I am feeling particularly politically incorrect today — and would therefore, in the spirit of all that is irreverent and unholy, like to pose a query along those lines.
Ms. and I have lately been discussing those character traits that we each possess that are stereotypical to our particular ethnic backgrounds. When I say stereotypical, I mean STEREOTYPICAL — there’s nothing pansified about the truths I seek here.
Also, what I am asking doesn’t even necessarily have to be about your ethnic heritage — it could also be about your gender, your sexuality, your “pose”, your geographical location, your occupation, or your socio-economic background, i.e., are you a be-mulleted dyke who teaches high school phys ed for a living…or a trailer park dame who honest-to-christ REALLY PREFERS the taste of Velveeta cheese…or a punk chick with a pierced nose, little black ‘geek chic’ glasses, cherry-red hair, and Betty Page bangs.
You get the idea. The point is to turn your shit inside out — to own your small vanities…and to laugh at them. Just because you ARE one thing, doesn’t mean that you can’t be another.
I am finding that people of my political persuasion — though they would vehemently deny it through a terse mouthful of vegan burger — often tend to be quite humorless when it comes to laughing at themselves and their contrivances. With this question I am posing, I aim to kick that sacred meatless cow right in the balls. (Cow? Balls? Forget it, I’m on a roll.)
I firmly believe that this lack of humor and irreverence has hurt us on the national political scene. If we could just take a moment to think back, we would remember that the Left was originally populated by legions of Artists, Tricksters, Surrealists, and Holy Fools — radical thinkers and doers who were not above laughing at themselves and using their own foibles and folly to make a valid political point. And consequently, through their chuckles and their confounded befuddlement, The People scratched their heads, listened, and HEARD. We now take ourselves FAR too seriously, and have therefore become that kid on the playground who can’t take a joke, can’t make a joke — and worse, CAN’T FIGHT BACK.
We have lost our way.
So, to put my righteous indignation (and dignity) where my mouth is, I shall go first.
I am of very distinct southern Italian heritage — that’s Sicilian to alla youse who are too much of a dummy to figger it out for yourself…capische? So, there are definitely things about me that fit — like the assassin’s glove of Luca Brasi — your basic stereotype of a Sicilian broad.
*I got a mouth on me like a Teamster.
*I got big, womanly, cushiony tits. These are tits that could breastfeed a nation, folks.
*My shoes of preference are black witch shoes.
*I carry a wooden spoon in my purse AT ALL TIMES — and heartily threaten to use it on the tender asses of my three children when they step out of line (even though at 9, 12, and 16 they are FAR beyond any reasonable age to spanketh…and have each received a mere total of about 5 between them in their entire lives.)
Irregardless, they still scatter like cockroaches when I whip it out of my purse.
*I go sit in the car to pluck the hairs on my chin because, “the light’s better out there…”
*I really, really, really like Holy Mary, Mother of God — enough to even be seriously considering tattooing her image onto the flesh of my body. It seems you can take the Italian dame outta the Catholic Church, but you can’t take the Catholic Church outta the Italian dame.
*I have ZERO QUALMS — and, in fact, often take great relish — in the notion that I will FULL ON tell a man — ANY MAN — to go fuck himself if he pisses me off.
*I like to cook. I like to feed people. And, I like to EAT.
*I can talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk…and even worse, repeat myself. Do you know what I’m sayin’ here? I mean, I can REALLY talk. No, you have NO IDEA what talking is. I am the Crown Duchess of Talk. When you look up “talk” in the dictionary, there is a picture of my face. I was BORN talkin’, baby. Do you know what I mean?
*When not restraining my boss, ponderous hooters…my bra can be found hanging on the inside knob of my bedroom door.
Christ, it simply doesn’t GET any more Italian than THAT.