What is this a shoe factory?
What is this a duck sauce packet factory?
What is this a soy sauce packet factory?
What is this a ketchup packet factory? (You get it.)
What is this a plastic fork factory?
What is this a plastic bag factory?
What is this a leftover container factory?
What is this a crumb factory?
What is this a junk mail factory?
What is this a Bed Bath & Beyond coupon factory?
What is this a remote control factory?
What is this a clean dishes in the dryer rack factory?
What is this a dirty dishes in the sink factory
What is this a Japanese restaurants we'll never get take-out from factory?
What is this a disheveled shower curtain factory?
What is this a two pennies and a receipt factory?
What is this a computer charger factory?
What is this a hair in the sink factory?
A word from the author: Carolyn lives with two nice boys, Greg and Aaron. She gets frustrated by shoes by the door, crumbs, and dishes in the sink. However, Carolyn has her own shit too including her dog's fur, her dog's toys and she does that thing where she repeats what they say in an annoying high-pitched voice. She thinks it's really funny. They don't. Greg and Aaron are super great roommates.
At 5-years old I mimicked my sister's hitch kicks to New Kids on the Block. At 9-years old I joined my first jazz class. I learned how to tap dance when I was a Follie Girl my freshman year in our production of Crazy for You. My senior year I danced to Kanye West so hard in my parent's living room that my knee popped out of place causing me to scream, my mom to think I somehow got shot in our gun-free house and my dad to think quick and pop it back into place. Point is, dancing has always been somewhere in the background of my life. But this past year, dance has been itching to take a step forward. Dancing no longer asks permission. Now, I have to dance.
When I explain to people how I am 'sexually peaking', their minds immediately travel down south to Dirtyville. Who? What? Where? When? How many times? All fun stories to tell, but the truth is, those stories wouldn't even exist without the presence of dance. My sexual peak would fall flat if I was not lifting myself and my confidence through my own movements. But that wasn't always the case. I may have learned how to Pas de bourrée and step-ball-change when I was 5, but I only just learned how to let myself go.
I remember the various dance classes I took over the years. Surrounded by mirrors, forced to look at myself and others. Comparing, competing, pointing farther, looking sharper, flexing flexier. I'd turn bright red when we had to work on our stretches as I hunched over my sad split. More embarrassing than helpful. Now if there is a mirror in the room when I dance, I try not to look. I dance to feel, not to perfect. To quote Shania Twain, when I dance 'I feel like a woman.' But not a woman burned by man or her boss or a bad hair day. I feel like woman - the creature.
Did I lose you? I've never been to Burning Man (although I fear that will change in the next few years) and every time I have to do a group sigh or breathing exercise I roll my inner eye. I'm still sarcastic and snarky when it comes to mindfulness. But now, more than both of those combined, I'm super sensual. When I dance I can't help but feel the sexual, female force within me that, until recently, only a vibrator has been able to bring out. Now I am unplugged, battery-free and using nothing but my body to create feelings of ecstasy. I feel pretty fucking grateful.
I'm also grateful because this year I found people that love dancing as much as I do. I found music that makes me feel primal. I found people that embrace all these things without so much a molecule of judgement. Thank you. In their absence I dance alone in my bedroom as my dog watches skeptically without interruption. Thank you, Remy. I dance when I am frustrated or sad or angry when the leader of our country proves himself a monster once again. Thank you, dance.
I've recently started dancing with my hair down. It gets stuck in my mouth, my eyes, it sticks to my sweating neck sometimes even trapping itself between my armpits. Afterwards, only then will I make a point to look myself in the mirror. Sometimes I look like some sort of goddess. Sometimes I look down right crazy. I see the shape of my lips outlined by the red lipstick I obsessively wear. I see my face aging in certain ways. I see my hair growing. I see the same freckles I've had since a child but now the freckles mark the face of a woman. I also see my blemishes, my tears, my brow when I'm pissed. My life isn't perfect. I am not perfect. But it has taken until now to truly love this woman I see. I love the woman I have become. The woman that my body has allowed me to become (despite still being unable to do a split).
By now we all know that if you want to be a lover of the Spice Girls, you have got to get with their friends. We get it. But after all these years, I am still unsure of what Scary, Baby, Ginger, Posh and Sporty meant by their other famous phrase: I wanna really, really, really wanna zigazigah.
There was speculation about the meaning when a co-writer of Wannabe revealed earlier this summer that 'zigazigah' was a take on the words 'shit' and 'cigars.' That's clever enough, but eh. I'm not buying it.
Unable to wonder no more, I decided to do my own research. I would go back and relive my Spice Girls days. I would listen closely to Wannabe, as well as the other Spice Girls hits, even the B sides. Yes, they had B sides. I'd go through all the fan books I saved, the stories, their image, their Chupa Chup lollipops:
I would solve this mystery! So, after many hours smiling and dancing and positivity, I've narrowed it down to 10 other possibilities as to what our 90's pop queenz meant by 'Zigazigah.'
1 . ORGASM - This is, of course, the obvious answer. We know the Girls were indeed having sex thanks to the lyrics of 2 Become 1. BUT. What we don't know is, WERE THEY CUMMING? Answer: Probably not. Which brings me to...
