I realized I had a crappy first name when I was five.
Our family was moving from Chicago to Peoria. One day, close to moving time, sitting shotgun, my mother was running errands. At a stoplight she turned and said, “We’re moving somewhere where nobody knows you. If you’d like to change your first name, now is the time.” I had always gone by D.J. (and still do today), but the message I received in that moment was clear.
This is an essay originally published at InThePowderRoom and is reprinted with permission
Attention, small-chested women!
Have you ever been dumped because of your tiny bustline? Sure you have. As a man, let me first apologize for the horrendous treatment of flat-chested women. It’s not entirely our fault—we were raised on a steady diet of the Playboys our fathers kept stashed in the upstairs hall closet—but to expect all of you to have the perfect rack of a twenty-one-year-old Jenny McCarthy is unfair. You deserve as much attention as the large-chested gals receive.
And I want you to get that attention. So I have a solution.
No, I’m not about to suggest that you head to the surgeon for saline or silicone implants. That’s the easy way, and nothing worthwhile in life is easy. Also, let’s say you get giant implants, and a month later you take up extreme kickboxing. The next thing you know you’re in the city’s kickboxing tourney, and the number one seed hits you with a surprise roundhouse kick to the left tit, and your implant flies out of your chest and through the air only to land in a guy’s beer the second row.
I’ve seen it happen.
No, my solution proposes a much safer and more natural route to a big juicy bosom. Intrigued? Introducing the F-cup Cookie from Japan.
That’s right! You can now grow your jacks several sizes just by eating cookies! And while it’s true you can make most body parts bigger if you eat enough of any cookie, the F-cup Cookie is infused with an herb that allegedly heads straight to your mammers upon ingestion. You only have to eat a few cookies a day for natural breast enhancement.
Now, I know you’re thinking: “But I don’t want an F-cup, D.J.!” Don’t fret! In Japan, DD-knockers are called F’s.
Don’t ask me questions about how it works. I dated a chemist once, and let me tell you—that shit is boring. The important thing here is that you’re already eating some kind of cookie, right? But does noshing on Oreos increase your ability to get free drinks at bars? No. Does Famous Amos care that you wear two push-up bras at the same time? Not even remotely. But the makers of the F-cup Cookie care.
They care a lot.
So, just because you’ve been the chairwoman of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee since puberty, you no longer have to serve another term. Hand in your resignation and get ready for a lifetime of lower back pain and fending off perverts. You’re worth it!
This original piece by D.J. Paris was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Featured image © doodco via depositphotos.com
One of the funniest websites south of the Mason Dixon was In The Powder Room. Run by funnywoman Leslie Marinelli and edited by funnywoman Sarah del Rio, this site accepted my pitch of a monthly column where I reviewed products for women. Sadly, the site is currently on hiatus, but they have given me permission to repost content I had written exclusively for them. I’m proud of my work, as silly as it was. They were a great partner and supportive of my immature ramblings. If they ultimately decide on a permanent vacation, I will restart the column here. In the meantime, read some old stuff.
I would like to point out that while all the words below are mine, they were edited by Sarah del Rio. She makes me funnier. I bow to her.
The DivaCup: What Does HE Think?
Years ago back when I had around seven Twitter followers I made the following joke.
You know what commercial you never see during late-night tv? A family owned urinal/bidet store offering 0% financing for three years. #fb
— ThoughtsFromParis (@tfpHumorBlog) April 2, 2010
Not one person liked or retweeted it. Which is fair because it’s not my finest one-liner. But back then I was thinking a lot about bidets and urinals. I mean, none of us have ever seen a bidet or a urinal inside an American home. Now, to be fair, bidets aren’t commonplace in America. But urinals are. In fact, men find urinals in almost 100% of bathrooms that have a specific “men’s” room. That’s an odd ratio. 0% of American homes have them, and 100% of “men’s” rooms do. And urinals are superior to toilets. Well, for peeing. Not for #2. They’re clearly inferior if you need to move your bowels. But for urination, they’re the better option. Just ask any wife who has to clean the bathroom floor once a week. Men are gross and we have terrible aim. And since I live alone, when I stumble toward Johnny Crapper at 3am still half-dreaming about a leggy blonde, I choose to sit rather than stand. It’s practical. And I vow that one day I will install a urinal in my home – one of those waterless jobs from Sloan. Classy, functional, and environmental. But this essay is about bidets, not urinals.
