There comes a time in every man’s life when he must look deep within himself and ask that one question that burns in the consciousness like a lone firefly on a moonless night: which Spice Girl am I?
One must commit themselves to sometimes painful soul searching in order to define their essence in a single word. The road to Spice World is a grueling existential quest filled with trials and trepidation. Rumor has it, the Spice Girls had the same Guru-Shaman that Jim Morrison had and they spent 2 weeks in a sweat lodge eating mushrooms, smoking peyote, and having lesbian box-slurping contests before the spirit of Gaea revealed their Spice names to them. And I believe it too. Or at least I hope because it facilitates mad beat-off sessions during my lunch break in my 4-door Hyundai Elantra.
I’ll be honest, I’m not athletic enough to be Sporty Spice. I mean, sure I can run the 100 meter in 15 flat and I’ve got some killer calf muscles. Honest. You should feel my calves.
They’re firm. They’re smooth. Well-toned. Tan. Everybody is always telling me how great my calves are. Seriously, if I went to India all those Hindu folks would consider these calves sacred, symbolic of abundance, of the sanctity of all life. They’d worship these calves like the Almighty God-hating pagans that they are. But I just don’t know if I could cut it as Sporty Spice. Plus I’ve got wicked Tennis Elbow.
And I don’t want to sound racist or whatever but I’m not black enough to be Scary Spice. Dogs don’t bark when they see me. People don’t lock their car doors when I walk by. Clerks don’t follow me around their stores waiting for me to shoplift. Cops don’t assume I’m carrying a gun. I don’t sag my pants. I didn’t drop out of high school to join a gang. I’m not on welfare. I’ve only smoked crack twice and I doubt that I’ll make a habit of it. And I don’t talk in ebonics (unless I’m at a Sound Tribe Sector 9 concert with my white friends). I’m not being racist, I’m just saying I couldn’t pull it off.
During my internal quest I’ve realized, I cannot define myself in the terms of someone else’s Spice essence. I am an individual. My soul is like a beautiful one-of-a-kind, unique, distinct drop of crystalline energy amidst the vast torrent that is Spice World. I must be my own Spice Girl. But what? Who am I? What is my essence? Here are a few ideas that Gaea has facilitated during my meditations:
Yeasty Spice: It’s no secret that I got more yeast brewin’ between my legs than a pack of Sister Schubert’s. Yeah, there’s some inflammation and discomfort, get over it. My mom says it’s because I wear my wet swim suit around all the time. But I’m like “GOD SHUTUP MOM! You’re not a doctor. You’re not even a nurse. Just because you work at CVS Pharmacy doesn’t make you a medical expert! I like wearing my swim suit OKAY? Mind you’re own fucking business. I’m not your slave or whatever.” Fucking bitch. But yeah, I got more loaves in my undercarriage than a Wonderbread factory.
Sleepy Spice: Y’all, cuz I like nappin’! Simple as that. Second to the ole get in, get wet, and get out, there’s nothing better than curlin’ up in my Dennis Eckersly comforter and catchin’ some serious Z’s. Anytime I get the opportunity, I’ma get some shut-eye. I sleep on planes. I sleep in trains. I sleep in automobiles in the drive-thru while waiting on my chicken fries from Burger King. The saying goes: sleeping with your cousin is death, but if it involves gettin’ 40 or more winks, then hell, I’ll sleep with whoever has the best pillows, relation or not.
Corduroy Spice: Corduroy pants are sort of my thing. They’re the Thinking Man’s pants like blue jeans shorts are for Florida Gator fans. And there’s nothing I like doing more than curling up and reading some Satre in my wool sweater (with leather elbow pads), my birkenstocks with socks (birk’n’socks), and a cozy pair of corduroys- right before I take a nap. My friends hear that rhythmic swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of the cords rubbing betwixt my thunder thighs and know I’m coming from a mile-and-a-half away. It’s like whenever I wear my corduroys I feel like I’m invincible. Even when people tell me something is kimpossible, if I’m wearing my cords, I’m ronstoppable.
Foreskin Spice: My fleshy turtle neck is an integral part of who I am. As you may know, I am a regular contender in the county fair’s Mr. Foreskin contest. You should see the look on the judges faces when they get a load of my oiled-up, snuffleupagus dong resting peacefully on a silver platter, garnished by a leaf of parsley. It’s a seriously borderline life altering experience. I knew that I was gifted when old Aunt Francine used to change my diapers. Her eyes would get real wide as she took a drag of her cigarette and said “Foreskin? more like fiveskin!” I remember the day she died like it was yesterday. It was actually last Tuesday. She’s gone now, but she’ll always have a spot in my little cock slug.
Dairy Queen Spice: If you’ve ever had a Hot Fudge Sundae (and I don’t mean the one you get from the cute Afro-American guy at the end of the bar, Susie! LOL! You’re such a slut!) then this
one pretty much explains itself. I like Dairy Queen sundaes so much that whenever I go to the pussy doctor for a pap-pap, I specially request the Hot Fudge Smudge. I put my feet in the stirrups and he just mashes it all in there. Mmmmm! Mmmm! And my Harold sure doesn’t complain one bit. Every time I come home after getting “the Smudge” all he really really really wants is to zigga zig ah.
Lou Bega Called 