Please hide the Pop-Tarts this time

Tobacco has always pretended to be my friend, ever since I was a tiny toddlin' tot. I just always knew that I would smoke. Both my parents smoked when I was a kid, but you can't really blame it on that, as none of my siblings ever had more than a passing acquaintance with cigarettes. No, this little dance was all my idea.

By age 13, I'd developed a serious jones for Marlboro Reds, and by the time I was in high school, I preferred a Camel (nonfilter) to any other smoke, except a free one. One of the best decisions I ever made was when I quit smokin' for my New Year's resolution in 1988. It was full-blown withdrawal, skin-crawlin', brain-tinglin', husband-bitchin', poptart-eatin', weight-gainin', non-stop cravin', dreamin'-about-cigs hell for a long, long time; the dreams continued nightly for over a year. So, what kind of dumb motherfucker takes up smokin' again 10 years later?

This dumb motherfucker:

Havin' a birthday smoke

Yup, I started again in '98. And I have to admit - I love to smoke. Just plain enjoy it. I would describe the pleasure I derive from my tobacco, but there's no way it wouldn't sound sexual, and this is a wholesome, family-oriented site, after all.

Would you like another look at the dumb motherfucker?

Dumb motherfucker, with alcohol added

I say all this as a preface to my rather embarassingly public announcement that I quit smokin' today. My urge to tell you here is probably largely rooted in justification for postin' the goofy cigar pictures ("The silly drunken face is in context now, yeah..."). I'm not really sure how this will play out for me here, but I suspect my writing will be a little more manic than usual.

And if I'm a bitch, it's only 'cause you love it.

Seconds from drooling

Too much birthday cheer.

This is what happens when you turn 40. You watch General Hospital, pass out on the couch, and your husband takes half a dozen pictures of you sleepin' - with the fuckin' flash on! - and you do not stir, nor do you bat any of your four eyes.

But now I'm awake, and plottin' my revenge...



Here is he, whippin' my ass at paper football at Hooters, mere hours before the offending pictures were taken.

Bitch is OLD

Even then, I was ready for my assless chaps.

Now you can't say I've never posted naked pictures of myself here. Naked mutant baby. Kinda makes yer blood run cold, don't it? And what is that in my hand -- a yo-yo? Cold cream? A doorknob?

Yeah. It's my birthday and I'll show my ass if I want to.

Sneaky kissin' dog

Sneakin' a kiss
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

Thought I'd give you somethin' a little less scary to look at.

Snickers is really not allowed to lick our faces, 'cause come on, he'll put anything in his mouth, and that includes his own rectum. But he is nothin' if not persistent in his quest to shower us with face kisses. Sometimes he's too quick for us...

Bucky's comeuppance

Alright, Susie. For the nearly unforgivable crime of teasin' you with Rice-a-Roni (the San Francisco Treat) which I never intended to produce, I am now submitting to your demands.

The assless chaps pictures are ready (Sierrabella, email me for your portion of this!), and Susie, you have yours now. See? I wasn't kiddin' about the chaps.

And now, the truly punishing portion of the whole shebang. I may never feel properly dirty again.



I like to whip up a little somethin' for
my husband when I get home from
the church bake sale.

And then there's:


If cleanliness is next to godliness,
then I think I hear my name
when they're makin' the next
list of saints.

And finally:


Kitchen safety is always foremost
in my mind.

Jim seemed strangely aroused by this ensemble, and kept muttering about an omelet with the most curious expression on his face.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go BURN THAT DRESS!

Birthday bling and the glitter guy

Birthday Bling
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

Some folks think old people don't know how to party. Well, I'm here to say pshaw to all that poppycock.

Look at the bling on this old gal. Gimme a hairy chest and lights on the floor, and I'm your Disco Love God.

This awesome display of chunky metal goodness comes courtesy of Balulah's mom, who really knows how to accessorize, if you know what I mean.

Well, shit, as long as I'm here, I might as well actually tell a story for once instead of postin' a picture and dashin' off.

