My Kid Sister

My kid sister was a pain in the ass. We can say she was stong willed, stubborn, bullheaded, but I'm more of a get to the point kind of girl. Tori "Call Me Vicky And I'll Fucking Stab You" Land was a royal pain in the ass; she also took pride in that title. From the moment of birth on (my mother will likely say BEFORE), she was a force to be reckoned with; goddess help anyone who would dare try to tell the girl no. She loved being the center of attention and would make sure she got the spotlight by means of making you laugh until you pissed your pants or pissing you off to the point of wanting to strangle her (or throw her ass through the kitchen wall.) She was a passionate, fiery, live life on her terms woman.

While my sister could often times be the most infuriating person on the planet, she also one of the funniest. Growing up, most people would probably be able to better identify her by her ass more so than her face. Common greeting was usually her answering the door and then dropping trough and wiggling her butt; I'm pretty sure she cracked herself up more than anything else. She loved going down the street to Sweetie and Grandma Mary's house to be able to partake in morning coffee; she relished the fact that it was "a grown up drink". She like to pretend to be a ninja turtle (Raphael, because he was the coolest and he had a red "eyeband".) and practice her "karate" which, in all honesty looked more like a spinning grand mal seizure. After Stormi was born, Tori was rather amused by pushing the skin of Stormi's forehead down to make her look like a Klingon; when Stormi got to the point of baby talk or yammering her disdain of Tori using her as her bitch for amusment, Tori would exclaim, "SEE?! SHE EVEN SPEAKS KLINGON!"

When Tori was in the 3rd grade, she was diagnosed with Type I diabetes; that was a turning point in the lives of everyone, most of all Tori. While other kids got to trick or treat and eat their loot, Tori had to give hers away. She had to learn how to count calories, draw up insulin, know how much of which insulin to take and when, poke her finger 3-5 times per day to check her blood sugars and to monitor her body to know when her sugars were either too high or too low. We spent years in and out of the hospital trying to get her blood sugars under control and for Tori, who was so feirce in not wanting to be controlled, be told what to do, or live life in any manner other than under her terms, it was very hard and she rebelled. Often times that rebellion was what landed her back in the hospital.

It's not fair for a kid her age and especially on up through the teen years to deal with that kind of responsibility, to see what the 'normal' kids got to do and she couldn't; that was compounded when we discovered she had Celiac Sprue, a disease that when anything made with gluten (wheat, oats, rye and barley) causes an inflamatory reaction in the small bowel which interferes with the absorption of nutrients. After not being able to eat things she enjoyed, yet another food group was taken away. Going grocery shopping was a chore; you'd be suprised at how much food has gluten in it; from bread products even down to spaghetti sauces. It was one more reminder of how she didn't have 100% control of her life, that these diseases were telling her what she could and could not do in her life.She didn't really let that stop her (remember, she was a stubborn pain in the ass).

During the period of time she was on her insulin pump, we went to Golden Coral for dinner. Golden Coral is a place that has a buffet, including a desert buffet that had an icecream machine. My kid sister stuck her ENTIRE HEAD under the icecream machine, opened her mouth, filled it with icecream than walked over, head tilted all the way back like a hooker who just got the money shot and then dumped sprinkles on top of it. It was truly a sight to behold. Once she swallowed it, she had this gloaty face that only Tori could have. Coughing up the water I'd half inhaled half blew through my nose watching this, I told her that was icecream, not frozen yogurt. She looked at me, raised an eyebrow and said, "Your point?", clicked the button on her insulin pump that would give her an insulin bolus and said, "See, all better." with this shit eating grin that was quite self satisfied and quite the 'fuck you, diabetes and anyone who's going to tell me what I can and can't eat.'

That, that was classic Tori.Even with as hardcore as she was, there was also a vulnerability about her. When someone would upset her to the point of tears, she usually tried to cover her hurt with anger. I usually got her to simmer down by making her laugh and flipping her shit; we thrived on trying to out wise ass one another and it was a staple in our relationship to hang shit on one another whenever possible. Sometimes it pissed her off, usually it would just make her laugh. One day she was crying over her boyfriend and I looked at her and said, "Quit cryin you pussy. Cryin's fer sissies!" After she threw her shoe at me (actually, it was my shoe that she "borrowed") she started laughing. The cryin's fer sissies! has been something we've used since, be it at funerals, everyday life, or continuing our smartass competion on Myspace bulletins. Everytime I see it, I congratulate myself for being the funny, funny bitch I am, and I crack up.

