by Rob Delaney
As far as my own ass goes, I never put anything in there anymore. I heard it felt good to put a finger up there when you masturbated, so I tried that a few times as a teenager, and it did, indeed, feel good. Now, though, that’s too much of a production, plus I’m really not sure how I would explain that to my wife if she walked in and caught me naked with my boner in one hand and my asshole wrapped around the finger of another. I guess I could say, “Fuck you; it feels good. You should try it.” Why not? That could be very liberating and open new vistas of sexual honesty in our relationship.
The only other time something was inserted into my b-hole was when a girlfriend tried to put a small vibrator up there while she was blowing me. I did not care for that one bit. I almost cried. So when a woman says she doesn’t want a dick up her ass, I am completely sympathetic. Not that I hear “I don’t want a dick up my ass” from women a lot; I mean, I’m not going around saying, “Ma’am, that ass of yours … may I put my dick up it?” I pretty much almost never say that. Actually, I just thought about it; I’ve never said that.
Despite the fact that Alan and I never connected on the issue of anal sex, the fact that he had a place to stay for free in Amsterdam was more than enough for me to agree to travel with him. I was as excited to see all the museums and architecture as I was to brazenly eat hash in public and try to make my brain fall out.
When we walked out of the train station in Amsterdam, a beautiful blond girl named Ineke greeted us. She had long, wavy hair and blue-green eyes and she wore a yellow denim coat and a black miniskirt with tights. She had a funny little angular, upturned nose, but that sort of humanized her and made her more beautiful than if she were merely perfect. I liked her right away. Alan had alluded to the fact that they’d met and hooked up a bit in New York the year before. Ineke also referred to her boyfriend occasionally, so I figured I’d just have to be content to look at her, which was fine with me. We left our things at the apartment Ineke shared with her sister and then rode bicycles around Amsterdam and over the canals on bridge after bridge and drank Grolsch and smoked pot. It appeared Alan wasn’t making any concerted effort to rekindle the flames of their previous romance. They seemed friendly with each other; nothing more.
Amsterdam was magnificent. The network of canals that runs through the city allows you to be near water all the time, and the prevalence of bicycles over cars means you’re filling your lungs with clean air as you meander, so the overall effect is a very satisfying sensorial experience. It just feels good to be there.
On our second day there, we took the train to Leiden and went to the beach. It was autumn and the day was gray and cold. The beach was endless in either direction and the wind stirred up a sandstorm of sorts that was only about two feet high, so you couldn’t see your feet through the swirling sand as you walked around. The sand did not, however, reach up anywhere near our faces to impede our breathing or the visibility. It created a mythical environment and I would not have been surprised if a cloaked figure approached me and issued a warning from the underworld or offered me three wishes. As it was, I did see a person riding a horse in the distance, who may very well have been an intrepid wizard. After taking that timeless scene in, we turned around and saw the only other life-form on the vast beach, a man with his pants around his ankles, shitting onto the beach. Maybe the curious sandstorm swallowed it right up though? I would like to believe that. Or maybe he was American and afraid to shit in a Dutch toilet, because get this: Dutch, German, and Polish (and probably other countries’ too) toilets are made so that when you shit, it lands not in water, but on a sort of porcelain “stage,” where it stinks up the bathroom much more quickly than if it were protected by an inch or two of water. Only when you flush does merciful water shoot out and coax (most) of your turd down into the bowl and off to wherever the local sewage blasts off to. (Hell? I like to imagine a ghastly waterfall of shit raining down in Hades while goblins and congressmen moan in pain.) I would like to go on record and say that I do not care for European shit-stage toilets. And I’m not being prissy; I actually enjoy shitting into hole-in-the-ground toilets, which you occasionally find in old places in Europe. It feels deliciously natural and healthy to shit in a full squat. It is a far, far more natural position for the body to evacuate waste than the modern comfort thrones we’re used to, shit stage or no.
