Dir: Jim Malibu
Does life imitate porn? Or does porn imitate life? I ask only because for the past eight months since my son was born I have been starring in a porno with a similar title called Daddy Duz Dishes, although my porno is made for public-access TV and thus all the sex scenes have been edited out. And replaced with more dishes.
There is no longer sex. Only dishes.
I once told my wife I enjoyed doing dishes. That I found the sound of the running water calming—and that is why for the first four years in our home we did not have a dishwasher. Then my wife pushed a nearly seven-pound, 20-inch human out of her far-from-20-inch-wide vagina, and ever since then there has been nothing I refuse her. Now we have a dishwasher. And there are no more soothing sounds of the ocean coming from my spout as I stare out at the orioles and blue jays and rabbits and squirrels that frolic and play in my backyard. There is only rinse, load, run, unload. And no sex. The sex ended before the dishwasher arrived and yet I can't help but damn the machine.
Thanks to its stupid stainless-steel exterior and annoying sense of convenience there are no more points earned toward sex by being seen slaving over pots and pans at the sink for an hour. As I dirty a dish I simply load it directly into the dishwasher. Dishes no longer pile up. They are, as my wife says, magically always cleaned. But it isn't magic. There is no "kitchen fairy," as she calls the man who has suddenly come alive since the baby was born to help out more around the house. There is only me, waiting to be noticed for helping, hoping to earn those points for good behavior, the smiley-face stickers that in years past accumulated to earn me a visit to my wife's panties. But them days is done. The dishwasher is getting all the credit. I fear for the day when I come home from the skateshop and my wife is riding on top of the Kenmore, enjoying its sani-cycle, thanking it for all its help around the house.
Without giving away too much of the story line or revealing the ending (spoiler alert: They all get fucked in the end), I will say that at one point in this film, after the door-to-door dildo salesman gets humped and the exorcism of the monster haunting the house is completed, guest stunt cock Mike Horner asks, "Who do I have to fuck to get off this series?" (a reference to him appearing in the 80s Debbie Duz Dishes original). Unlike him, I don't mind my recurring role, but I do need the question answered: "Who do I get to fuck?"
Let's face it, at the end of the day men and women are not so different: Neither wants to pull down the other's pants and find a hairy butthole. Those words of wisdom are just a paraphrasing of where the Bible says, "Do onto others as you'd have them do unto you." And I can't stress this enough: I need my wife to do something unto me and soon.
But I'm sure after she reads this it will do little to help my case. Perhaps I can sabotage the dishwasher. Ah, but that will only lead to Sears sending a young, sexy repairman to my house while I'm at work. I can hear the 70s funky porno music now, and I don't like to picture how she'd thank him for his hard work.
For more of Chris go to chrisnieratko.com or NJSkateshop.com.