Official Launch from the WEST SIIIIIIIIIDE

On Tuesday, January 29, 2008, a bilateral decision was made between myself, Queen Vagine, and Fatty to launch Fuzzy Mimosa from Benin. It was bilateral rather than quadrilateral; the latter sounding more geometric that diplomatic and since I hate math it seemed fitting.

Once we have The Hub (a 4 bedroom apartment-a work in progress), I assure that more quadrilateral decisions will be made. And if not, as Queen, I’ll just continue with the precedent of declaring martial law.

Until further notice and continuity is found for the blog, entries will most likely resemble a shitshow rather than a coherent and cohesive work of art. Whereas Tim (Fatty), a graduate student in creative non-fiction, will easily craft pieces with a common thread, it is more than likely that I will not. Too bad that my entries will not mirror my trip to Benin which has a clear beginning, middle and end.

Anyways, let us move on to the meat/seitan of the content…

Contrary to the popular belief of 97% of my college educated friends, Benin is in fact a real country.

And the tangible proof of this is that I am here. I will also confirm, as one of my friend’s astutely noted prior to my departure, this sovereign West African nation is shaped like an “untrimmed phallus”. This invisible boundary, as I anticipated, was notably girthy from the plane. Perhaps this is because a) I could afford to get me some phallus (although not necessarily of Beninois descent) and/or b) I hang out with an exponentially high number of gay men such that my quotidian landscape of peni penetrates my life daily in the most non-sexual of ways. The fact that I am geographically located in a phallically shaped Nation State will inevitably render my gay harem jealous and I trust that they will continue to read with baited breath. In recognition that this blog is as hot as the temperature of this country, I have activated the automatic scrolling mechanism found on all of your favorite porn sites to facilitate easy reading.

I should mention, however, that homosexuality is punishable by 3 years of hard, physical labor in many West African nations (January 2008 case in Cameroon being the most recent example). And to clarify, by hard physical labor I do not mean big boy sex.

I am here on the original “West Side” on business…if I can call working for my mom and pop primitive NGO ‘business’ when they have recently and unjustly fired my awesome friend/colleague. She ‘terminated her contract’ (got sacked) because, I quote, her “good morning’s were not enthusiastic enough”. I guess we hadn’t realized that we worked at Applebee’s. In honor of her, I am therefore proud to announce that The Analyst’s favorite not-so-fast-food chain, the aforementioned Applebee’s, is now the proud sponsor of Fuzzy Mimosa and will donate a lifetime supply of flare AND bloomin’ onions to the 100^th reader.

I am here, however, to co-lead a “Due Diligence” trip for Dutch Investors’ who have financed many of our projects in Benin. Follow-up on this aspect of trip will follow when the Dutchbags arrive.

Sometimes when I leave my niche and my habitual routine consisting of a commute between West Bushwick and Union Square, I forget that I find 96% of humans intolerable. For the most part, L-riders are civil. Even the surliest of hipsters clad in skinny jeans and ironic facial hair are relatively harmless and inoffensive. Sometimes I forget that I have a Master’s in human rights because there are just some members of the general public that don’t deserve internationally protected freedoms. Example: overnight flight from JFK-Charles de Gaulle. I was unfortunate enough to board a plane full of spray-tanned college students bound for their junior year abroad. Upper class exuded from their blackberries and their tangible sense of entitlement. These girls were parodies of themselves as the three seated directly in front of me were named Brittany, Lindsey and Tara. Some snippets of convo include:

Brittany: Don’t you love my sweater?

Lindsey: I love sweaters. (Honestly, think about the answer to this question. It’s brilliant)

Tara: Did you write down the address for the salon? Because I need a standard appointment twice a week for my hair. And like, mani/pedi too.

Brittany: Don’t worry, I brought tons of mousse.

Lindsey, clutching her stuffed elephant, cried during the turbulence and two flight attendants were required to calm her down.

We land after seven painful and sleepless hours of incessant ‘he said/she said’. Brittany starts to cry as her Verizon blackberry is not working in France and Tara confidently proclaims that “you can definitely sue for this shit. Seriously”.

Call me Judgey McJudgster, but exposure to such interactions frightens me. Brit, Linds and Tara were no more than 7 years younger then me, putting them into whatever our generation is called (Z?) If we blame the Baby Boomers for essentially fucking everything up, what have we got on our hands now? It seems that they will be, at best, a serious liability to a nation in which our sustainability is already questionable. At least the baby boomers got to blow off some steam with readily accessible illicit drugs and heaps of AIDS-less sex (of course if you go to my doc, Dr. Bruce Champagne, you can go on a Vicodate every night of the week…but clearly I’m not going to sleep with him to get the best of both worlds). Geriatrics are known for their ramblings beginning with “kids these days…” but what happens when the kids are proclaiming “kids these days”? I think we have reason to fear. The terrorists may have won.

But for now, I’ll just drown my sorrows in freshly squeezed pineapple juice, look out at the palm trees and the Beninois sun and take solace in knowing that you fuckers are freezing your skinny little asses off in NYC.

More concrete ramblings to follow…

Much love from Cotonou,

QV