Did I ever tell you the story about the time my friend Isabel and I got lost in rural Spain and wound up hitchhiking with three male midwives and a pair of Korean schoolgirls to a tiny church on a mountain?
It was a true redditor’s pilgrimage— a quest borne of artistic curiosity and maybe if we’re being honest a slight desire for upvotes. The plan: visit the church of Santuario de la Misericordia in Borja, Spain to see the botched Jesus fresco. I’d admired his doughy monkey face all over the internet. I loved that Ecce Homo like he was my own potato baby.
The 2-hour ride from Zaragoza to Borja went by in a flash. We made friends with two girls from Seoul who shared our Christly mission. The four of us nearly skipped off the bus. It was the golden hour and the town felt like a storybook. Isabel pointed to a flock of ragged sheep backlit by the waning sun. They looked like saints, silhouettes ringed in radiant gold. We followed the winding streets in a dream state.
It should have been a simple trip. Not short, but straightforward—follow the route on foot to the church, behold the breathtaking depiction of JC in all its lumpy glory. But like, fuck Google Maps if you’re in a tiny town in Spain, yo. The map said Santuario de la Misericordia was a brief 15 minute walk from the bus station. The map was wrong. There was a church at the end of our stroll, but it was abandoned and empty. Before we could reroute, my phone died. So did Isabel’s camera. Out of spite, probably. The dream was officially over.
Afternoon bled into dusk, and I looked out at the black sands and barren fields with despair. What next? There was no comfort in Zaragoza’s oddly lunar landscape. Isabel and I turned to the two Korean girls who had joined our pilgrimage pack. We all had heavy bags. None of us knew what to do.
But we knew we couldn’t give up. We’d come all the way from California for this shit. They’d flown from Seoul. We traced the curving, lone road ahead of us, and saw through the haze of dusk that it led to a small mountain. Spotting a few lights, a hint of life on the hill, we decided to keep going.
We underestimated the distance. After another 30 minutes of trekking, the mountain appeared not an inch closer to us. Weariness, frustration, and disappointment were sinking their claws in when we heard a rumble of a car on the road behind us. I whipped around. There it was! A tiny green thing heading in our direction. For the first time in my life, I stuck out a thumb. The car skidded to a stop. Inside were 3 jolly Spaniards in their early 20s, grinning from ear to ear.
JOLLY SPANIARD #1: HELLO?? ARE YOU GOING TO THEE DE ETHAY UOMO?
JOLLY SPANIARD #2: DE FRETHCO! ARE YOU GOING TO THEE IT? WE CAME FROM THARAGOTHA TO THEE IT!
The Ecce Homo fresco! Of course. Turns out that’s all anyone is ever in Borja for.
ME: Oh! Yes! Do you know where it is? We’re lost.
JOLLY SPANIARD #1: EET ITH UP DE HILL! COME! WE WILL TAKE YOU!
We piled in and began our ascent. The driver of the car was a 22-year-old midwife in training. He proudly showed us pictures of the black twin babies he had delivered that morning. I couldn’t believe any of this was happening. But I was ecstatic.
We made it up the hill and entered the church with our crew: 2 boisterous California girls, 2 quiet Korean students in their uniform skirts (seriously), and a lispy trio of doulas from Zaragoza. And there He was.
TL;DR: A+ would hitchhike to see Jesus again.
Welcome to the delayed* second installment of Millennial Children’s Poetry, in which the trials and tribulations of the troll generation are written in the style of our favorite childhood authors.
Today’s poem was inspired by the brilliant Kathryn Borel, who earlier this year asked the age-old question, “Can I wear a romper to work?”
by Shel “Not Shel Silverstein” Silverstein
My romper is covered in pockets,
Each fold hides a secret delight.
It’s got chocolates and Xanax and pennies,
Away from the 5-0’s sight.
You wouldn’t believe what’s inside it!
Houdini himself would be stunned!
Oh, there’s plenty of treats in my romper,
Enough for everyone!
I’ve got local, organic mascara.
I’ve got beeswax and hornets and blow.
Did you know I can hide Pantera
In the zipper behind my elbow?
