Why don't they make more holidays like Mardi Gras?
Holidays where people drink on the street and have parades, where cheap shiny beads are currency enough, for just one day, to see bare boobs, where overindulgence in food, strong drink, and the dipping of the sausage are the rule of the day. Just don't expect me to do that whole "40 days of fasting and giving up shit that tastes good and feels good" thing, 'cause that ain't in the contract.
I do my part to make things as festive as possible around the office. We bought a big-ass case of beads for the Bone Rollers, and let's face it - we didn't play enough gigs to toss away that many strings of beads. So I always have a shitload of beads to bring to work every year. I also have a good number of bead strings that already hang in my office, so I just hang those on the doorknob when it gets to be Fat Tuesday. Since the beads I bring in are little dice, I delight in telling people they're intended to be ass beads, then watching the expressions that travel across their face as they contemplate all those little sharp corners and some serious carnage of a tender anus. Would they hurt worse going in or coming out? And why is Katy so handy with the things that go up the ass? Oh, I've seen all the looks. It just never gets old.
I give myself beads to wear, because no one has yet offered me beads for a look at my gravity bags, and then I walk around dispensing the other dozens I've brought with me. Today I even gave away all the beads I was wearing, but not before I captured my dementia with incontrovertible photographic evidence.
You know I've finally lost it when you can see the whites of my eyes through those lenses.
I haven't started drinking yet, to be perfectly honest. It's still about a half hour too early. No, really - my body has this magical 8:00 pm drinking time, and anything before then will result in a coma-like nap that begins not long after the empty glass is set down. My rules are to not drink much, and to never start before 8:00 pm, unless I want to pass out early. Then pass me a waterglass and a bottle of cheap wine.
And the whole sausage dipping thing? Well, not so much today, m'kay? Can't overindulge in what ain't there for the dippin'. In fact, it's best I not think about the whole sausage thing. Somebody out there, please overindulge in the sausage for me. I won't feel better but you probably will.
But that does leave us with overindulgence in edible goods, and I have more than made Fat Tuesday my bitch in that regard. For lunch, I ate all but one slice of a pizza myself (okay, it was a small pizza, but it was a pan pizza). Now I feel like somebody parked a tractor in my belly. Most people would just leave it alone at that, but not me! I had to, simply had to, go buy a dozen paczki from the local donut shop.
Now, it has come to my attention that not everyone knows what a paczki is (and I know I will take some shit for this, as paczki is technically the plural, and the singular is paczek, but you'll just have to suck it up as I will use paczki as both singular and plural). A paczki (prounounced POONCH-key) is a donut on steroids that has roughly one million calories per bite and is made with too many eggs and too much sugar for it to not be considered a controlled substance. It's a traditional Polish treat for Mardi Gras, as a final overdose of indulgence before Lent takes away all the fuckin' fun and replaces it with fish sticks and tomato soup and guilt.
Yes, I took a paczki picture:
I have to confess, though...I couldn't even finish one. You have to understand how much I love well-made cream-filled paczki. We're talkin' serious love, the kind where I could hold the paczki forever, slip my tongue in the filling sphincter and swirl until every last drop of creamy decadance is in my mouth or on my face, and I'm so close to complete overload from the nearly lethal dose of sugar that I just writhe and twitch on the floor for an hour afterward. But I got down to the last four or five bites of the paczki, and realized that one more bite would cause my tastebuds to jump ship from the overwhelming sweetness of it.
Not that it didn't occur to me to do so, but I think I will refrain from showing you a picture of myself in after-paczki state; you might see an image of me collapsed on the floor with powder all over my face and get the wrong idea. No, my friends, the paczki is much more sinister than chemical powdered substances. It's a good thing they're only available once a year.
I hope your Mardi Gras celebrations are filled with good food, company, drink, and sausage.
When I went to dress for bed last night, which is to say, when I exchanged my daytime flannel for my nighttime flannel, a Homie fell out of my bra.
What the fuck was a Homie doing in my bra? Was he spying on my boobs? Or, much harder to take, did I get a little too drunk and let the Homies have their way with me, like Lilliputians gangbanging Gulliver in a frothy, foamy midget frenzy? I'm just afraid what my gynecologist will find at my next appointment.