I made what might be construed as a cryptic reference to my husband in my previous audioblog ("I looked like my husband's face when he leaves the titty bar"). Maybe it would be best to explain the whole glitter comment:

About a month ago, Jim went out to visit one of the local strip clubs. Some guys would have to sneak out and downright lie to get away with that, but it's not a problem in our house. I figure, he's responsible enough not to clean out the checking account with trips to the VIP room, and he's guaranteed to be in a good mood when he gets home. Plus then, I can sit and be a blog tard all night. Wait, I do that anyway.

So, on this particular night, he called on his way home and asked if I wanted any food. I did, in fact, feel a bit peckish, so I ordered a passel o' vittles and waited for my horny, food-bearin' husband to arrive home.

When he did sweep through the front door, he was in an even jollier mood than usual. He laughed and told me the woman at the drive-through window had been especially friendly and amused. Of course, with his natural animal magnetism, he thought she was bein' flirtatious. He continued to harbor that notion until he stopped and the brake lights ahead of him illuminated the inside of the truck. Jim happened to glance in the rearview mirror, and realized why the drive-through gal had been so amused.

His face was covered, quite noticably, in glitter. Now, a man with a less understanding wife would've been makin' for a public restroom to wash his face before returning home, since the glitter came from the bare, heaving orbs of the ladies who'd been entertaining him and every lonely businessman in Flint for the evening.

We both had a good laugh over that, 'cause you just know the girl at the drive-in was grinnin' at him and thinkin' "Oh, he's so fuckin' busted when he gets home!"

High stupidity factor

I'm not even sure what accent I'm goin' for here. It started with the Swedish Chef from the Muppets, and just devolved. Mork mork mork! Also, I was in the parking lot at work recording this from my cell phone, and boy, did I get some looks.

Bucky Bandito

Bucky Bandito
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

See, this is the sort of thing that happens when you spend the year laughin' at your friends in sombreros on their birthdays at Don Pablos (which, as described by Opera Gal, is Taco Bell with a liquor license).

This is karma, baby, bitin' me right in my refried ass. And what the fuck is up with the giant black breastseses behind my head? Were they tryin' to hurt me during my humiliation?

More to say about all this later.

Everybody's Bucky

Tardist 4
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

I warned Tardist that he would be next up here. So he can't say I didn't give him advance notice.

You know, for all the hot women who will be huntin' him down after seein' this very flattering photo.

If you visit his site, leave him comments that beg for more pictures of his artwork. I think he'd listen to you, the Internet as a Whole, better than he listens to me, the Little Sister as a Whore.

Behold The Bouf

The woman who birthed a slew of bloggers.

Here she is, before careless hospital attendants mussed The Bouf.

She's had to put up with the whole slew of us for a lot of years. It's no wonder she tap dances to songs in her mind.

Where's my drool cup?

The real me 3
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

Bein' the baby of the family is extremely hard. My siblings bully me every chance they get, and I always have to wear The Helmet when we're together. I know they're just lookin' out for me, and don't want me to get hurt. But the chin strap is too tight.

Wait, do you think they're havin' a laugh at my expense?

I'm tellin' Mom.

Dammit, I know my site is here

I will not be ignored.

She's the nice one

Someone once referred to Squirl as "the classy sister." And I think this picture rather conclusively proves that to be true. I mean, look at the encyclopedias behind her! If that doesn't ooze class like bacon grease from a good sammich, I don't know what does.

Cake's gone

Hear me roar
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do like to show my whole cow tongue in pictures.

While this weekend with my family was wondrous and groovy in that I got to see most everybody, including one cute-as-a-cutie's-button great nephew, it was also a weekend with some really anxious moments and a lot of waiting.

Seems my visit put my mom in the hospital Saturday night. She's had emphysema for years now, and is on oxygen 100% of the time at home. It's been a while since her last trip to the hospital, but we suspect she caught a bug or somethin' and that put her over the edge. So, we took her to emergency Saturday night after dinner (which I did not cook, so don't go gettin' ideas there), where she had to receive immediate treatment for her breathing and nausea. I won't go into too much detail, because I'm sure Mom would hate my discussing this in public, but it was pretty scary there for a while.