Oh there’s fun to be had in my playsuit,
Delights I have yet to conceive.
Have you ever concealed a crustacean
In the billow of your sleeve?
But woe reared its head on the weekend,
When I found, to my dismay,
That I hadn’t left room for a condom,
And certainly not a bébé.
Above, from left to right: various babies in various rompers in various decades.
*I know you’ve all been refreshing the Fartbook homepage since September. Don’t lie to me. You are my best friends. This is a safe space. What happened to us? What have I become? Does anyone have a copy of the Kirk Cameron Christmas movie I can borrow? No? Okay, I’ll find it on the deep web. Not a big deal. I got this one. My aunt gave me a lot of Bitcoins for hannukah, so like, I guess I gotta use em at some point, right?? Ha. Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’m great. I’m doing great, thanks for asking.
just a friendly reminder that birth is death’s first victory — Kathryn Borel Jr. (@kathrynborel) July 30, 2014
Welcome to the first installment of Poetry for Millennials, in which the trials and tribulations of the Wi-Fi generation are written in the style of our favorite poets, playwrights, and childhood authors.
Let us begin with William Shakespeare, because, I mean, he invented the human. I present to you, O readers of Fartbook.org:
Sonnets About Sexting
Anti-Ode To Mine Imagery Unclothéd
Oh god agh shit ass balls my lord aww fuck
I fear that I have made a grave mistake.
One never should attempt to test their luck
When high ground with one’s exes is at stake.
O how could I have thought it keen or wise
To pull up every contact in my phone?
And scrolling through the roster of hot guys
Think texting them would make me less alone?
If only the reception had been weak,
The mirror pics of my hind-quarters safe
Up in the Cloud, for some hacker to seek
Not sent direct to motherfucking Rafe.
First, god I curse. Next up: AT&T.
What carrier? You never carried me!
The Textual Drunkard
Ohhh not again, agh shit, I’m such a mess
Bright morn reveals the blemish ’pon my soul.
(No, not the Straw-Ber-Rita® on my dress—
Though that will be a mark the fabric holds.)
O stain more foul than any liquor’s dye
That leaves both heart and gut in turbulence!
Why play on boozy loop before mine eyes,
Reminding me my blunder’s permanence?
As babes, we learn forgiveness doth abound.
Like injured starfish, virtue can re-grow.
But soon such lessons are in vodka drowned,
And sins committed ne’er shall He revoke.
“Twas but a sext!” friends shout. “’Tis only Chad!”
Then silence, reading: Message sent… to Dad.
This lovely article over at E online got me thinking… where is the outrage over men’s facial hair??? Here is my response.
Fuzz, stubble, 5 o’clock shadow, the devil’s whiskers, Forgetful Thomas’s Tell-Tale Ticklers—whatever you want to call it, we all know that facial hair is disgusting and completely unacceptable. Flashing any trace of the protein filaments that naturally grow out of a man’s follicles is an affront to everything we hold dear in this fragile world. A proper male starlet should be clean-shaven. It even says it in the bible!
I, Jesus, hereby decree that a man’s face must at all times be as smooth as a cherub’s rosy bum. Amen.
-Jonas Brothers 23:14
99% of the time, Hollywood’s hottest men keep their revolting facebeards in check (and an army of aestheticians employed yet woefully underpaid). But we’re all human, sort of, and every once in a blue moon,* a leading man makes it out of his leading man cave without using a wax, cream, or blade to remove every last hair from his chiseled, million-dollar jaw. From Palmdale to Pakistan, Moscow to Mordor, sometimes the stars we cherish and trust simply fuck it up in the face department. Below are a few of the worst offenders.
*Ed note: this post is graciously sponsored by the Blue Moon Brewing Co., moons that are blue, and the classic Rodgers and Hart love song, Blue Moon.
The culturally subversive and like totally nasty photos in this slideshow may cause migraines, uncontrollable vomming, and/or severe anal discomfort. Proceed at your own risk.
Emma “J.R.R.” Tolkin, staff writer here at Fartbook.org, has quit after 83 years of blathering snark and leaked nudes of underage celebs. In lieu of flowers, Emma requests your tweets and reblogs during this difficult time.