Steven Chase & His Silly Pretentious Brain

In the United States, MTV has more or less devolved into a filthy cesspool I like to call America’s youth, the sediment that trickles into it being those uninteresting douche-nozzles of the Jersey shore, those sixteen-year-old sluts and their birthdays, and all those washed-up rock-stars with their camera-mooching families. (It was only cool for the Osbournes. Nobody gives a shit about you, Rev Run.)

But in Japan, we get this bizarre awesomeness!

I like the noises. There’s 30-something episodes, all equally bizarre (if not more) than this one. They’re all on YouTube, so if you got some time to kill and nothing more sensical to do, check them out.

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Steven Chase Video

Why do I have nipples? I mean, I’m not complaining. I really like nipples. Especially mine, and especially on men. Not so much on women. On women, it looks like a beanie wienie on a piece of pepperoni. Yes, I’m openly exercising the Converse Fallacy of Hasty Generalization on this one since I clearly have not seen very much female tittage, but what I’ve seen doesn’t exactly scream “succulent”… sexually, anyway. Slap that shit on a pizza and I’ll lick it up.

(Although Madison has some pretty inviting nips. But of course, she doesn’t count. She’s made of polygons.)

Digression! Although I am not actually questioning the scientific nature of why men have nipples—I’ve bought, lost, and re-bought the book on that one—the fact men have such a useless organ has certainly not boded well for my unhealthy obsession with these little boob buttons. So one day, after gauging my ears up a bit, I decided there just wasn’t enough metal jutting through my flesh. Curt and Danny took me to the local [now-defunct] tattoo parlor, and the deed got done.

In case no one has ever gotten their nipples pierced and are curious how painful it is… Well, I’m not going to sugar-coat it. It’s a kind of pain you’ve probably never experienced in your life. (Unless you’re a woman and you’ve pushed five pounds of human being through your twat. Then why are you asking me about pain?) The first nipple isn’t going to hurt nearly as bad… You’ve got so much adrenaline rushing that your brain blocks out a lot of that pain… but after that, your adrenaline is probably exhausted, you know what’s coming, and the second one? Holy fucking mother of fucking fuck-fuck. Ouch ouch OUCH.

And don’t look down if you’re squeamish, because you will bleed.

Honestly though, that wasn’t the worst part for me. The worst part was the week of rehabilitation. Keeping a tight shirt on actually does wonders, because it keeps them from moving around a lot. But the cleaning process is what got me. They don’t give you some kind of fancy impaled-nipple cleaner. They tell you to buy a bottle of anti-bacterial Dial and STFU. And that shit stings. Not to mention the dried blood that turns into razor-sharp “crusties.” Crusties are the worst… It’s like, OK, I know no one reading this has ever gotten impaled by an arrow or anything, but imagine you’ve got this big hole in your hand because you just got crossbow’d, and you’re pulling the arrow out, and sure it hurts, but then you get the part of the arrow with the little plastic feathers, and now you gotta yank that part through. And yeah, I know, they probably cut that part off… But, just use the sickest, most morbid part of your imagination, and imagine that… Bloody arrow hole in the palm of your hand, wooden arrow, pulling the arrow through, OUCH OUCH OUCH, now BAM. Plastic feather thingamabobbers, scraping up that bloody arrow hole. Crusties are kinda like that.

What’s the point of my story anyway? Oh yeah. So it’s been a good year, and these things have never fully healed. I’ve seen guys with friggin door-knockers hanging from their nipples, no worries. But I still get little pus crusties throughout the day, they’re almost consistently sore, and on occasion, they break out in random bleedings.

I told you in my last post that barf bags were not included.

So here’s my brilliant idea. My ears used to be the same way when I got them pierced with measly little studs. One day, I started stretching them out with gauges, and suddenly, no more crusties, no more pain! Maybe if I go up a gauge or two on my nipples, they’ll “re-heal” and stop all this nonsensical crying for attention!

So I tried last night. Having never taken the rings out that I was pierced with, this was kind of a scary idea. Just like when you get your ears pierced, the jewelry they pierce with is designed to “lock” in until the holes heal properly. These were simple silver rings connected in the center with a small ball. The only way to get these fuckers out is to put a pair of needle-nose pliers between the ring and spread it apart until the ball pops out. Who wants to put pliers that close to their delicate little chest-knobs? But not so bad… Popped them out and took the rings out.

It was at this point that I realized I’m pretty much stuck with nipple piercings for the rest of my appearance-conscious life. Without these rings, my nipples look kind of like Combos. There’s a term we use around here to describe the fag end of a tramp-ish gay man, and it’s called “cauliflower ass”. I still ralph a little when I envision that. According to Steve, if there’s such a thing as “cauliflower nipple,” a pierced ring-less nipple probably looks like that. Not to imply that my chest gets a lot of action, but you get the point. It looks pretty wrecked after you jam a ring of cold steel through it.

Back to my story STOP INTERRUPTING. So I take the old out and try to put in some new ones that I had leftover from my ear-stretching days. I tried a few that seemed to be the same gauge, and even a few a gauge up, and I just couldn’t painlessly force those fuckers in. So I accepted defeat and decided I had to put the old ones back in, or risk the chance of my holes closing up and being stuck with metal-less Vienna sausage tits. This meant lining the ball up just right where the ring meets in the middle, and pressing the ring back together with the pliers.