We knew she would be better, though, when she started to bitch that the nurse had mussed her hair, the Famous Bouf, while takin' off the strap for her breathing treatment. As soon as Mom worries about her hair, you know she's gonna be OK. That's just Mom.

I had planned to come home on Sunday, but since we weren't sure of her status, I stayed until Monday afternoon. Mom was in ICU until a couple of hours ago, when Tardist and Squirl brought her home. I know she's happy to have her own TV, her own chair, her own bathroom...

Anyway, I have to say, the whole Rice-a-Roni scandal was the best medicine in the world when my sibs and I would come back from the hospital to the apartment. Saturday night, when we came back with our nerves all jangly and still unsure about what would happen, we read Susie's comments and then my comments, and we all laughed ourselves even sillier than we are normally. So, thanks you guys, you gave us all a lotta giggles at a time when they were really, really needed.

And yes, I do know better than to think that this absolves me of my "Nice and girly" duties later this week. I'm girlifying and thinking pure thoughts even as I write this.

boom

Another lightning bolt, sidestepped.

They all want cake

Rum cake, quickly!
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

Notice to rum cakes everywhere:

If you are a rum cake baked by my sister, this is what you can expect to happen to you eventually.

Just thought you'd like to know.

Rice-a-Roni, the San Francisco Cheat

I have learned a very valuable lesson this weekend: Don't fuck with a girl's Rice-a-Roni (the San Francisco Treat).

Right in front of you, the Internet as a Whole, I have been rightfully shamed. Not only have I been shamed, I've been accused of the most awful crimes against humanity, of gingham and lace, of hymns and spirituals, of charity and mercy, of altruism and piety. Would that I had just shut my mouth and let LadyBug come after me with a birthday paddle.

Yes, it's true, I did toy with the affections of Susie, and I did tease her with pasta which I never intended to produce ('cause there's actually no rice in Rice-a-Roni, is there?). The assless chaps picture? I wasn't kiddin' about that one. But I think lying about the SFT was a far more serious transgression, anyway. I feel bad for all the meals she had planned in advance, and for the fact that she must now re-think her strategy for feeding Jif and LG for the next year.

Susie has spelled out my punishment as follows:

"Here's the deal. Both SierraBella and I get pictures of you in the chaps.

BUT WAIT. THERE'S MORE.

To compensate for the pain and suffering of moi and all the other good people who bore witness to this heinous scammage, you must post a picture on your site of you, all dolled up in an outfit, and a scenario, similar to the ones your commenters have described here.

NICE AND GIRLY.

Do we have a deal?"

Yes, Susie, we have a deal. The assless chaps pictures should be out to you by the end of the week, and the punishment pictures should be done 'round the same time. Though I'm not sure which one of us will be punished more by me in polyester.

But I am repentant. June Cleaver really made me think. I only hope that I can serve as an example to those who would toy with a person's expectations of pasta. It was cruel and heartless of me, really, everything you've come to expect from the Cotillion.

Again, I shoulda taken the spanking.

Reporting from Mom's place

The suspense is killin' ya, isn't it?

Geez, y'all, I didn't think I'd get such a response to my request for middle-name suggestions. Was it the lure of the chaps or the promise of Rice-a-Roni (the San Francisco Treat)? Or are you all genuinely altruistic?

I'm bettin' on the Rice-a-Roni.

'Twas a tough decision, as I had some great choices to mull over as I avoid packin' for my trip tomorrow. "Merkin" was under heavy consideration, 'cause anybody who doesn't think that's fun is no friend to me. I also rather enjoyed "Vestibula" but ultimately, it had too much "Beulah" in it, and I haven't lost enough weight to think that's funny yet.

A sentimental favorite was "Flanella Jo," because I miss conversating with her, but I was afraid someone from Seattle would make a lumberjack shirt out of me. "Orgasmatronic" is, well, accurate of course, but everyone would take that name as an excuse to skip foreplay. I was severely tempted to choose "Kat," not only because it's something I've actually used, but it's short and I could probably still spell it while drunk. But, frankly, I've seen some of the pictures over at Jess' site lately, and my poor virginal ass is a little frightened. Although, if I use it at all in the future, I'll send you a box of Rice-a-Roni as royalties each time it's used. I mean the name "Kat," not my poor virginal ass.