Tori was a complicated girl who defied death more times than I can count. I honestly started thinking she would live forever. After having such a difficult time fighting her demons, in the last year she had turned things around and for the first time, my sister was happy. She was engaged, had a stepson she absolutely adored and had the best friend a girl could ask for. She had found her place in the world and for the first time ever seemed comfortable in her own skin. She was still fiery Tori, but there was something more noticeable; a wholeness that she didn't seem to have before. She went from being the annoying kid sister who stole my clothes, mimicked my hair, and decided Bettie Page was her idol after seeing my Bettie collection, to someone who had discovered who she was and was finally happy with herself...even though she continued to collect Bettie paraphenalia and then let me know exactly what she found and where.

The last year has been wonderful with my sister; there was a long period of time where she pushed everyone who cared about her away with the exception of the two men who wouldn't be pushed; her fiancee Gary and her best friend Justin. It was like rediscovering and getting to know the woman Tori had become. She was still the same Tori, just a more evolved one. And now, we won't get to see the kind of woman she will continue to become, because Tori is gone. It's a bitter pill to swallow that once life finally started getting good for her that death won. I take comfort in my faith that she's still here, in fact I feel her here right now. I take comfort in knowing she isn't hurting any more, the neuropathy is gone, her legs healed, that she is with her very beloved Grandma Land and probably eating her mac n cheese guilt free and smothered in ketchup just like she always liked it. We will all miss her terribly, but have no fear, she is still peaking in on us, probably while changing clothes or showering, making fun of our naked asses, laughing and snorting the entire time.

Adventures In Mommy Land

When woman gets pregnant, her friends and other related matriarchs tell her how wonderful children are, how fullfilled they make will make her, how exciting it is to be pregnant and just when they have her hooked, they ask she intends on having a baby of her own. The second she pees on the stick and gets two lines, the journey of discovery of how incredibly full of shit the other women are begins.

Omitting the horrors of what a woman goes through to have children is their way of assimilating naive, nubile young women into the stretchmarked, cellulite, sleep deprived hell that is being a "real woman". This is not to say that a woman who has never experienced pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood is not a real woman; however said experiences seem to get women into the physical state of what the masses define this as (i.e. not having the figure of a 16 year old) more quickly than middle aged gravity. I firmly believe Gene Rodenberry got his inspiration for the Borg characters by simple anthropological study of the conversion of college co-ed to flat/wide assed and wearing mom jeans that is a seeming right of passage. So, in the spirit of that, I am going to tell you what they don't tell you before you get knocked up.

Babies, while cuddly and adorable, cry. and puke. and poop...a lot. They like to sleep all day and party all night. By party I do not mean the keg parties a la freshman year of college; I mean gassy, farting, squirming, fussing, give me that damn boob right now mom i'm starving kind of party. Remember when you got to have sex on a wimb? Yeah, now there's a baby in between you, and somehow getting a solid 3 hours of sleep is more erotic that the best orgasm you ever had in your life. Take heart though; eventually the kid will be old enough for Blue's Clues and you can stock up on the dvd's to throw one in for him/her so that you and the manwhore can grab a quicky. That's a few years down the road though.

Babies like to take their diapers off and play in the contents. Let me just tell you about my own experience with this phenomenon. Like a good haus fraus, I was on my laptop doing my online banking, when a wretched aroma filled my delicate nostrils. I did not have a dog at the time, therefore the raw fecal smell could've only come from one origin. Looking down at my 11 month old son, I discovered not only had he taken his diaper off, he had finger painted in poo paint. The gooey brown-green artistry was all over him, all over my carpet, my walls and my curtains. Upon rushing to bathe him,I discovered I had no water because the city was working on the line. You have not lived until you have tried to clean a squirming giggling baby covered in caca with nothing to assist you but a box of wipes. Bear in mind, it took less than a minute for my adorable son to create such a disgusting masterpiece.

The fun does not stop with babies though. Babies grow up to become tantruming toddlers who love to head butt and throw themselves down in the middle of the grocery store. Take pity on the moms you pass experiencing this. Do not think, "if that were my kid, it would not be acting like that! I would....." Shut up; you don't have a kid. When you do, yes he/she will act like terrors in public and no, you likely won't do whatever disciplinary action you are fantasizing about in your child-free brain.

Toddlers also snoop, and get into everything. Nothing is off limits in the toddler mind. Dresser drawers, closets, boxes, everthing is fair game. They often bring their latest found treasure and say, "Mommy, what's this?" usually at a very inconvenient time. If you plan to have your family over, especially if it is your own parents, or your inlaws, make sure your bedroom is locked up tight and all feminine hygiene products are out of reach and out of sight. Toddlers climb; simply having something out of reach is not good enough. Do not put yourself in a position where your toddler is asking you what your bright pink, textured, 10 speed vibrator with clitoral stimulation is in the middle of Thanksgiving Dinner. While he/she pushes the buttons to change the vibrate speed and makes the gyrating tip rotate in the gspotless air; the sight is doubly horrifying. Not only is your child holding your sex toy, glance around the room. You will find that all eyes are mesmerized by the gyrating head of your fun time phallus.