And speaking of foamy little people, I'm sure I've mentioned the charmingly titled porn video Pee Midget Pee here before. I have brought visual proof tonight that this isn't just some repressed desire to be hosed down by the seven dwarves raising its ugly head, no indeed (because I've dealt with that issue separately and my therapist says it's nearly almost kinda resolved).
Because the pineapples make it all better. And all my porn should have Howard Stern's recommendation, or at least his name on the cover.
I was gonna post the cover to Crack Whores of America too, but after what I did to you last night with the Hillbillies, I thought I'd cut you some, uh, slack.
Also, I'm really glad I didn't go with the Andy Griffith Show expose I'd thought about. The timing is bad. Even I think it would be in bad taste. For now. Because Don Knotts was a rockin' stud. But someday, the truth about Aunt "Fill me up with honey" Bea must be told. With pictures. Because I care enough to post only the most revolting images and ideas I can assemble. Attention to detail, that's what it's all about here.
Speaking of revolting, I feel the need to share the following link with you all. Eveyone who's seen it thus far agrees that it is, indeed, highly disgusting. Perfect! Ladies, gentlemen, and the people who are actually here, I present to you:
Who, who, who is the genius who saw the need for this and created it? This is perfect for so many occasions!
Your kid wants to borrow the car? The diarrhea button lets him know in no uncertain terms that he'll be takin' the bus.
Boss says he's gonna need you to work on those TPS reports? The diarrhea button tells him you're in no mood for overtime today.
Husband grousing for you to stop shopping online? The diarrhea button can be your little way of saying, "You just bought me a new pair of shoes, fucker!"
You know, it's not like I don't have anything better to do. I'd better quit pushing the diarrhea button and get back to some of those better things. Better than the diarrhea button, you say? Well, if I could stop typing "diarrhea button" long enough to post, yes - I do have better things to do. But none so instantly gratifying.
Before I begin the assault upon your senses, mostly your poor eyes, I'd like to say that I totally blame Zombie Flyboy for this post. In particular, I blame this disturbing piece for what you are about to see. Go on, blame Zombie. Remember, channel your anger, confusion, and disgust in Zombie's direction after you see what he made me do here.
That said, Zombie got me to thinkin' about one of my favorite TV shows of all time, The Beverly Hillbillies. What really happened on the set? It was the 1960s - were the cast members into wild and swinging parties?
Determined to find out, I dug through the archives of The Sordid Sit-Com Times, and the photographic evidence I was able to amass was enough to make a frat boy sober. It appears that you just couldn't keep the clothes on those fuckers once the director yelled "Cut!"
Well, not all of them. Of course, Jethro was just too dense to get in on the action. However, he actually had a longer after-career than did his co-stars. You will no doubt remember him from his long run fronting the band Jethro Tull:
Now, if we're gonna do any more "Where Are They Now?" features, I feel compelled to let you know what happend to Ellie Mae Clampett. I'm really sorry, but it must be shown.
It must've been all Granny's fried food.
I know Cousin Pearl was considered the smokin' temptress on the show. It is with great sorrow and regret that I dash all your fantasies on the jagged rocks of bitchdom and reveal one of classic television's greatest secrets:
Cousin Pearl was a man, baby!
It was also sad for me to discover how Granny had been making spare change since the show's finale:
This was obviously past Granny's prime.
Things weren't always this lean for Granny. In fact, she was known as the Lucky Swinger on the set; find an orgy, and Granny was usually right at the epicenter.
That Mr. Drysdale - always watching out for our, er, your money. Money shot, that is.
I got your rheumatiz medicine right here!
My finger smells like Granny's rheumatiz medicine...
If you are unwilling to place all the blame for the filth you have just read at Zombie's shuffling feet, then you are also welcome to blame the Homies, who whisper in my ear until I just give up and do what they want.
I've been working on a cheerful little video clip for you tonight, and iMovie is taking for-fucking-ever to process some effects I'm adding. But I have not forgotten you guys. I'll get this fucker posted before I go to bed tonight, even if it means driving out to Arby's right now and eating roast beef and onion petals until this thing is ready. Not sure what that has to do with processing my video clip, but it sounds good, doesn't it?
I wonder if a big bag of Reese's Pieces would help.