I have two dreams. Martin Luther King only had one, but I’m an over-achiever. One I just mentioned (urinal in master bath). The other is getting a bidet installed in that same bathroom. Now, the dream of owning a bidet is unusual for a few reasons. Most notably, is that I have used a bidet exactly once in my life. It’s not like I grew up on the DuPont estate where I assume they had bidets in every water closet. I only encountered this magical appliance one night in Paris when I was eighteen. Paris is the city of love, and fall in love I did. Then, as in a typical Parisian-American romance, I bid my French porcelain lover adieu the next morning and hopped a train to Italy. While the bidet didn’t come running down the platform shouting my name as I looked out the seat window, I’m sure she would have had she not been bolted steadfastly to the hotel bathroom floor. Technically the noun “bidet” is masculine, but I think whoever decides what is masculine or feminine for the French language made a mistake. That device is all woman. And I knew her touch. It was tender. Also thorough.
I have not been back to Paris since that original visit twenty-two years ago. While I’ve traveled to other countries, I’ve failed to secure a hotel fancy enough to provide a luxurious bidet. I’ve been in dozens of bathrooms with heated floors (yawn), or six-nozzle shower heads (double yawn), or phones right next to the toilet (who’s calling me in my hotel room, anyway?), but never one with that cleaned your fanny for you. Oh, I never got back to the “I had two dreams thing” mentioned earlier. Let’s do that. So I have a bidet now. Like right this very second.
Well, not a true bidet. Mine is an attachment with controls that sit just to the right of the toilet seat. In France bidets are a separate appliance often located next to the toilet. You do your dirty business in the toilet first, then waddle over to the bidet where it cleans out the remainder of your dirty business. I have neither the room noor the plumbing requirements for two devices in my bathroom. Thankfully egghead scientists have combined these two appliances into one. A bathroom mash-up, if you will. But instead of combining Led Zeppelin with horrific dance beats, it’s a perfect union of symbiosis.
If you’re not familiar with the functionality of a bidet, let me provide you with the most direct explanation I can muster. It shoots water (you choose the temperature) up into your hiney after you poop. This water cleans out that area perfectly, and without having to reach for the Charmin. As a man, I can only speak to this one application. My understanding is that a bidet does other things for women, but I’m not a woman, and that whole area is complicated and confusing to me. I think it washes out the front, but I didn’t get to that part in the manual yet.
Since I have only encountered a bidet once (and over twenty years ago at that), I wasn’t sure if my memory was reliable. I’m one of those people that romanticizes the past. If a woman dumps me, months later I continue to see her as a perfect being. “But she nailed the milkman several times a week for two years while you were at work!” my friends remind me. So, I can’t entirely trust this one-off memory, but I was confident that I had recorded it correctly in my hippocampus. The way I remember it, that sole experience I emerged from the bathroom a new man. A content man. A man with the cleanest backside that side of the Rive Gauche. And with a matching smile to boot.
To install this device I needed to enlist the skills of a tradesman. The instructions claimed I could do the install myself in twenty minutes. And, to be fair to my masculinity, I tried. But due to the positioning of the toilet, it would have required me to unbolt the bastard and I’m not that confident in my plumbing skills. I was able to get the water hooked up correctly, but then it started leaking all over the place. I took to Craigslist, where only the finest contractors that have no license or insurance are abundant. The guy I hired (we’ll call him Greg because his name is Greg) reeked of stale whiskey when he arrived fifteen minutes later than our scheduled appointment. While a bit bleary-eyed he did seem to know what he was doing. “I’ve installed probably fifty of these bid-dits, you see! Go ahead and toss the instructions. I don’t need them.” I decided not to correct his mispronunciation, but I held onto the instructions just in case. He had quoted me $75 and promised it would be done in twenty minutes.
Two hours and three trips to Home Depot later, Greg announced he was finished. He called me into the bathroom to demonstrate its use.
None of this is exaggerated. He really went to Home Depot three times in two hours.
If this next scene was written into a slapstick comedy script, it would never make it past the first draft. What I’m about to share with you is way too obvious and the only joke you can make with a new bidet. But it happened. Like a guy who slips on a banana peel and falls into an open manhole, Greg did the one thing anyone who’s installed even one bidet in their history should know to not do. He faced the toilet and said, “So, you turn this knob here to start the water, see?”