Toddlers graduate to be school aged know it alls. Nothing will be a blow to your previously high IQ'd self esteem like having your kindergartner correct your speech syntax. Be prepared; once your child hits school age, you will discover the most annoying, repetitive songs known to man. Yes, they are learning tools, or so the kindergarten teachers say. I believe it's truely a plot to abduct the last vestiges of sanity a mother has The final straw before you start shrieking and clammoring for a roof top is throughout all the stages of your child's life, there will always be one constant: the bitches that talked you into believing that child rearing was the easiest job ever will always be there for you. I do not mean this as a supportive roll; au contraire.

They will always be there to tell you what you are doing wrong, how you are doing it wrong, while passive aggressively comparing your evil child to their perfect one to make them feel better about themselves as women. Again, take heart. Your child is not evil, their child is far from an angel.

Go to a playground sometime; it's the stomping ground for training little playahs. The playground is where they perfect the innocent act and rehearse it to the party in denial (their mother) while all the other bystanders, child and adult alike can plainly see that perfect angel kid is a pro at playing mommy. Said played mommy is most generally your child's room mother, which is an entirely different breed of mom. The room mom explaination and categorization is a topic for another day Motherhood, while fullfilling and there is nothing as wonderful as the smell of a newborn baby, watching your child sleep, and the pride that wells inside you when they learn something new, is not the easy task others make it out to be. With that I will end with: BEWARE THE POO PAINT!

Things I've Learned

1.) Never try to reason with an unreasonable person; it only succeeds in making the usually reasonable person unreasonable.

2.)Never quote the princess bride around people who have absolutely no sense of humor/have never seen the movie.

3.)Never wonder why your son continually takes off his diaper and shakes his hips from side to side and giggles maniacly; even though he is your baby, he is a man, albeit a short one, who's obviously discovered the best toy ever. In my experience with men, this is something that never changes and why medication is made so when the best toy ever breaks, it remains reusable.The fascination begins in infancy, get used to it.

4.)Never try to explain the difference between nude art and pornography to a man. a nekkid lady is a nekkid lady.

5.)Don't analyze the drama that is the prepubescent girl. It's one of life's mysteries that will never be solved.

6.) If you really want to piss off family members who think you either a.)are, or b.) being a bitch, tell them you are a product of your environment they carefully helped to craft.

7.)Sometimes it's fun to wonder through walmart talking to yourself.

8.) Never shave your legs if you intend to try to get some action. Freshly shaved, smoothe legs pretty much garauntees one of the following scenarios: the children will be up, the husband will have a headache/be too tired, your husband will say/do something stupid and not realize it and even with freshly shaved legs you will no longer be in the mood, the house will catch on fire, or a minor emergency will occur that will end in one or both partners being out too late and just wanting to sleep. On the rare occasion that the planets align so that it is possible to have smooth legs and get some action, I'm pretty sure it's a sign of the apocolypse. It's in the bible somewhere between the locusts and the 4 horseman; seriously, look it up.

9.) Poo Paint, peeing in the corner, making ginormous messes in under 30 seconds, making the older sister shriek, fascination with the toilet, trying to scale every verticle surface, taking apart child safety devices, and can make you forgive all transgressions because they are so damn cute: welcome to mothering boys.

10.)Beads, paper, songs, drama, shoes, shoes, shoes, badly coordinated clothes, shrieking at the sight of the 1yo with a hairbrush, "but moooooooooooooom," can give you the look of an angel that will melt your heart and make daddy a pile of girly goo: welcome to mothering girls.

11.)Don't go hunting with Vice President Dick Cheney

12.)Ensuring your bedroom blinds and windows are closed goes a long way in keeping your elderyly neighbors from being traumatized during a nooner.

13.)When the toddler is tantruming, a tennis ball will solve it.

14.) Baby Einstien keeps children and husbands alike hypnotized and gives you about 30 minutes of peace.

15.)No matter how much you try to avoid becoming your mother, it is an impossible feat; you will become her in some way, shape or form. As annoying as this prospect is, it's inevitable. If you are in complete denial of this fact, do yourself a favor and don't bend down to pick something up and look behind you; you'll be startled to see your mothers ass in the wall mirror.