We then explored the city of Leiden, home to the Netherlands’ oldest university, where I was shocked to discover students receiving world-class education paid for with tax dollars rather than the mind-numbing mints Americans fork over in the form of tuition. That was an eye-opener for twenty-year-old me who’d been raised obliviously on capitalism. Global education payment methods aside, I paid more attention to Ineke than I did to anything else as the day progressed. She was certainly kind to me, but I didn’t dare hope that she did it for any reason other than that she was just a nice person.
After a long day, we took the train back to Amsterdam and retired to the apartment that Ineke shared with her sister Rosemarie, and we went to sleep. The phone rang around three in the morning. It was a wrong number, but it woke us all up. As I closed my eyes and sought to resume my dreams, Ineke crawled into my bed rather than hers. She immediately kissed me and began undressing me. We got extraordinarily familiar with each other very quickly, twice. I was in absolute shock because not once ever before (or since) had a beautiful woman whom I’d never even kissed jumped unannounced into my bed and attacked me in such a philanthropic manner. I figured it must mean we were in love and that we would likely get married when the sun came up and she got rid of her boyfriend and I faxed my mom—it was 1997—to tell her I was never returning to the U.S. The next day, however, I gathered my wits slightly and returned to Paris with Alan. Ineke and I planned to see each other again as soon as possible. We immediately began to write letters and talked on the phone fairly frequently.
A few weeks later, Ineke traveled to Paris with her boyfriend, and left him for a few hours to come see me. We walked around Montmartre and then went to the apartment I shared with my eighty-five-year-old roommate, Jacqueline. Jacqueline was, thankfully, asleep.
How I thought this behavior was normal, or at least okay, is beyond me. But I genuinely assumed that we were just starting a life-long love affair in our own unique way. I thought about her all the time and would get a stomachache when I did. I was obviously in some pathetic form of love. At first, Alan had been miffed that I’d hooked up with Ineke under his nose, but he didn’t stay mad. I figured I’d found the future Mrs. Rob Delaney, so while people may have been hurt in the process, I chose to believe that sometimes that’s just the way the barbed love ball bounces.
A few weeks after Ineke’s visit to Paris, I heard that some other guys I knew were planning a weekend to Amsterdam, so I thought I’d join them and visit my blessed Ineke. The two guys I went up with, Bob and Trevor, were American and in another Paris exchange program. Bob, it so happened, I’d grown up with in Massachusetts. Trevor was in some of Bob’s classes, and was a relative stranger to me.
We took the train up to Amsterdam on a Thursday. Not long after arriving, we met Ineke at a café. Out of the gate, she and my new friend Trevor began to flirt aggressively. It was egregious. Bob was as uncomfortable with it as someone who was somewhat disinterested could be. I was reeling. I had been certain that even though she had a long-term boyfriend and had hooked up with me while a former flame slept a few feet away on the floor, I was certain that we were to be wed once she ironed out a few small details. It is fair to say that this feeling evaporated, or perhaps was cooked away by the funky heat of Ineke and Trevor’s desire for each other. We ate a horribly uncomfortable dinner at an outdoor Italian restaurant, with Trevor and Ineke flirting and exchanging smoldering looks every few seconds and my jaw progressively dropping until it unhinged and parked itself between my shoes on the floor. Afterward, Ineke and Trevor went one way and Bob and I went another. We spent the night in the attic of Bob’s friend’s cousin, who happened
to live in Amsterdam, and took the train back to Paris the next day, without bothering to hook back up with Trevor. Bob was kind and understanding of my frustration, as he knew about the couple of times Ineke and I had fairly recently spent time together without pants on. I was upset, naturally, but I didn’t go totally bananas because even in my dejected state I could at least intellectually appreciate that things like devotion or fidelity weren’t high on Ineke’s list, and I wasn’t the guy to inspire them in her. I knew I was entirely responsible for my position. I vowed not to instantly fall in love with and get involved in any more long-distance relationships with beautiful blond Dutch women who had long-term boyfriends and also fooled around with whoever came through town. I had learned my lesson!