Many entries, all worthy in some sick and disgusting way. But my ultimate choice, for my middle name, to be used all through what I deem to be My Birthday Season (and only I get to say when that ends), is.........

Casio drum roll

Caverna, which was begat by the booty-ful Susie. I feel this name celebrates my Kentucky heritage, 'cause who doesn't love Mammoth Cave, and it also announces to the world, "Drive on in."

Congratulations, Susie! Please contact me for chaps and pasta arrangements. Once you receive the picture, we can begin to decide just how much therapy I'll need.

I am at your mercy

Well, since I whined and complained last night about not having been granted a middle name, Susie made the brilliant suggestion that I pick myself a middle name to celebrate my 40th birthday this month.

But, see, I'm not so good at that. The best middle name I ever picked for myself was Hephzibah, and I'm sorta over that now. So, as you can see, I'm not that imaginative when it comes to my own name -- hell, I didn't even pick Bucky Four-Eyes, my brother tagged me with that.

As a result, I've decided to let you, the Internet as a Whole, choose my new middle name for me. Now, nothin' too girlie, because I'm a little rougher around the edges that that. And anyone suggesting the names "Olga" or "Helga" will be immediately disqualified.

The winner of this contest will receive a photo of me in assless chaps, and a year's supply of Rice-A-Roni (the San Francisco treat). So let's have it, people! Name me, name me...

Riddle me this

I have some questions. Maybe I want answers, maybe I don't, but that doesn't change the fact that I have questions, dammit.

• Why the hell didn't I get a middle name? Did they cost extra at the hospital? I mean, not to be ungrateful for the idyllic childhood and all, but come on.
  
• How come Snickers hasn't yet gotten used to the fact that Jim and I get it on? You'd think he'd understand by now that nobody's gettin' hurt, but if we forget and leave him in the house, he prances and whines by the edge of the bed; it's almost like somebody let my prom date in or somethin'.
• Why is it that the people who stock the food in Mongolian Barbecue have it in for me? The last four times I've been there, they haven't had crawdaddies out. Now, you've gotta understand, I loves me some crawdaddies, maybe enough to marry 'em before I suck on their heads and bite their tails. So, I had an invitation to go today and declined. About fifteen minutes later, my Nextel beeped, and the voice of Arjay taunted me through the speaker as he repeated "Crawdaddies, crawdaddies, crawdaddies..." over and over and over again. Well, fuck me gently with a crustacean!
• Why, why, why does that pooched belly look absolutely cute on pregnant Balulah, but looks horrid and scary on non-pregnant me? Wait, I just answered my own question.
• Why don't we punish cock fighting with cock severing?
• Why can't I think of anything more constructive than this to post tonight?
• How many of you are here because you searched for "Kielbasa Queen"? I know there are lots of you lurkin', I see that search all the time in my sitemeter. The only thing wronger than you searchin' for it is my writin' about it.
  

Ya want debauchery?

My #1 son.

Okay, I was gonna do a "ten things about my skanky ass" post, but I was just draggin' my feet and not writin', and now I see there are already comments, which means I probably need to write something else here, something I will finish.

ahem

You, the Internet as a Whole, seem to respond well when I give in to my more juvenile instincts and write about bodily functions and all manner of sexual innuendo. I've come to realize that you, the Internet as a Whole, are a bad influence on me. You encourage my worst urges. Because of you, Internet as a Whole, I can no longer show my face in polite society.

You make me feel cheap, like a two-dollar bargain-basement red-tag saggin' sphincter whore. You make me feel thoroughly used, like a Kleenex in a whooping cough ward. You make me feel dirty, like a weddin' dress in a flyin' diaper zone.

You don't call, you don't write, you don't send me flowers anymore. How many times must you say "The money's on the dresser, sweetheart" before I leave you with at least my dignity intact? Or nonexistent. You know, whatever.

You, Internet as a Whole, are a cad. I should walk away and meet a nice new crowd over donuts at church.

Just kiddin'.