And with that, the bidet sprayed him, full blast, right in the face. In his open mouth. Water ran down his chin and into his denim shirt. It took him a full two-mississippi to turn the dial to “off.” I didn’t dare laugh because I felt bad for him. He just got sprayed in the face with hot toilet water. To be fair to Greg, it was fresh water from the tap, the same we drink from, but still. I’d love to say that it didn’t happen a second time two minutes later, but it totally did. I was examining the connections, making sure nothing was leaking behind the toilet. I put my hand where I thought the water would hit, to block it from shooting out of the toilet. I turned on the bidet and the stream shot past my hand and directly onto Greg. He was standing in the same spot. He had his mouth closed this time, so it only further soaked his face and shirt. “Sorry,” I said to Greg. He shrugged.
I ended up giving Greg $125 which he seemed to appreciate. We said our goodbyes and he left. Five minutes later I was seated ready for my own maiden voyage upon this new vessel of the sea. Would it be as glorious as I remembered? I said a prayer to Saint Zita who the Catholics call “The Saint of Cleanliness.” I’m not a Catholic, but she’s not that well-known as a saint and probably appreciated the spiritual fist bump. And with that I evacuated yesterday’s brisket.
But instead of reaching for the toilet paper I reached for the bidet controls. Damn! I should have tested the temperature ahead of time. I decided on a moderately warm setting and hoped that my dial was accurate. I turned on the spray and let the bidet do its thing. I had to adjust my posture as the the first blast hit the upper part of my left cheek. Once in position I felt the power of the bidet at work. I have no idea how long you’re supposed to sit there, but I figured you can’t really over-do it, so I read an article about probiotics on the NY Times mobile site. Seemed apropos. After two minutes I had finished the article and turned off the nozzle. My rear felt wet, but, well, it felt clean. It was time for the acid test. I now reached for the toilet paper.
While my intention is never to gross out the good people who visit this site, I’m pleased to announce that the paper came back unblemished. I grabbed some Scotch tape and reaffixed it to the roll as it was in perfect condition to be used again. Okay, that’s not true. I threw the paper in the toilet and waved goodbye as it circled the drain. I made a vow to never again use toilet paper. Well, unless I happen to go to the bathroom anywhere other than my own bathroom. Then, I’ll use it like I did before. But I’ll be frowning. I’ll judge the homeowner for not having a bidet installed. I could have sent Greg over to install it, and let’s face it, he needs the work.
So, one dream realized, one to go. The urinal will happen, but I’m in no major hurry. I mentioned it to Greg as he was leaving. He paused, thought for a moment, and then said, “That would be awesome, man. I can do that. I’ve done a ton of those.” He was lying, but I appreciated the support.
photo credit: OneEighteen Duchamp at the Venice Guggenheim via photopin (license)
photo credit: libertygrace0 Cleaning the Bathroom 1970’s Style via photopin
(license)
I would like to apologize for my truancy.
Not that I’m so narcissistic to believe that you live, die, and breathe my words like oxygen. I hope you don’t. But if you do, you just may make it into the Paris will. Anyshit, I haven’t been updating the blog as much as usual. There’s a few reasons why…
First, I’ve been diligently working on the official ThoughtsFromParis mobile application. This means you no longer have to visit this site directly from your phone’s browser. I do have a really easy to read mobile site, but I wanted to create something a little more fun. Shortly Android and iPhone users will be able to download from their respective app stores.
I’d also like to formally announce that I’m removing all ads from the app and that it will be free. Initially I thought there would be banner ads to help recoup some of the costs associated with building and submitting the software. But then I realized we all hate apps with banner ads. So, I got rid of it.
The app is being built more as an exciting thank you for reading and supporting this blog. What started out as a little website has grown thanks to your readership. Much of my life has changed due to the engagement I receive from your comments. I’ve connected with thousands of people and developed (and continue to develop) strong friendships. I’m taking a risk that a mobile app will actually make getting to my posts easier (or at least add more options). I could be wrong. Either way, it’s a fun thing to build.
Second, I’ve been busy working on a partnership with a media company. While I don’t have all the details yet, there’s a very strong chance I’ll be making an exciting announcement within the next few weeks. I couldn’t be more flattered that this firm is interested in working with me, and I may be the first blogger they’re supporting. Of course, this could all go to pot, too. I hope not, but you never know with these things. Nothing will change content-wise. They want me to keep being me.
Now that I’ve spewed out my reasons for being absent, I would like to restore some additional balance to my life. Which means writing more.
The great Karen and I are working on oSex episode four. That should be fun and we’ve got all sorts of sicko and non-sicko questions to answer. I also set up a lot of great interviews for the Bloggers are Weird podcast and I appreciate you supporting both of these efforts.
While I haven’t been very active here, I continue to tweet and Facebook post quite a bit. Without tooting my own horn too much, I’m pretty damned good at it. If you’re not following me, I’d love it if you would consider. Selfishly, I dig when someone bests one of my jokes. I’m constantly amazed at your responses to my jokes and am secretly jealous when you come up with something better.
