I'm No Webster

We all know the internet is the world’s biggest time suck, but some websites are more of a black hole than others. Now, obviously I am not talking about porn, because really, who needs to watch more than about five or ten minutes of that to do the trick? I’m talking about the kind of time suck where you sit down to look at a restaurant menu or maybe the weather forecast and the next thing you know, it’s two days later. And what do you have to show for yourself after those two days?  A new lexicon of expressions about crapping on your partner during lovemaking.

That’s right; I’m obsessed with urbandictionary.com. My problem began back when I saw “The Forty Year Old Virgin.” In one scene, one of the main characters’ co-workers, a small older man named Mooj, rattles off a bunch of expressions about sex that I had never before heard, ones that are not part of a normal list of dirty words. I didn’t know what they meant, the Cincinnati bow tie and the rusty trombone, and so of course I went to the best source for research, the internet. Now I know what they mean, and the dirty Sanchez too, and no, I am not interested in trying any of them. Shit and sex don’t mix, as far as I am concerned. No matter how you slice it, shit is just not sexy.

For the past several years, I periodically stop by urbandictionary.com for more than just the word of the day. I stay awhile, and browse, and honestly, it’s been time well spent. How else would I know about the angry pirate, the strawberry shortcake, or the Abraham Lincoln? Sex, it turns out, can be violent, vengeful, and just plain weird. It’s not just for procreation anymore!

The other night, my husband and I had a few friends over to watch football. I baked a cake as a gift for one of them, our dear friend SS, and it was downstairs sending him secret messages from its cake plate while we all sat upstairs in front of the big screen television. One of the messages it sent him was “Don’t share me with anyone. I am all yours, meant for your lips only.” I knew SS wanted to break into that cake but didn’t want anyone else to have any, so he sat there worrying and obsessing about it all through the football game. I made sure there were plenty of other snacks to distract our other guests from the fact that a delicious cake was waiting in the kitchen, unsliced. No one except for SS was even aware of its existence, so happy were they that a marriage of Nutella and rice krispy treat had taken place earlier in the day for them to experience.

When my husband walked one of our friends downstairs after the game, SS sat there quietly, listening to what was happening.  Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer.

“What the fuck is taking so long down there?” he asked me.

“What do you care? You’re acting all squirrelly.”

“I just don’t know why two people need to linger talking when they’ve been talking all night.” This last part he said loudly so that it could be heard as far away as, I don't know, the downstairs.

“They aren’t talking. They are eating your gift right now.”

“Hush your mouth,” SS said.

“I will not. I hear them slicing it right now. Are you going to stand for that?  They are chewing your cake.”

SS looked at me and I looked back at him. We both burst out laughing, the kind that hurts your stomach and makes you cry. Did I mention we had been drinking while watching the football game? It was that kind of laughter, the kind that makes something not funny the most hilarious thing in the world.

My husband rejoined us. Who knows how long we had been laughing and crying?

“What’s so funny?” he asked us.

“Chewing your cake!” SS screeched, as we rolled around on the couch.

“What’s so funny about that?” my husband asked.

“Doesn’t it sound dirty?” SS said. “But it isn’t. What does it even mean? Does it mean anything?”

I sobered up immediately and began researching the expression “chewing your cake.”

After not finding a satisfying answer through Google, I went straight to the best source, urbandictionary.com.  Lo and behold, “chewing your cake” was not there. Instead of that being the end of it, however, I kept browsing and finding other things, which I would then read out loud, followed by a snort or just some regular laughter. I don’t know how long I sat there looking up words, but to say I became antisocial would be an understatement.

Finally, my husband said, “Enough.”

I said, “Please, just one more. We have to end strongly.”

And there it was, the most disgusting expression I ever saw. “I found it,” I said. “What’s another expression for a young girl’s vagina?”

They both looked at me like two men over forty should, like they wanted no part of knowing that young girls even have vaginas.

“No guesses?” I said. “Okay, here goes, the perfect ending. Sippy cup.”

"Sippy cup?" my husband repeated.

“On that note, I’m going home,” SS said. “Good night.” My husband, being the gentleman, escorted him downstairs, leaving me there alone to think about what I said.

“I still think it’s funny,” I said to the cat, who stared back at me with judgment with his normally vacant eyes.

Maybe it’s time for a new internet obsession?