I remain,

Your Faithful Whore

(you know...now I feel almost bad for startin' this post with a picture of Snickers)

Spring got a little sprung

Pointy Tulip
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

I'm postin' this picture to remind myself that there actually have been days warm and sunny enough for some flowers to grow.

I'll quit bitchin' about the weather when the weather quits feedin' my righteous indignation.

You may feel a slight chatter in the air next weekend, as Squirl, Tardist and I will be in the same place at the same time for a couple of days. Should probably give us all lotsa vicious lies to blog about each other. I'm bringin' my camera for blackmail purposes.

I have been promised rum cake. Rum cake makes unflattering pictures disappear.

Really, if you were lookin' for any point to this post, you came to the wrong Cotillion. I just wanted to post the purty flower pick-cher.

Not a word about bushes or boobs

My shy guy.

Wow, I'm not sure what kinda girl you people think I am, but frankly, I'm appalled by the direction the comments took regarding my lovely lilac. I don't even know you people anymore. What have I ever written that would make you suspect I was alluding to a sexual innuendo with an innocent posting of the flora in my yard?

Shame on all of you.

But, as I am the forgiving sort, instead of sayin' a little prayer against you and doin' my Superior Dance, I will instead apologize for my lack of post or comment input this weekend. Truth be told, I just plain got sick of lookin' at a computer monitor and took a couple of days to hang out with Jim and watch TV and go out to eat. Let's face it -- my 40th birthday is at the end of the month, and gettin' my way right now is Jim's best defense against mid-life crisis-induced rage. I can be one scary, scary bitch, given the proper triggers.

So, not really much goin' down here. It's been a cold, rainy weekend (note to Mother Fucking Nature: It's May, you cunt, get with the program), so it's been all indoor chores and amusement. Had some good food, and might possibly have accidentally had a few drinks. Sorry, no drunken camera fun for you this time, I left the sucker home.

Back to the grind tomorrow. I think maybe I should accidentally have a few beers now.

My bush is fine, thank you

It lives, it blooms!

I was so worried when my poor baby lilac got snowed in last month just as it started to bud, but it has proved hearty and smells mighty purty.

That's all I have to say about that.

Goin' to the front room and we're gonna get ma-a-aried

How could I have resisted?

This is a pretty good approximation of Jim on our wedding day. In actuality, the cut on his forehead was by that time more of a scar, and thus there was no real headwound bleedin' on our wedding day. But it's in the exact right spot, and ain't it bitchin'?

He'd kick Spiderman's webby ass any day

The love bat?

This is Jim's South Park-style self portrait. The mask is only slightly more outrageous than what he wore in our wedding (a black shirt with a big Batman logo on it).

Seriously.

Maybe I'll make a portrait of him based on our wedding day....more when I've had time to plot this evil.

Mama said knock you up

You know I try to keep things here at the Cotillion clean, wholesome, and nonthreatening. I'm sure you've noticed.

However, there is a subject that needs to be broached, as badly as any subject has ever needed broachin', maybe just the broachiest subject of the day. I need to discuss breasts.

The whole thing started yesterday when I was walkin' down the hall at work with Balulah. Balulah is several months pregnant, and just barely beginning to have a pooched belly. As we held a completely adult and mature conversation (I believe it was about "accidental" anal sex), she executed a little shoulder-shakin' dance move to illustrate a point. Then she got this look of shock, awe, a little amusement, and a little disgust on her face, and clapped an arm over her boobs.

Now, in her previous non-pregnant life, Balulah sported an A cup. But, by the Udders of Grayskull, as the baby in her belly grows, so apparently do her sweater silly putty eggs. Her patented shoulder-shakin' move, which has never caused the least stir, was now settin' things in motion, things which had previously not been large enough to be set into any serious motion. But now Balulah's got a brand new fun bag. Well, two of 'em. She seemed as totally surprised as anyone else that she now had somethin' to shake, and when the shock wore off, we both laughed like drunken schoolgirls and hoped that the security cameras hadn't recorded any of that.

Well, it's got me to thinkin'. Frankly, I'm totally jealous of the whole "grow your bazongas without surgery" thing, and I want in. I don't want a boob job -- I have an aversion to the idea of someone, even a nice surgeon with steady hands, slicing my nipples off so they can stuff implants through the former aereola. Just gaining weight won't do the job, as tits seem to ramp up ever so much better in anticipation of a baby that they can feed. So it's gotta be pregnancy-induced breast enhancement.