Oh, my app developer’s name is DongDong, which is nothing short of excellent.
Last (or is it “lastly”?), you may have noticed a little box at the top of this post (regular readers probably won’t see it) where I encourage you to subscribe to my posts via email. Once again, just another way to access my content.
Thanks again for the support and I’ll be back soon.
Let me introduce you to the other D.J. Paris.
He’s a gay Asian from New York.
I know this because back in 1998 when I stumbled across his website, this is what appeared as his tagline. I was simply looking to see if there was, in fact, a djparis.com. Turns out there absolutely was and is.
Now, as a straight Caucasian from Chicago this could not have been more hilarious for my family. Of course they started telling everyone that their son had built a website and to go visit djparis.com. Which, naturally, is an awesome joke.
D.J. is a great guy. (I’m talking about me – zing!). I reached out to him back in 1998 and asked if I could have an email address with his domain. He thought the idea was hilarious.
I have to credit him with being an inspiration to me finally getting online to start a blog. His website has changed probably a dozen times over the years. When it launched it received a ton of publicity for being a popular gay men’s resource for all things New York. He’s received accolades and was one of the early blog pioneers.
I remember when he added a webcam feed so you could watch him work and live twenty-four hours a day. Today that sounds like a self-absorbed douche move, but at the time it was a really innovative and cool idea. And I did check the webcam every once in awhile to see what I would have been doing had I been gay and Asian. He was always integrating new ideas and features to his site and it was exciting to watch it evolve.
We’ve tried to meet up a few times when I’ve visited my sister in New York, but it hasn’t worked out. We’ve played Words with Friends and he’s always beaten me. I don’t ever assume, however, that I can beat an Asian at games academic. The next time I head east I’m definitely taking him out for a cocktail in the Village. That’s not a gay/Village joke – my sister lives there. I could insert a really great gay Village joke here, but it would be too easy.
If you haven’t found your same name internet opposite I encourage you to do so now. Be careful though, not everybody will strike awesome like me. You could find out your person posts weird religious rants on Facebook or is into that disturbing My Little Pony adult online thing. Don’t be too quick to give out your P.O. Box.
Also, if you learn that your doppelganger is doing five to ten in San Quentin for aggravated battery but loves to use the prison library computer, proceed with caution. He’s going to need a place to crash when he hits parole.
Even though we’ve never spoken on the phone or seen what happens when two D.J. Paris’ shake hands (my suspicion is the world will implode onto itself), I feel a connection. Not a connection that weirdo twins have where they know when the other person is having sex and stuff. A milder kinship. Even so I need to thank him for when I saw my name on his extremely popular website I realized it was possible for me to build something of value online, too.
I don’t know if gay people celebrate Thanksgiving but, if they do, I hope D.J. has a nice holiday. I’d like to mention that he’s staring in a new film coming out shortly. Watch the trailer here.
image courtesy of djparis.com
So, this loser police officer decided to take my driver’s license and write me up a moving violation (the same that you would get if you blew through a red light in a car). As he drove away I wished ill upon his children. Smallpox, if I remember correctly. When I arrived to work upon hearing the story everyone laughed at me.
I figured there had to be something wrong about him taking my license. I found this online commuter forum and asked the bikers. As it turned out Chicago had, a few months back, made some law that said bicyclists had to obey the same traffic laws as motorists.
Since I have a perfect driving record I decided to go before the judge. I had never been before a judge and I have to admit, I was pretty excited.
At traffic court they congo-lined me up with a group I titled The Who’s Who of Societal Delinquents. Lots of great neck tats and not many suits. We were told that the judge would read our infraction aloud and he’d rule on the matter. You were not allowed to speak unless spoken to. There was one douche in the line who brought an attorney. He thought he was so cool. Me and the neck tats pointed and laughed at this puta madre.
If I forgot to mention, there were a lot of Mexicans in the group.
The process interested me. As each person went before the judge he never looked up from his papers once. He ruled, and you were dismissed. It would all happen within twenty seconds.
I was fifteenth in line. I know this because I counted and watched fourteen people all get ruled “guilty.” Then, it was my turn.
He started reading the citation…
Mr. Paris drove through a red light on a bicycle. Wait… A bicycle?
For the very first time since he had entered the room he looked up from the desk. He broke character and smiled. I could tell he wanted to laugh. But, being a judge, he couldn’t.
It was also clear he saw something he didn’t like on the paper.