Left one? What a cinch. No worries. Right one? Seems pretty good. Let’s give it a gentle press here to make sure the ball is in place…

WHOA WHOA WHOA WHOA WHOA WHOA. WHOA. Holy shit. Yeah, the ball goes flying, and the ring contorts into a pretzel… While still inside my nipple. It was easily the most terrifying thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life. That time I was held at gun-point while trying to perform open-heart surgery on my best friend’s husband, which never happened to me? Yeah, that was pretty terrifying, but I powered through. Almost doing who-knows-what to my nipple with a pair of needle-nose pliers? I piddled.

So anyway, has anyone else been trying sweet potato fries? They seem to be sweeping the nation, popping up in your Applebee’s sides menus. They look just like crinkle fries, which are the best fries ever, except they’re orange and taste a bit sweeter. They’re supposedly a lot healthier for you… I like to eat them with Heinz 57 sauce, which probably defeats the positive health attributes, but it definitely tastes better than eating them with air.

Oh. The nipple story. I lost interest. It was a pretty boring story, wasn’t it?

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Steven Chase Life and Times

Time in itself is something or yadda-yadda that is really inspirational and makes you think harder than you normally would and be all like ‘That’s so true.’ But whatever semblance of usefulness that this quote of universal pondering has invoked will probably be lost around the same time you get your next “Words with Friends” notification. I mean, how the fuck did she just score 80 points by sticking an “S” on the end of my word? That’s highway robbery. ~ Steven Chase

It really is a funny thing, this time thing. For some reason, I’ve always been under the impression that with the evanescence of adolescence (sound it out), life would fall into a more blasé existence. And maybe for some, it does. But even now, my reminiscence of years gone feels more like the passing television seasons of primetime medical dramas. New twists and gimmicks show up to keep the content fresh, cast members come and go, and everything seems to be tying in to one central theme. Well… that is, if the show wasn’t airing during the 2007-2008 Writers Strike. Then everything feels botched and unkempt. (I miss Dirt.)

It’s been 3½ years since I moved to this chemical wasteland I now call my Hub World. (It’s kind of like Delfino Isle, except instead of overweight shell people in grass skirts, you just have overweight people hogging the fast lane so they won’t miss the Wal-Mart exit. And most of the highways smell like egg farts.)

But I digress in a more aromatic direction. Every year I’ve spent here as been completely different. Season 1 started in a dump with a man I was shackled to by the delusion of love. Season 2 moved on to an even bigger dump, occupied with only my own un-medicated lonely despair. (It was a downer, foh sho.) Viewers complained that the series was just too grim, so we moved on to the brighter Season 3 with an exciting new set and optimistic plot-lines. But ratings were still lacking. That’s when the brilliant happened, and with the casting of a permanent love interest, the “Steven Chase Show” became the “Steve & Chase Show,” and ratings have gone through the roof. Turns out the viewing audience really prefers feel-good stories over the emo-trashy. (And by viewing audience, I mean me.)

Two years ago, I was shivering in my heat-less basement-level apartment in a building probably run by drug-lords, breathing the spores of mildew while on-guard of the possible spider cricket attack, scraping the bottom of my shrimp ramen noodle cup while I tear up over an episode of Boy Meets World. It was probably on DVD because the other tenants would consistently steal my cable. I was probably waiting for a call from some Myspace hook-up that I deemed far more attractive than I so that for just a moment, between those sheets, I would feel important. That is, until I realized my phone wasn’t going to ring from him ever again, and I’d wish I was someone and somewhere that I wasn’t.

Yesterday, I went to my old apartment building. That shit’s been bull-dozed.

The symbolism should be pretty obvious here. Just like that moldy old building, a portion of my life feels bull-dozed as well. That period of self-loathing is not only passed but completely annihilated and buried in dirt, and suddenly you can see the clear blue sky in its place. Two years later, I find myself hand-in-hand with the love of my life, joining friends for a night of alcohol and naughty poetry circles. To my left, a crowd of genuine people losing their bladder control from the sheer amusement of being together. To my right, I’m petting a lovable Hot-Pocket sized chihuahua and a sand-colored pit-bull that looks like Sandra Oh. I take a breather and sip not from the fishy broth of 20 cent ramen but from the icy plastic cup of cranberry and Disaronno. Steve and I go home together, greeted by our effervescent toy poodle, snuggle together and meet each other once more in our dreams.

I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done in my life, or the choices I’ve made. Everything that I’ve endured has been necessary to not only get me to the point I am in my life, but to enable me to appreciate it as much as I do. That pile of dirt in the place of my life darkest days may be a grave, but one I want to leave flowers on in memorial of what it built me into.

… OK, maybe I want to take a piss on that pile of rubble and flip it the bird just a little bit. But then I wanna get all “tough love” on it and thank it for helping me become who I am today.

And that is the central theme of this blog. The things that make me happy, as minute and sickening as they may be. This may include overly-theatrical recallings of my life and times such as this entry, or it may be ramblings about the latest episode of iCarly. Or maybe a funny YouTube video, or a photograph I took, or a public service announcement about things I think are important. Whatever it is, barf bags are not included.

You’ve been warned.

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Steven Chase Life and Times