And here's the rub: Jim can't really assist me with the pregnancy issue. We wisely decided about 14 years ago that children weren't a good idea for us, and he went and had the doc block any further traffic from the seamonkey factory. Could you put these flowers in a vas deferens? Snip snip. Shootin' wonderful blanks. (Will I get a call from Jim when he reads this?)

So, I'm here to solicit the help of all you spunky monkeys out there. I'm takin' applications for a suitable male, or males if I'm really lucky, to assist me in my quest for pregnant honkers, gallon milk jugs, mama hindenburgs. And by "suitable" I mean willing and able to knock me up. For my part, I will provide plenty of alcohol, blindfolds, and duct tape to make the experience more survivable for you. Ssssshhhhhh...it'll be okay, honey, once the lights are out.

Please be aware that once the child we conceive is actually born, it will be promptly deposited on your doorstep, and I will be changing my phone number so you can no longer find me.

Me and my bigguns.

Scarier that Scuzzlebutt

You thought South Park was fucked up before I got there?

Okay, first I saw Kitty's icon. Then I checked out Rina Bee's site, and came across the link to create your own South Park character. So I came on down to South Park.

I'm not fat...I'm just big boned. Heh heh "boned."

Note: To save your creation, you must do a screen capture of the browser window, then paste it into or as a new document in a graphics editing software. Paste it in, crop and save. Voila!
And, let me just say again..."boned"...

Am I on crack?

Squirl, you're gonna have to tell me whether I am hallucinating this, or whether I have actual repressed memories that are beginning to surface.

Today, my boss mentioned the name "Frodo Baggins" and it triggered what I believe to be a memory.

When I was a kid, Squirl was very into the Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit and all that fantastical Shire stuff. I'd heard her talk about the books before, and one day I wanted to appear clever and knowledgable (I'm still tryin', and it's still not workin').

So, I walked up to her and asked if I could read the book about Dildo Baggins.

And then Squirl laughed until the fur fell off her tail, and in between snorts and teary eyes, she informed me that I really meant Bilbo Baggins.

Maybe I did...and maybe I didn't...

Nook, nook, who's there?

Jim and I love to watch the local ABC news on Saturday mornings, because it's all the younger anchors and announcers, and the on-air atmosphere is just a little looser than it is during the week. Last weekend, the young sportscaster was goin' on about the Tigers' game the night before, and when he illustrated some spectacular play Nook Logan had made, he blurted out, "Ya gotta love Nookie!" Jim and I had one of those exchanged glances that says "Did you just fucking hear that?" And we both had. And we laughed like hyenas with feathers up our asses.

We decided that we were lucky to've seen it, because surely someone behind the scenes would take young Ryan aside and inform him that Nookie talk is strictly forbidden on daytime television, right? Surely he wouldn't be allowed to pronounce his love of Nookie on the air, nor would he be allowed to inquire of us whether we were fans of Nookie or not.

But no. An hour later, and Ryan Slocum (yes, Slo-cum, that's his name) was once again verbally ejaculating, "Ya gotta love Nookie!"

Well, well. They let him keep the Nookie. 'Cause who doesn't love Nookie?

*************************

I cannot, simply cannot, stop playin' White Zombie's cover of Boogie Man when I'm in my car. Really, really loudly, with my tongue out and my fingers makin' a devil sign. I think I need help, lots of help. And the neighbor kids are afraid.

*************************

Sorry to keep hittin' y'all with these quickies, but I am so bloody busy this week it's unreal. Snickers has been following me around the house, ever hopeful for a treat or a love-'em-up session. I swear I've never had such a cuddly animal in my life. If he were a man, he'd totally wanna snuggle after sex. And then put his cold nose up your wazoo.

*************************

I'd like to extend a hearty thanks to all who offered to invade my ass more gently and with more finesse than did my gynecologist. This means more to me, and my ass, than you will ever know. Call me!

