Friday night, we went out to a Greek restaurant and saw the most heinous individual ever. One of those androgynous things you could probably speculate upon all night. Guy? Girl? Both? Neither? And, just as I did after having not taken a picture of the escaped Beetlejuice extra of last week, I'm now kicking myself for not having caught this beaut on camera. At one point, it got up from its chair and flashed its ass, which was not subtly hanging out of its pink mini-dress. D and I never did figure out what gender its minge was.

The weekend was pretty much like every other weekend we spend together, only with a different background. We laughed like crazy. We drank. We relaxed. We ran. We speculated upon the global impact of minges in a contemporary society. Nothing too out of the ordinary, except that we had a hell of a lot more time together.


At one point on Friday night, D tugged on this shirt and said, "This shirt is way too loose on you." I agreed, explaining to him that it's basically a moo moo.

I think it was this weekend that I actually started understanding D. Not due to the complexity of his creation, but moreover, due to the fact that we don't usually spend significant periods of time together. Don't get me wrong, I love going out to eat nightly, drinking profusely and so forth, but if he lived here, we'd probably be doing a lot more relaxing than we usually do on his visits. Said visits are pretty much spent trying to cram as many activities into a short amount of time as possible. I realized this weekend that the whole relaxation thing suits me more than I would've ever expected. I always thought I was just a perma-crackhead.

At one point, we saw a guy fishing off of a bridge and I told D how I used to love fishing with my dad. I went on to say that I love having guy friends because I'm pretty much a tomboy and guys are like big kids that I can pal around with. I've never much enjoyed talking to my girl friends about guys and have even stifled my stepmom many a time when she'd initiate boy talk with me:

Me: Don't you have anything more interesting to talk about?
Her: Well, why don't you go ahead and enlighten me with another topic.

(FYI: I remember changing the topic to this great idea I had for a talk show where I was not only the host but also a psychologist who helps the guest with his/her problems. My dad butted in at that point: "It will never work." That was in high school - about 6 years before Dr. Phil and Opera's Minge collaborated to successfully steal my idea.)

Anyway, during the guys=big kids and I=a tomboy conversations, it kind of occured to me that these facts are what lend to both, us getting along so well and me getting upset about stupid things. My inner tomboy loves to joke around, drink like a sailor and talk like a truck driver, but my damn estrogen gets in the way at times, fighting with the tomboy and essentially kicking its ass. The biproduct of my inner bitch's glory is that I begin worrying about stupid girl shit like the length of time it takes for him to return a text message from me versus the time it takes for him to return those from a friend. I shit you not - I actually analyze these things. I'll give myself credit though, I only analyze when PMS-ing. Otherwise, I'm somewhat sane and secure.

As if struck by a revelation, I tried to rapidly explain all of this to D, but he didn't understand any of my banter about my inner heavyweight bitch champion of the world, or my references to my "inner dude" or temporary psychotic tendencies. He's a guy after all and I was speaking in chick. I had to communicate in his terms. I thought about it and then translated my thoughts into a language he could understand:

"I'd like to perfom an exorcism on the estrogen in my body and donate it to that thing in the pink dress and its ambiguous minge."

"Well then, why didn't you just say that in the first place?"
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*I think I'd be pretty pissed if someone was talking about my deprived minge in a public forum. Nevertheless, tally hoe.