I settled back into my routine of classes, reading, and strolling around Paris’s parks, museums, bars, and cemeteries, and I didn’t grant Ineke too much mental real estate. UNTIL! A couple of weeks after pulling her out of my heart-garden, root and branch, I got a letter from her. In the letter she said she didn’t understand why I had seemed upset when she and Trevor had indicated that they wanted to be naked and sweaty together. She also detailed WHY she found Trevor so incredibly attractive, literally itemizing the different colors she felt she could see in his eyes. Finally, she said she felt I’d come to Amsterdam the second time with a “hidden agenda.” It was an amazing letter. I can understand her urge to formally wrap it up between us, though in my opinion, her actions had done a perfectly thorough job of that.
I grabbed a postcard off my desk and wrote: “Ineke, in your letter you refer to a ‘hidden agenda.’ My agenda was not hidden at all. In fact it was quite clear: to spend time with a girl I cared about. In any case, you needn’t worry, because I will never bother you again.” I put a stamp on it and walked out the door to mail it.
As I was about to put the note in the mailbox, I noticed that the back of the postcard had a painting of a dead blond woman floating peacefully in a lake, her hands bound, and a shadowy man standing triumphantly on the bank, admiring his nefarious handiwork. The painting is by Paul Delaroche and it’s called La Jeune Martyre. Did the woman in the painting look like Ineke? Yes, yes she did. Could an entirely valid alternate title for the painting be If You Begin a Torrid Romance with a Guy I Introduce You to, Right Under My Nose, I Will Murder You and Throw You in a Lake? Yes, yes it could have.
I’d bought several of those cards at the Louvre, initially thinking, “Oh, a pretty lady floating in a pond, who is for some reason wearing a beautiful white dress …” Upon closer examination, I realized her hands were bound and it was just a really excellent, detailed oil painting of a violent crime scene. But, by that time, I’d already bought them and I was going through postcards like crazy. I just figured that my next few messages to family and friends would just be slightly more “murdery” than usual. No biggie.
As soon as I saw that postcard in my hands, I knew that if I sent it to Ineke and she was ever hurt, murdered, or died of natural causes at age ninety-two, I would understandably be arrested. Plus, I may not have “liked” her anymore, but I didn’t want to terrify her and make her go into hiding, so I decided not to mail the postcard.
I never saw Ineke or heard from her again. I sincerely hope Trevor never left Amsterdam and he, Ineke, and her boyfriend entered into a polyandric marriage and lived happily ever after, raising kids who couldn’t say with one hundred percent certainty which of their dads was their real dad. Unless they had kaleidoscopically beautiful eyes, in which case their dad would be Trevor. Terrific!
vault on a planet your parents had never even heard of? @robdelaney I got my first email address in 1999 to keep in touch with a girl I met in Poland. She’s dead now but I still use email. @robdelaney “The holocaust didn’t happen, Buzz Aldrin did 9/11 & I wear my mom’s panties.” - guy who doesn’t know how to play 2 Truths & a Lie @robdelaney ME: Tall, dark, toilet-trained. YOU: Pizza. @robdelaney If you throw the candy past the kids, they run after it & you have like 3 seconds to show their mom your dick. @robdelaney NYC followers! If you’re in the storms path, I URGE you to send me nude pics before you lose power.