This should probably freak me out

I just discovered that somebody found my site via a search for "puke-on-me."

Think they were disappointed, or do you think I'm now bookmarked?

And, just to save you the trouble, it links to this post.

New specs and old speculums

Poster girl for wanker blindness

Last week was full of professional appointments for me. On Wednesday, I finally got my new specs, pictured above. These are some big, heavy glasses, and they slip down my nose constantly. My prescription makes the lenses super thick. If you previously only suspected that I was makin' myself blind, you now have conclusive proof.

On Thursday, I had an appointment with my friendly gynecologist. And before you go thinkin' you're awfully clever, I hear you out there goin' "hello...hello...hello...hello..."
I will get you for that.

Anyway, I went into the exam room like I always do, and was instructed to get completely nekkid and then put on the paper gown. I don't think I've ever had a gown with such big, pink, poufy shoulders. I felt pretty.

When Dr. E and his assistant came in, I remarked that the gown reminded me an awful lot of my prom dress. When Dr. E ripped it all the way down the back to listen to my lungs, I remarked that it was now a whole lot more like my prom dress. I think that one went over their heads.

Then they had me get up in the stirrups, which is not nearly as fun as it sounds. I got my feet up and scooched down as instructed. Attempting to relax, I decided to look at something other than the ceiling. So I glanced down, between and past my stirruped legs, and what should my eyes behold but a People magazine on the table. With a picture of John Paul II, the dead pope, starin' back at me from between my legs. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Really, would you want a dead religious figure starin' back at you from between your stirruped feet?

I thought that would be the most off-putting moment of the exam...until Dr. E suddenly invaded me digitally in a way I thought was the exclusive province of patients with a prostate. To say it was unexpected is a gross understatement. I think I yelped a little, and I know I blurted out, "Okay, you really did need to buy me dinner before you did that!"

As always, Dr. E chided me for bein' a smoker, and strongly encouraged me to quit. And I just looked at him and thought, you're gonna violate my ass and you expect me not to smoke afterward?

Silly doctor man.

Lazy Bucky's quickies

How I was awoken this morning:

Jim: (frantically) Baby, wake up, neither of us set an alarm and it's 5:30! (He will be very, very late)
Me: (rudely awakened and not happy) Aw, shit.

About a minute passes, the self-test on my brain ends, and I regain full thought capacity.

Me: Hey! It's Saturday!

Jim: (from the bathroom, after a considerable pause) Shit.

Cue the laughter of two people who suddenly realize what retards they are.

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No matter how old I get, I will never not giggle when I ask the young man at Arby's drive-through window for extra Horsie Sauce.

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It appears that Dooce comments are a thing of the past now. 'Tis through that unique forum that I know the majority of you who come here to see what weird shit I'm up to, so I'm glad it lasted as long as it did. Also, and I said this earlier in my own comments, I am amazed and grateful that no one ever really gave me any serious shit while I was in there. I mean, really, as often as I commented, and as useless as a lot of my little outbursts were, nobody ever came hatin' on me. Shocking, when you think about it. So thanks. Many thanks also to Heather, for lettin' me run around with my monkey out in her virtual house.

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Did I mention we got our couch? Yes, the one for which we braved squashed hygiene products to shop. It's black leather, has dual recliners, and quite simply kicks ass. My old recliner now belongs to bad dog Snickers, and before you say it, yes, I'm fully aware that I have one fuckin' spoiled rotten dog. You think I'd have it any other way?

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Finally, a happy Mother's Day to all the Mothers who visit me here. You know who you are. And I don't mean the Mothers of Invention.

In self defense

Beware the banjo!

Since my lovely (read, soooo gonna get smacked) brother Tardist posted this on his site, I thought I would just go ahead and show you guys before you were told about this by someone else.

I'm thinkin' I was about 4 here, and I need to inform you that I was the Hooded Claw (the villain who was the bane of Penelope Pitstop of Wacky Races fame). Of course I would pick a villain to emulate. Did you really think I was gonna be Penelope Pitstop?

And the banjo? Let's just say it was the Banjo of Death. And if you'd heard me play it, you wouldn't have to ask why.

