The Year of the Rooster

Picture 1

Somehow, an innocent trip to the park ended up in a picture of me grabbing on to a huge pair of testicles. OK, to clarify they weren’t actual testicles, but in Picture #1 here you’re thinking, Could of fooled me, right?

Right. 

Just fyi, this is an example of the hyper-sexualization of our culture and proof of the fact that apparently nothing and nowhere is safe and you can’t even take a trip with friends to the park (which is right across from the zoo, by the way) without getting a gigantic pair of testicles in your face. I mean, really.

To be fair, the bronze statue in the picture was one in a 12-piece installation by a Chinese artist who is either in jail or was imprisoned in jail for his art or his politics, or both. I guess in China it really makes no difference and I think you’re pretty much jailed for being creative. Anyway, I ended up standing in front of this particular piece because I am a rooster. In the Chinese zodiac, that is. And technically, I'm actually holding on to the dangly part of a rooster throat, which Google said is called a wattle.

The other 11 pieces included a kick-ass dragon, a lion, a snake, etc. My sign is the rooster. No harm there...or so I thought. 

Usually, the only thing I avoid more than a flashing camera is my boss in the mornings, but it was a nice day, the sun was shining and I was in a good mood.

So, when my sister’s fiance said to me Wouldn't it be nice to get a picture in front of your Chinese zodiac symbol?! I thought, Yeah, that sounds like a pretty cool picture! 

All the Vitamin D must have stopped the neurons in my head from firing and realizing that he wasn’t nearly half as interested in taking shots of anyone else in our group in front of their own zodiac signs...

I was puzzled, to say the least, when he sent me Picture #1 above, not completely understanding how a delve into the great outdoors had taken such a wrong turn, and I considered that this kind of incident is exactly why I usually avoid the great outdoors in the first place. Instincts, y’all. Granted, I was mildly annoyed when everyone had a great belly laugh at my expense. But I was actually a good sport about the whole thing (really good, considering). 

I didn’t say, Please don’t post that to FB, or Please don’t email that to my colleagues. Nope, I actually decided to be as nonchalant as possible because I knew that if I told him not to post the picture to FB then he would DEFINITELY post it to FB so I let it roll off my shoulders, like the rap songs say to do (or something to that effect). 

Besides, I realize that persuading your fiancee’s sister to hold on to what looks like a pair of giant rooster testicles and smile for the camera is, naturally, on somebody’s bucket list somewhere. I’m understanding like that.

All I asked (in fact, the only thing I asked) was since he was having such a good time with me as the photo subject, could he test his photoshop skills and make my arms look like Keira Knightley’s. I thought that if I was holding on to a pair of balls and smirking like a jackass I wanted to at least see how I would look if I was a super skinny porn star. (Not a surprising request, considering I am a woman and completely aware that hyper-sexualization is the demise of our civilization and yet desperately trying to live up to its standards in every way). I could go on about hyper-sexualization but I think Ashley Judd said it all, and who can top that?

Picture 2

So you can understand why, after receiving picture #2, I was, frankly, quite pissed off. Would it have been so difficult to indulge the request of someone you captured in flagrante like you were paparazzi, and someone who barely said a word as you got your laughs in? I think not. 

Anyway, there’s really no point to this story, except a warning: Not even the zoo is safe. Wherever and whenever you least expect it there could be a pair of animal reproductive parts lurking around the corner. Even at the park. Constant vigilance.

And never trust strangers, but also don’t trust people you think you know, too because before you know it the digital camera clicks and you will forever be captured as the girl that groped the humongous rooster testicles.

Now that I think about it, The Girl Who Grabbed the Rooster Testicles sounds like a great title for a bad-ass book so don’t bother stealing it because I already posted it to my blog and emailed the first chapter to myself. So technically, you’re screwed and I may be a millionaire. 

And guess who will not be getting any of my Rooster book royalties? Yes, you guessed it, the paparazzi.

Sometimes, karma’s a bitch.