As it happens, in my iTunes library, Alan Parsons Project Eve is just before Alanis Morissette So-Called Chaos. The two albums are getting a lot of play tonight. In case you hadn't checked back in a while, Alanis isn't angry and scary anymore, in fact, she's downright whimsical on this album. I just love how her lyrics twist and turn in a conversational yet completely poetic way, and lyrics like "You are a sliver of god on a platter" and "how to sabotage your fantasies through fear of success" - wish I'd said that.
Eve, and really any Alan Parsons Project from Pyramid through Eye in the Sky, all that music makes me think of high school. That's a good thing and that's a bad thing; shit happened to me in high school I'd just as soon forget about, but luckily, Eve isn't ruined for me as a result. The album takes its general tone from the story of the Garden of Eden, and it got me to pondering the nature of evil and original sin.
Okay, so it didn't. It really just gave me the idea to take monkey pictures. I was gonna go all bullshit and philosophical on you, but I think you'd see through that pretty quickly, so I'll save us all the trouble and skip the crap.
As a gift to You, the Internet as a Whole, for being so very generous with me as I stumble through major life changes, I would like to confer upon you the permission to do the following, so long as they are all done in the spirit of "naughty tingly evil and not harming anyone evil":
Or, as the noted existentialist KC once instructed: Do a little dance Make a little love Get down tonight
And just to let you all know that I really am okay (such a relative term), here's photographic proof of me in my lucky robe with my guardian angel close by:
Why yes - I am running on very little sleep. How did you guess?
So much going on in my life right now. So many things changing. And - insert gigantic scream of frustration here - so much I can't blog about yet for one reason or another. I feel like I'm writing with one hand tied behind my back.
I guess it would be okay to talk about one of the big changes now: I'm leaving my job with the company where I've worked, in one capacity or the other, for over 13 years. The email went out to the people in my department late this morning, and I had a whole lot of folks come through my office this afternoon with surprise on their faces and questions on their lips. My breakup with Jim has been kept to a fairly small group of people at work, so this is the first most have heard of it.
In a way, it feels really great to be publicly acknowledging what's going on, and in another way, it's completely emotionally draining to talk about it again and again and again... And I don't blame anyone for asking. Most folks probably figured I wasn't ever going anywhere, that eventually I would die in my office and they would find my shriveled mummy next to the UPS unit under my desk.
And it also feels great to have people say "What are we gonna do without you here?" and sound like they mean it. I keep suggesting that they may look at each other in a couple of months and say, "What exactly did that bitch do when she was here, anyway?" but they're not havin' it. So I feel valued, like the valuable two-dollar whore I am. And honey, I am worth every dime. But please don't pay in dimes.
So the two-dollar whore is drained...god, did that sound as bad to everyone else as it did to me? I'm just plum tuckered out, people. I had every intention of layin' the funny stuff on you tonight, but there just wasn't anything left in the humor tube when I squeezed it. Heh heh, I squeezed the humor tube - discuss amongst yourselves. Maybe this post isn't genital free.
But then again, if genitals were free, how would I make my two dollars?
Strangest thing I've heard anyone say lately: "Look what you did to your mama's cheek!" said a grown woman to her brother, a grown man.
Strangest incident I've witnessed lately, which was a prelude to the strangest saying: A rather large southern family was gathered together - I tell you this so that you may better imagine the accents - and the grown son, a hulking white boy who dressed like he could will himself to be a gansta if his do-rag was pulled down far enough, "jokingly" (I guess) began to bully his mother by backing her into a wall and restraining her from whatever her intended purpose was (I really hope she wasn't headed for the restroom). She was laughing up to a point - perhaps this is normal play in their family - and then I heard a genuine and surprised "Ouch!" come from her.
Her grown son had "playfully" bitten her on the cheek. Had I stumbled upon the rest of the Lecter clan?
I'd like to tell you what happened after that, but I got my ass out of there with all due haste before my cheeks started to look like a delicacy, too.
Sorry, folks. This is what you get when I dig for change in my mental pockets and only come up with lint.
Well, sorry you didn't get a full dose of silly drunken me on the audioblog last night - by the time I decided that take was acceptable, I was pretty fuckin' grumpy about the whole thing. I promise to just surprise you some night with me drunk and laughing and incoherent. Um, I mean on an audioblog, not on your front porch at 2:30 a.m. with a greased rolling pin in one hand and rubber boot full of tequila in the other. Unless you'd dig that.