Rebel, on the other hand, is only chewin' on my cape until he can get 'hold of some of my jammies and tear the crotch out.

Anybody ever wonder why my parents didn't let 'em drown me in the baptismal font?

Questions courtesy of Opera gal

1. If you could be a super-hero, what power would you posses? You only get one.

I would say the power to embarass those around me, but I already have that. So, my power would be the ability to make an enemy lose control of his bodily functions with a glance from me. Really, how much evil can one criminal do if he's suddenly spewin' from every orifice with great force? And wouldn't it just be fun? I could make entire armies surrender.

2. Money being no object for education, and time is not of the essence - what would be your ideal career change?

If I were to be serious, I'd say my ideal career would be as a writer. If I were to be cheeky, I'd say my next career would be as a man milker.

3. I'm in a house that is on fire. Do you: a) try and put the fire out b) run in and save me c) call for help and stand there or d) none of the above, you're not going to save someone that asks this kind of stupid question.

Of COURSE I run in and save you. And then I get free costumes for life.

4. Obviously you're heavy into the geek toys - what geek toy would you like to invent?

Wow, that's a good one. Of course, the Homer Simpson recliner with built-in toilet is always a great choice. Or maybe an anti-drooling device, for those who fall asleep on airplanes with their mouths open. What? Not geeky enough? How about a tablet PC that also dispenses tequila and has a tongue?

5. You get the chance to speak face to face to a person in a position of power (queen, president, prime minister) and your face time allows you to make a statement of huge impact and would potentially change things. What would you say?

I would say, "Please inform Satan that he can take Jerry Falwell back home anytime."

Let's get down to the worm

Hola, amigos, and welcome to Cinco de Mayo. Today should be a day full of tequila and salsa for all y'all. And all those other foods one shouldn't eat on a first date.

Since I am not Mexican, have never been Mexican, and could not possibly be mistaken for Mexican, I feel like kind of a phony celebrating this holiday. And I still can't figure out how they make it fall on the 5th of May every year. Astounding, really...

So, in the interest of not bein' phony, 'cause we're all about keepin' it real at the Cotillion, I have altered the holiday just a bit for my own purposes.

Ladies, gentlemen, and the people who are actually here, I give you Kinko de Mayo. It's a day when I feel free to drink copious amounts of tequila, then act on all my kinkiest urges. Chances are, before the night is over, I may find myself in the lovin' embrace of some hairy transvestite named Salad Man. Who knows what the doctors will have to extract from my rectum in the morning? Hell, I like a surprise as much as the rest of y'all.

I urge all of you to join me in celebrating the joy of weird sexual urges, drinkin' lots of tequila, and actin' on those urges. And, please, don't be stingy with your descriptive comments!

Note: I thought I was actually bein' original with "Kinko de Mayo" but then I googled it, and I guess I'm not so very clever. Well, fuck it. I'm not thinkin' up another post now. You may lick my unoriginal ass, and then you may thank me for the new taste treat.

You people are just wrong

This is what happens when you ask me for things. Perhaps you won't be so quick to ask next time!

Turd curls from outer space

I saw this on the menu at Don Pablo's and, frankly, I think it has to be my next hairdo. What do y'all think?

Uh, I'll have something bottled, please

Thanks to Susie, I'll heretofore be skippin' the punch at parties. My punch bowl tag:

Turd in a punch bowl
It's calling again;
Turd in a punch bowl
My onliest friend.

Wow. That was cathartic for me, how 'bout you?

What kind of girl do you think I am?

I have become much too interested in the information I can glean from Site Meter regarding visitors to the Cotillion. Today, I looked up the various referrals that brought people here. One, in particular, caught my eye. My site came up as a result of the Google search:

"ass squirl porn movies"

So, here I run a nice, clean place, and because my sister is a part-time Squirl Porno star (not just an actress, mind you, a fuckin' STAR, baby!), now I'm pegged as your one-stop shop for hot, toothy, long-tailed humpin'.

I can never show my face in church again.

Peppermint Patty audio, Part Two

Givin' a whole new meaning to the word "monotone"...

Peppermint Patty audio, Part One

Be warned, my delivery may make Steven Wright seem positively dynamic.