Is the arresting officer here today?
Turns out he was. The cop was sitting just to the right of where I was in front of the judge. They all look the same to me, so I didn’t even notice him. In fact, with the first fourteen cases before me the judge had asked the same question. No officers were present.
One of Chicago’s finest stood and addressed the judge.
Uh, yes, judge. I’m here. Well… it seems I put the wrong infraction number on the ticket.
Oh… okay. Um… What do you want to do?
Talking about dreams is boring for everyone but the dreamer.
EXCEPT WHEN THE DREAMER IS MARRYING HIS SISTER.
Yes, I had a terrifying dream last night. I was in a tux backstage at a wedding. I don’t know what the secret area is named for a wedding even though I had my own once. But I am in a band and we do occasionally hang out backstage. Anyway, I was there, and I was nervous. Then panicked. Finally I was screaming and crying at the same time.
Yes, today was the day I was marrying my sister.
Everything about it felt wrong, but there I was. I had the corsage and everything. I was pleading with my family who seemed to be the ones making this thing happen. I was crying and yelling that this isn’t right and I couldn’t marry my kin. (Man, I can’t say that word enough – it works every time.) With every plead there was a logical answer about why it made sense to unite with my sister. She was lonely, I was lonely – we knew each other well – blood should marry blood. These were the reasons provided to me.
Then I hit them with my trump card.
“But,” I said with great confidence, “Surely you wouldn’t have me and my sister procreate! Why, the children would be mutants!”
There’s no comeback to this – the science is pretty clear about banging family members. It’s not suggested.
“Oh, that’s hogwash,” my parents dismissed. “That’s just something the British made up hundreds of years ago. There’s no evidence to suggest that anything bad happens.”
Hmm… I was not going to win this one.
I seriously screamed and yelled and cried at the top of my lungs as one would when the argument of genetic abnormality falls on deaf ears.
The wedding dream ended with a wake-up trip to the bathroom alone in the dark. Yes, I sat like a woman.
———
I was at this big event just milling about by myself. Even in my dreams I’m lonely.
So, I started walking around and talking to people and just being social. Everyone’s nice enough. But since I can never have a dream where fear and anxiety don’t play a roll, things quickly took a painful turn.
There was Britney Spears walking by herself. She looked shorter that I would have thought. A bonafide celebrity. I ran over to her and tried to grab her for a moment. She was walking to something and I basically had to stop her. All I wanted was a photo. And to put my arms around her and hold her tenderly but firm, like a man. Okay, that last part isn’t true. I just wanted a photo.
The trollop turned me down! But not just a normal dismissal. First she stared me right into the eye through to my soul. And she did not like the info that came back form that journey. She looked at me we disgust and just said, “Uh, no.” I was crushed.
But at least it happened once again, minutes later! I ran into Paris Hilton.
Now, we both have Paris in our names. That’s something! Obviously she would want to hang out and take a photo. This second trollop did the same thing as the first trollop!
As she was walking quickly away from me I tried to reason with her. “But both are names are Paris! If you married me, you’d be Paris Paris! That’s funny! Right?” She was gone.
Rejected by two celebrities in the same dream. Sadly, this is probably exactly how it would go in real life, too.
———
If you’d like to share a disturbing dream I won’t feel so alone. Maybe you made out with your high school biology teacher, Mrs. Greenblatt who was rocking 67 at the time. Or you had one where you gave birth to four chimps. Tell us about the time your teeth fell out and when you picked them up you were ashamed because they were butter-yellow.
photo credit: Anirudh Koul via photo pin cc
Now that I’m ranking really high on Google for terms like “best blog” and “funny blog”, my traffic is exploding. I need to come up with a good tagline underneath the main title image of “ThoughtsFromParis.”
Why?
Because I think people don’t know what the hell to think when they visit my site for the first time.
And let’s be honest, nobody cares about anything from France. I mean, I get a few French visitors every week, but I don’t need any more smelly folks hanging around.
I don’t necessarily need a tagline that clarifies, “I’m not actually from France” or that my last name is Paris (it is), but I want people to know that this is a blog about humor, vulnerability, and honesty. You know, girl stuff.
It needs to be short, and something that can fit under my title. The Bloggess has a great tagline. “Like Mother Teresa Only Better.” Noa Gavin has “I’m Funnier Than Your Grandma.” Both awesome.
So, what do you think, readers? Write your suggestion below in the comments. If you don’t help me, I’m going to have to figure it out myself. And that just plain sucks.
I'll never give this child another cigarette, pinky swears!