It's back to work for me tomorrow. It's been nine days or so since I've been in; I wonder if anyone's had my office condemned in my absence...
Sorry the whole Romper Room thing didn't work out. Speaking of which, I would be remiss in my duties as your hostess with the mostest if I didn't point out a link on the Romper Room site that Momentarily Distracted so graciously provided. Take a listen to this song and tell me that song didn't singlehandedly encourage psychedelia. Wow.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go soothe the spots where I tried out those cold wax Nair strips. No, we never will get away from that topic, so don't even allow yourself the luxury of thinking it will ever be over. Removal of inconvenient body and facial hair will always be fair game here.
Time to convince my body it's a good idea to go to sleep this early...wish me luck. Or send me another drink; that should do the trick.
I may have done a little shopping therapy in the last week or so. Maybe. Technically, I'm a girl, despite my voice and the alleged schlong, and therefore, shopping is vital to my well-being and mental health. Yeah, that's the ticket...
But a talking Scarface action figure is not all that managed to find its way home with me. Somewhere between there and here, I find that I have stepped in poop. And I like it.
Yes, it's true - I now have Mr. Hanky, the Christmas Poo slippers.
Doesn't it look like I just tromped barefoot through the back yard of a large-breed dog? And if the smiling poop faces weren't enough to loosen your bowels with charm, look at the very personalized message on the backs of my slippers:
Mr. Hanky knows I'm a ho!
I love my poop-covered feet; they've never been warmer. And let's face it - the look is just dead sexy.
On a side note, I'm considering getting drunk tonight just so I can give you a drunken audioblog, and you can understand why you may never want to drink with me. Anybody game for that?
Forgive me bloggers, for I have sinned. Well, I'm about to sin. I'm about to commit the unpardonable sin of...[cue music of doom]...drunken blogging. But really, I write about being drunk so often that I might as well feed it to you straight from my own inebriated hands to your well-oiled ears. Or eyes. Whatever. For all I know, you read this aloud to yourselves, maybe in funny accents. Go for it! I suggest an exaggerated drunken Irish brogue.
Yes, I've been drinking. I'm on vacation, technically. So I can. I went out to dinner with my best friend tonight and had a fantastic time. We went to an Irish restaurant (hence the suggested brogue) and ordered one entree and a bunch of appetizers, and maybe a drink. We lingered over our food, acted like dorks - okay, it wasn't an act, she and I are both true dorks - and laughed our asses off. It was soooo relaxing and such a great evening. I've got a nice, not-quite-smashed glow on; I haven't felt this calm and peaceful in a long time.
And, just so you don't think you stumbled onto the wrong blog, I would like to point out that I had asparagus at dinner, and my urine now has a personality all its own.
I bought myself a ring for Valentine's Day, and I have already managed to misplace it. I have a feeling I won't be getting any from myself tonight.
Some people wear toe rings. I prefer a camel-toe ring.
Do you think I could wax my toes with those cold strips? Gotta leave the monkey and the anus alone, but I don't think it said anything about toes.
Say what you want, but in my book, monkey will always equal vagina.
Anybody here ever seen The Vagina Monologues? I've always wondered how they script that, and if they have to use little clit mikes to get the sound out in the theatre. And aside from the occasional well-timed queef, what exactly does a vagina have to say? "It's fuckin' dark in here." or "I don't feel so fresh." or "Oil can!" or "INCOMING!" ?
Do any of you women ever have a conversation with your mother (or your daughter) where you would, in all seriousness, say "I've got that not-so-fresh feeling."? As if your mom/daughter really wants to hear about your rancid pussy problem! This is a topic better saved for one's priest or gynecologist.
I've always been tempted to slip into a confession booth and say "Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been ten minutes since my last confession, and I have the uncontrollable urge to let loose all my bodily fluids right here in the booth." Of course, beforehand I would lay odds with my friends on how long before the poor priest bolted from the confessional and hid behind some altar boys.
Quote of the day: "Why would you order and eat food that you know will give you violent diarrhea? There is no food in the world that tastes good enough to justify that." Jessica Rabbit.
Happy Valentine's Fucking Day, everyone. Here's to more getting laid and less explosive diarrhea. Unless that kind of thing is your bag.
