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[whitespace] Deconstruction of the Ho-bag

By C. Silo

The "ho-bag" is a minimally attractive, severely intellectually challenged creature who comes in an infinite number of incarnations. For the sake of brevity, however, I will outline only a few breeds. First, there is the DJ Ho, a fascinating entity whose primary function is to look malnourished in midriff-baring attire and to remain silent while the DJ discusses records and cocaine with the boys. She must attempt to dance with as much soul as a speed freak can muster whilst her DJ spins obnoxious sex music (from which she foolishly extracts secret love messages).

Next, we have the Socialite Ho, who launches her career with fake boobs and a chemical peel. Shed of her spiritual acne, she must now provide the paparazzi with gruesome tit and diamond-choker shots. She must also attend numerous opera benefits in order to provide juicy visuals for old rich men to jack off to at home while their wives OD on Retin-A and Xanax in the bathroom.

And we must not ignore the Art Ho, who believes that chiaroscuro is a pork-flavored fettuccine and that Leonardo di Caprio painted the Sistine Chapel. She normally holds a degree in art history from some expensive, insignificant private college in Connecticut and always knows where to score free pink chablis and cheddar cheese (art openings). She will drop her knickers for almost anyone who owns a Man Ray calendar or a hard-bound sketchbook.

Last but not least, we have the Skater Ho, who is more butch than all of Petaluma, but in a very 16th and Valencia kind of way. She subconsciously recognizes that the clan to which she dedicates her life has little respect for her, so she hides her female identity in pants large enough to cover an entire skate camp. She can booze around with the boys, but when it comes down to it, all she wants is an unemployed loser to treat her right and buy her dime bags when she's desperate.

My favorite kind of ho-bag is a lot like the bad-ass, lude-poppin' bitch from Cheech and Chong's Up in Smoke--the one with the bucked teeth and polyester pants who screws Cheech in the back of a van fueled by Mexican joints. That trollop had it goin' on, and she never disrespected herself in the pursuit of hooking up with hip idiots.

With this prototype in mind, I worked my way into the private rock & roll hideaway of Plastic People of the Universe--the legendary Czech band that Václav Havel credits with the fall of Communism. But in all truth, I was ill prepared--not only was the band disappointingly intelligent, but it's also hard to feel like a coke-snortin' groupie when you're chilling in a busted-out room at the top of Bottom of the Hill with seven 50-year-old balding men from Eastern Europe. There was a distinct lack of drugs, hard booze and sexual misconduct, so I decided to give all ho ambitions a rest.

After the show, however, I offered the entire band my friend's one-bedroom apartment as a free-for-all crash pad. Because my friend was irreparably ripped, I decided she would be oblivious to the uninvited house guests; plus, this would give me the extra time needed for last-minute ho-bag exploration.

"I would love to, but we really have to drive to L.A. tonight," declined the band leader, Joe Carnation (I believe his name is spelled differently in the Czech Republic). With a dis as big as Dan Quayle's anal fissure, I left the club a despondent wench, anguished that I would not manifest any unhealthy intentions tonight. But luckily, the winsome bike messenger (the one who delivers the real package) was lingering outside, trying to locate the contents of his dainty one-hitter. Reaching inside my pocket, I located a measly stash. "The bag might be little, honey," I said, "but the hit is extra large." Okaaay?


Small things often come in small packages: c_silo@hotmail.com.

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From the April 12, 1999 issue of the Metropolitan.

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