2. THE CHANCE TO WORK WITH ALAN CUMMING - Alan Cumming, another famous UK-er, was #1 on Broadway for his role as the Emcee in Cabaret. He wore his knickers on stage and loved singing about sex so of course the girls wanted to work with him! And they did. In Spice World. Although, I'm pretty sure this is the closest they ever appeared together throughout the 'film.' Film is in parentheses because, well, it's Spice World.
3. BABIES! - The girls were roughly between the ages of 20-25 when Wannabe was released but, man, their wombs were already BURNING. They even got a whole song about mamas that I WILL cry to given the right road trip. Now, every Spice has their very own offspice. Nice work, ladies.
4. A BABY G WATCH - Speaking of babies, I looked through a lot of images from the 90's and these watches were everywhere. Everywhere except on the wrists of the Spice Girls. And, there's not one but two G's in zigazigah. Coincidence?
5. THE WORST REMIXES EVER - As a huge fan of the Spice Girls (and super cool tween), even though I already owned the albums, I would buy every dumb single that was released. In doing my research, I found some absolutely horrific remixes on these singles. Think dub step and bad tribal beats and techno on acid. Shame on you, Virgin Records.
6. A GOOD HALLOWEEN COSTUME - What if this all started by five friends trying to think of a good group costume for Halloween? "You be scary! And, and, I'll be a baby! And, Geri, make your twat as visible as possible! We'll get soooo much candy!"
7. DINNER - It's like how I would finish book reports in 3rd grade when I didn't finish reading the book: "You'll have to read Charlotte's Web for yourself to find out what happens to Wilbur and his spider friend which is very much alive at the point when I stopped reading!" I gave up! I was OVER IT. And given the intensity of Wannabe's lyrics and message, I'm sure after a stressful 30 minutes of brainstorming, the Spice Girls were also OVER IT and just wanted to eat some fish n chips with their hoes.
"Fuck it, write Zigazigah and let's GTFO."
8. NORMAL SHOES - Mel C always knew what was up.
9. A COKE COMMERCIAL - I know. Right now you're thinking, "Carolyn, the Gals were in a PEPSI commercial not Coke. What kind of fan are you?!" But check it. PEPSI can practically spell 'spice' except! There's no C. Where's the C guuuys? Oh, that's right. It's in the Coke! BOOM.
10. EQUAL RIGHTS - Good lord, the Spice Girls were crazy but they showed me I could be whoever the fuck I wanted to be and I wish certain people in charge would think the same. Come on DC, it's time to put on some obnoxious, chunky heels, pull your orange hair into old school raver buns, throw up a peace sign and give me some god damn inspiration.
Whenever my dog touches himself, he stares me dead in the eye. The thing is, I always stare back. Am I a bad mom?
Dear Concerned Mother,
Of course it's ok to look back! When your dog looks you in the eye, that's his way of showing you affection. As long as you aren't getting any sexual satisfaction out of watching, all is well.
Thank you for your reply! When you say 'sexual satisfaction', what exactly do you mean? I mean, I'm not like, participating in any sexual acts with my dog but I do find watching him pleasure himself, gives me pleasure as well. Am I going to get arrested?
I Never Had Pets Growing Up
Dear I Never Had Pets Growing Up,
Relax, you are not going to get arrested for feeling thoughts of pleasure. But please, please, please, NEVER ACT ON THEM. 'I never had pets growing up' will not hold up in court when someone finds photos of you fucking your dog. Believe me. Once I accidentally kissed my dad on the lips and my friends would NOT shut up about it.
You got this!
You kissed your dad on the lips? YIKES.
Dear You Nasty,
Haven't you ever went in for the cheek and the person shifts their head at the last moment? Please, don't act like that never happened to you before. Ugh, why did you even write to me in the first place? Why am I wasting my time writing back to you? People used to write to me with REAL problems about love and loss and overbearing step-moms. How'd you even find my address? You realize there's a whole stamp-free world of advice out there called THE INTERNET, right? You should try it out. I'm sure there are a TON of people out there who are aroused by their pets. Maybe you should ask them for advice, you freak.
Go fuck yourself.
Hey sweetie. I think you may have sent this to the wrong person? Or maybe this is some sort of joke I don't get. Either way, it was great to hear from you. It's been too long. I'll tell Dad you said hi.
PS. Remember when you accidentally kissed your father on the lips? That was so gross.
Today's Friends extras are brought to us from Season 3, Episode 10: The One Where Rachel Quits.
We have a lot to choose from here, but I'm gonna focus only on these three:
Aaannnnnnnnd, I think we know where this is going:
Fuck the Girl cause, you ALWAYS FUCK THE GIRL. Marry the big forehead guy cause to quote Janice: "Oh, are you a puppy!?" And kill mullet guy VERY fast before he kills you.
Have a great day!
1) "Things That Make You Go Hmmm..." - Hmmm. Something doesn't feel right.
2) "A Deeper Love" - This goes much further (in your bowels) than you thought.