I was wandering the aisles of Hot Topic today in that completely age-inappropriate way I have about me, and amidst the body jewelry, the rude and delightful t-shirts, and the Bettie Page lunchboxes, I saw the figurine of my dreams. Al Pacino at his Scarface boldest. It has big-ass guns, and it talks. And it rawks. And I am way too old to be playing with toys, but my inner child is Baby Huey and gets its way more often than not.
I wonder how he and the Homies will get along...
Yes, yes, I know this is a totally lame post. But console yourselves with the fact that at least I'm not discussing the forceful removal of hair from my genitals.
Wow, I'm delighted that you guys were so responsive to my waxing talk. I wasn't entirely certain that the mention of my nether regions and hair removal in the same breath wouldn't drive everyone stampeding for the fire exits. Was is just that you couldn't find the door, or does it just mean you want all vagina, all the time?
Nothin' could be finer Than to write about vaginer In the mo-o-orning Nothin' could be hotter Than a hairless jism blotter In the mo-o-orning
But I'm not here to talk about my monkey this time. The monkey has to stay in the barrel for this post.
Remember how the Nair cold wax strips box told me not to use the strips on my genitals or perianal regions, also known as The Trail of Tears? Well, there I was with a whole box of wax strips, no inclination to return them, and a little problem that I don't ever talk about here.
See, there's another reason, besides my basso profundo voice, that people mistake me for a man so often in public. It's something I've hidden here, because it's a source of some shame for me. Thought I was totally shameless, did you? Well, there's one thing I haven't shared until now. I, well, I have a little tiny smidge of a facial hair situation.
The pink hair isn't a wig - that's actually my natural color. I just tone it down most of the time so I can hold an office job. But as you can see from this picture, facial hair don't lie. Pretty in pink? Not so much. So I thought I'd use the strips to wax my face, instead of just using that blunt razor and cutting the fuck out of my lip like I always do. But, I'm not sure what I think of the results. Do you think I should have used more strips?
I'm the kind of girl who isn't afraid to admit that I will gladly pay a professional to perform many tasks in life with which I do not wish to be bothered.
Hungry? Take-out window.
Haircut? Oh, I've long since learned the lesson of "Thou shalt not cut thy own bangs." Learned it the hard, crooked way.
Horny? I watch professional porn, not that amateur stuff, while I burn out the motors on my small kitchen appliances.
Hairy? Get thee to a salon and submit to the wax.
I broke one of my own rules today when I bought a box of Nair Cold Wax Strips at Walgreens. But people - professional waxing is expensive! Not that I don't think it's worth every penny; when I consider what that poor girl has to see, up close, while she's ripping the hair by its tough little roots right out of my flesh, I know it would be cheap at twice the price. But when I saw the Nair strips for seven bucks, this crazy little voice in my head put its fishy lips up against my ear and whispered, "You could do it yourself and save lots of cash."
Why do I listen to the fishy lips of the crazy little voice in my head? Back I came from the store with the little red box in my hand (I mean the Nair, people!). In my head I had visions of me, triumphantly snatching patches of fur from my...well, in the area of....you know.
Of course, it was only after I had it home that I read the fine-print warning on the side of the friendly red Nair box.
As with any wax treatment, some discomfort may be experienced. No, really? I thought it would feel like a foot massage when I tore all the hair out of my monkey.
Never reapply wax on same area within a 24 hour period. Uhhhh...if your hair grows that fast, it's five o'clock shadow and you should just be shaving. Often.
Test before each use by applying the product to a small part of the area where hair is to be removed. Follow directions and wait 24 hours. If skin appears normal proceed. But...but...but...I want all the hair gone NOW!
Wax should not be used by people suffering from diabetes, varicose veins, moles, warts, and circulatory problems. But what if you're not suffering? What if you're actually enjoying your moles or varicose veins? What then?
Do not wax inside nose or ears, on nipples, perianal, vaginal/genital areas or eyelashes. Where do I start with this one? Why can't I wax my nipples with the cold strips? What about my Yeti-esque perianal region? Really, I think the front of the box should have carried a disclaimer, in large bold letters, that read something like "NOT FOR REMOVAL OF HAIR FROM MONKEYS AND TALLYWHACKERS, NOR STARFISH NEITHER." I'm still figuring out the need for a warning to avoid waxing one's eyelashes.