PART V la famille
#safety @robdelaney “I’d like to carpet bomb Iran, literally for fun, & generally ignore the rest of the world, except where I store money.” - Mitt Romney @robdelaney For Halloween I’m going as that feeling you get at a store when you try to refold a sweater properly & put it back on the shelf. @robdelaney Pretty awesome that we have a black President. Maybe one day we’ll even have a President named Sean. @robdelaney I would rather be a goat or a bag of teeth than a “low information voter.” @robdelaney Sephora is my favorite place to fart. @robdelaney 1. You’re confined to a hospital bed. 2. You’re 11. 3. You sustained brain damage in a car accident. - Reasons to watch shows on “The CW” @robdelaney John Lennon would have been 82 years old today had he not perished on 9/11. #KONY2012 @robdelaney How fun must Columbus, Ohio be on Columbus Day? I bet it’s like one big Studio 54. Cocaine & orgies everywhere. Mimes & shit… @robdelaney MISSED CONNECTION: You were “a woman” & I am “lonely.” @robdelaney “I was gonna vote for [insert candidate] but after watching the debate I’m going to vote for [that exact same candidate.] - Everyone @robdelaney Not totally sold on astrology, but Libras DEFINITELY hate it when you throw a bucket of paint on their car. @robdelaney It’s cute that the NRA thinks guns could defend you from a government that has a high fructose corn syrup nozzle up every citizens’ asshole. @robdelaney “One Two Three Four Five Six… KEVIN!!!” - how I would introduce myself 100% of the time if my parents had blessed me with the name Kevin @robdelaney I’m so mad at these refs I’m gonna go to Foot Locker & shit on the floor! @robdelaney Twiter helps me keep my finger on the pulse of what today’s youth is jazzing & vibing to. #hip #relevant @robdelaney Cop at the gym just puked when he saw me do squat-thrusts. Said he hadn’t seen anything that hateful or violent since
l’hépatite a
In 2010 I was writing on an MTV show called Ridiculousness. It didn’t win Emmys and it probably wasn’t anyone’s “favorite” show, but I will suck its figurative dick forever because the moment I joined its staff marked the day I was finally making one hundred percent of my living from comedy. I haven’t had a day job since. So if I one day get the face of its host—skateboarder and entrepreneur Rob Dyrdek—tattooed on one of my kids, step off; it’s there for a reason.
One day at work, while writing fart jokes for Rob, I started to feel sick. Nothing terrible, just achy and generally miserable. I did what I often did in that situation and went to my secret hiding spot to take a nap. My little hideaway was a room that was mostly filled with servers for all the editors’ computers. It had a little me-sized area where I could wedge between the servers and sleep on the floor. It was good sleep too, in there. In retrospect, I realize it might have been dangerous to routinely spend an hour or more on the floor of a room filled with whirring machines and questionable ventilation in an old building, but I thought it was cozy. After my nap, I got up and still felt like shit.
At the end of the day, I picked up my wife and we drove to Ojai to spend a romantic weekend that we’d planned.
My wife is a wonderful person, but if we’d planned a trip and my hand got ripped off by an escalator, she’d be like, “Fuck you, put it in a bag and bring it.” She would be a terrible nurse and a very good drill sergeant. So I knew that merely being “under the weather” would not get me clearance to stay at home. Our first night in Ojai we went to a nice restaurant and I ordered some food. I don’t remember what it was, which is sort of illustrative of the disease I was about to find out I had. I do remember staring at the food and wondering how in fuck I was going to get it inside my body. That was a bad sign, since I can normally eat in any situation. I love to stuff food inside me, ESPECIALLY when I’m away from home and the reptilian fear that I might be stranded away from my personally stocked pantry kicks in and I must just STUFF my body if I want to survive the uncertain times ahead. I could
n’t eat. Though Leah was unsympathetic, she was now aware that I was indeed hurting. We went back to our hotel. When we returned to the brightly lit room, Leah gasped.
“You’re yellow!” she said. I looked in the bathroom and I was, indeed, yellow. The whites of my eyes were also yellow. It was a yucky yellow too; not an olive or a tan or anything exotic. I called my doctor and told him my symptoms. He thought it might be hepatitis A and that they’d do a blood test on Monday to find out. I did a little homework on the Internet and when I felt certain I wouldn’t likely drop dead too soon, we resolved to stay on our little vacation.
Looking in the mirror, I felt dirty. And not a sexy dirty; a dirty dirty. Additionally, my urine was super-heated. I didn’t pee on a thermometer to get a reading, but it felt like it was maybe seven hundred degrees. And I was weak. The idea of doing anything was exhausting.