3) "Bounce to the Beat (Can You Dig It?)" - Literally. Dig that hole.
4) "All Damn Night" - Still. Nothing.
5) "Take a Toke" - Google says smoking might help.
6) "Let's Get Started" - Oh. There's some movement.
7) "Just a Touch of Love" - Dammit. That was barely anything.
8) "Do You Wanna Get Funky?" - Prune juice. Apple sauce. You'll try anything.
9) "I Found Love" - Okay. Now things are moving.
10) "Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now)" - Take a shower. Your work is finally complete.
At the rare chance I do a podcast or an interview, the question I get asked the most is 'What does your Twitter name mean?'
'MissToiletSlave', I tell them, 'is a lyric from a song about taking a shit.'
There's hardly ever enough time to get into it so I end up sounding like a freak. And that's fine. But with origin stories being all the rage these days I figured it was finally time for MissToiletSlave to get hers.
Back before I dreamed of doing comedy, I came across a semi-secret track on a Fischerspooner album. It started the same as their other tracks, synthesizers, bass, you know, electronic noises (I don't review music for a reason). However, instead of the male voices I was used to on previous tracks, a sexy, strung out, female voice began a laid-back rap of sorts. "Oh!" my brain said. "I like this."
I was a junior in high school who knew nothing about how sex worked and probably kissed with tongue roughly four times at that point. But this song! This song made me want to FUCK.
She sounded like a Vogue-era Madonna, except instead of 'Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers' I caught phrases like, "My man calls me cherry" and "I just smoked a pack of my Kool fags" and oh boy - "There is cum stain on my panties and jizz in my wig." Those words meant SEX and I was IN.
A bit later when Twitter came into my life, it came time to think of a username. Had I known a few years later I'd be promoting myself as a performer, I may have just been @CarolynBusa. But because I was a child of AIM and screennames, I had to be creative and quirky and put my entire personality into a few letters. I was a little older at that point. A little more experienced. And I remembered that Fischerspooner song. I remembered how sexy that woman sounded. Especially when she said at the end of the song: "I've got to be strong. Got to be brave. Don't want to bear the title, MissToiletSlave." Yes! MissToiletSlave! MissToiletSlave was sexy! MissToiletSlave would turn heads! MissToiletSlave would never buy drinks herself! Sure, she'd spend the next day hung over but damn, she'd look good doing it.
It wasn't until a bit later when I was at a bar with friends and they questioned me about my questionable handle. "Oh, it's from this sexy Fischerspooner song!" I happily said. But they weren't buying it. Using whatever first edition iPhone he had, my friend Pete looked up the lyrics online.
"Carolyn." he said. "This is a song about taking a shit."
"What! Nooooo." I laughed. "It's about a girl and being sexy and fucking and margaritas and jizz!"
He started reading to me.
"Moaning and a heaving on a hot sticky can..."
"Yeah like! Sex moans!" I said.
"Storing up my supper, coffee and my snacks..."
"Hangover snacks, duh!"
"Ok." he said. "Explain this then, 'The shits piling up kinda feels like a cramp. Instant relief is what I need to ease the megacolon that's inside of me.'"
I couldn't think of an explanation for that one. He continued reading, each line more damning than the next until finally it all came crumbling down: "The shit got soft, creamy, slick. It came out in a blast that was really foul. Forget the White Clouds I need a Bounty towel."
"Ok, stop!" I begged. "You're right! It's a song about shit!"
I've gone through life obsessed with a song about shit. More embarrassing, I thought it was sexy as hell. My wet dreams were shattered. My brain somehow blocked all the shit-related lyrics leaving only the 'sexy' ones. And yes, the song was called 'Mega C' but like maybe the c stood for cool or cunt or even Carolyn!
Nope. Colon. A big, long, shit-filled colon. After that I thought long and hard about my web presence. Would people expect only poop jokes from me? What if I got famous and was known for my shit-handle rather than my actual jokes? I opened up the settings on my Twitter account. I put my cursor in the username box and backspaced until only the M was left. I hit Delete a final time. In it's place I wrote 'CarolynBusa.' My profile page was updated and all my tweets stripped of any poop presence. No longer a slave to the toilet.
I spent the next couple days studying my page. CarolynBusa. CarolynBusa. CarolynBusa. Yeah, sure, that was indeed my name but I don't know, CarolynBusa didn't excite me! Sure, MissToiletSlave had a bad case of diarrhea but man, before that she was having margaritas and Chinese food and there's no way she got jizz in her wig doing something boring.
With the urgency of Dr. Jack Shephard I again opened my Twitter settings. I had to go back.
I feared in those two days MissToiletSlave would no longer be available, gobbled up by another freak like me. But of course, there she was. I reclaimed my throne (!) and felt a sigh of relief flush, I mean, rush over me.
Years later, my Twitter handle remains the same, I have an Instagram with the same name and my web series That's MISS Toilet Slave To You is premiering at the end of 2018. Okay, that last one isn't true but the point is, I love my MissToiletSlave identity. She's sexy for reasons you can't quite grasp. She's nasty, yet relatable. And yes, she finds humor in dark, sometimes hard to wipe, places.