If anyone needs me, I'll be attempting to turn my eyebrows into lightning bolts while my monkey disappears into the jungle.
Song I can't stop playing today: New Age Girl by Deadeye Dick (better known as "Mary Moon" - the song, I mean, not the band): She don't eat meat, but she sure likes the bone. dunt-duntdunt-dunt-dunnadunna-dunt ROCK!
I get to take a week off soon, and I have the best of intentions in regard to using it for relaxation purposes. My nerves are frayed as a twine rosary in an abattoir. Of course, relaxing will always mean playing online, so don't think you'll escape the thinly veiled cries for help that I call "posts" - they'll be there like Nair on a hairy lip.
If you think that little turn of phrase is disgusting, you should live inside my head all the time like I do. It's a bit like being trapped in a small room with forty-two radioactive kittens and six lava lamps filled with technicolor vomit.
Okay, now I'm not only disgusting myself, I'm baffling myself as well. Look at the pretty picture while I sleep.
I'm sorry, you guys, I know it's all been audioblogs lately. It's almost like I'm just...phoning it in.
Oh, and is my rim shot. And everything else. I'm exhausted, and I am so far behind on the work I didn't get to do this weekend that I don't have time to write the drunken puking story I know you so desperately wanted.
I would, though, like to prove that I am not the only person in my family who was handed a tongue and a half in the Parts Line at birth.
There I go with my sharp tongue again...Squirl is content to be a Sonny licker.
And for those of you who've been sitting on the edge of your seats for two days - please, don't give yourselves a sideways ass crack like that - I give you, courtesy of the gracious Squirl, photographic proof of the one, hopefully the only, Play-Doh Buttsex House:
You look me in the eye and tell me that hot pink door isn't a metaphor for an anus beggin' for hot sausage invasion. Go on, I dare you.
Alright, alright, getting back to work now. I promise to come around and visit when I get all caught up. In the meantime, feel free to think of me when Play-Doh or buttsex becomes the topic of conversation 'round your family dinner table.
This was sent to me by a friend today, and it made me think of the new design on Susie's blog (Evil Uncle Dave pimped it propah). Now that Gumby can wave, I think it's safe to say he will get more action than ever. What better time to make sure he has protection? I mean really, folks - Gumby's tallywhacker is green. Do you really want that in you unwrapped?
And no, Gumby - I'm not sayin' there's anything wrong with your fuckstick.
But back to Susie's newly revamped and pimpified blog design. I was teasing her about her crying when they "moved the bus" and she and I had an email exchange about how this really was like "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" and may or may not have mentioned Ty Pennington in a somewhat extremely complimentary manner.
I have to confess, though: while I'm a big supporter of what the crew on that show does (home renovations for deserving people who couldn't possibly afford it themselves), I am not a fan of the show. I'm glad they do that stuff, don't get me wrong; but it just doesn't trip my trigger to watch something so...I don't know...heartwarming.
You know what show does it for me? Monster House. It's just fun to watch somebody's house being turned into a castle or a slice of ancient Egypt or a blues club or a mobster hangout. It's ridiculous and it's just what I need after work. Let foreman Steve Watson bring on his newly assembled crew each week and see how well they can slap this custom shit together on a deadline. I sit on the edge of the couch as the countdown clock draws us nearer and nearer the Friday midnight deadline, and shiver with barely repressed exhilaration whenever a job is completed and gets the big red "DONE!" stamp.
Plus, I will have to admit, and maybe this should have been on my list of guilty pleasures, I really get a kick out of it when the builders fight amongst themselves. It's obvious they go out of their way to pick a few personalities that are likely to clash on every crew. It's just plain entertaining to watch these guys irritate each other; there's always one guy who's not in any hurry until the last day, or one who hurts himself three or four times and has to leave each time for treatment, or one who takes it upon himself to tell the other builders how to do their individual jobs, all the while neglecting his own. I say "he" and "him" but there are also female builders on from time to time, which is fun, because you usually get to see her cry before the week's out. It's not unusual for the disagreements on the site to deteriorate into fisticuffs. It's like hockey without all the padding and rules.
I could never decide what my ideal monster house would be, although I'm fairly certain it includes a big-ass hot tub with lots of jets. Gumby house, maybe? Homies house? Play-Doh butt sex house?