16.)When your 8 yo asks you where babies come from, never underestimate the power of the statement,"go ask your father".

17.) To really annoy the soccer moms/room moms, either a.) wear pajamas or yoga pants to drop off/pick up your kids. do not do your hair, definately do not wear make up and wear flip flops whenever possible. OR b.) drop off/pick up your child in heels, daisy dukes, midriff shirt, belly button ring, cleavage (both ass and boob) hanging out, smack your gum and make sure to wear a lot of makeup and have mall hair. overwhelming perfume is a bonus.

18.) Perfect the "blank" look. It's the look that conveys no emotion and when people try to talk to you they get flustered and quickly leave you the hell alone.

19.)In your house, you will be the only one capable of putting laundry in the hamper. Everyone else will only get it in the vicinity thereof. Don't be suprised to find underwear on the bathroom countertop. The same can be said for dishes.

20.) If you are trying to put 10 pounds of mud in a 5 pound sack, BLACK IS NOT SLIMMING, no matter how much you try to convince yourself it is. People who are honest size 16s should not shop in the junior's department. People who venture out in public with the inevitable camel toe should really get their vision checked, clean their mirrors and actually look at their reflection before they leave the house.

21.)Tatooing the name of someone not a blood relative is relationship suicide. Yay for me for never making this mistake. If you want someone to dump you in 6 months or less, tatoo their name on your ass.

22,)Sleep is over rated.

Lets Talk About Smurfs (No, I'm Not High.)

When I was a kid, the smurfs were my favorite cartoon. My grandmother even made me a smurfs quilt which is now snuggled up in my son's bed. I was watching the smurfs on the cartoon network the other day and was shocked at how incredibly lame and annoying the Smurfs truly are and the psychology of which is deeply disturbing for a child's cartoon.
They are little blue dudes who live in little shroom houses. They're all happy and smurfy, picking their little smurfberries until Gargamel or Azrael show up and they all run around smurfreaking out. Gargamel wants to capture the smurfs and hold them in bird cages...why? Gargamel is a smurfedophile who wants to use the smurfs as certain hollywood actors use hamsters and then sell them on the black market into the Smurf Sex Trade; how the hell else does he plan to turn the Smurfs into gold? Azrael is nothing more than a predatory voyeur as far as I can tell.

The smurfs however victimized by Gargamel are not so innocent either. They are a cult; Papa Smurf is the Jim Jones of Smurftown using the hallucinogenic smurfberries as a form of mind control. How many smurfs are there? Quite a few; however, only one is female: Smurfette. Ever notice how none of the other smurfs, who are male, never try to get up on Smurfette, THE ONLY FEMALE OF THE COLONY? Papa Smurf's been slippin those boys the anti-viagra.

Let us take a close look at Smurfette; she is a classic example of the subserviant stereotypical woman. Her features are more delicate than the other smurfs; she has long and flowing blonde hair, nice legs, batting eyelashes and wears heels with the same tiny white dress. When in the presence of danger, she runs in high heels, requires rescueing and when dealing with problems she's either silent or as dramatic as a woman from the 1800s overcome with the vapors; pop a smurf klonopin already. She alone is responsible for caring for the young smurfs who are ornery; one nearly expects Smurfette to drape a forearm over her eyes and declare, "Whatevah shall I do?" in Scarlette O'Hara fashion.

Here's what you do Smurfette, the fix it solution for many a put upon-don't-want-to-be-here -but-the-penis-of-the -house-says-I-have-to housewife in the days of yore...get that prescription bottle out of the cabinet, dump a few in your hand, then go to the cupboard, pull out a glass tumbler, fill it with ice, go to ol' Papa Smurf's liquor cabinet and pour in the best scotch or bourbon you can find, throw back the pills and chug your drink. In 10 minutes you'll love the whole damn world. Smurfette obviously did not see the Ya Ya Sisterhood, but I digress.

Then there is that whole pesky not having a job, title, or anything useful to give to the community other than being the Smurf commune whore. The only ideation in Smurfette's name is that she's a girl. She is always within close proximity of Papa Smurf; during a Smurf meeting, she stands silent and stoic next to Papa Smurf while he addresses the rest of the Smurf population. There are other male characters equally obsessed with appearances and seem to be the token gay Smurfs. Arty Smurf and Vanity Smurf who also contribute nothing to the Smurf community.

Let us take a look closer at the Smurf community as a whole; each Smurf is individualized only by their occupation or personality stereotype; Handy Smurf was the handy man and achitect, Farmer smurf was obviously a farmer, Brainy Smurf was the tortured genious nerd of the group, Miner Smurf was a miner, etcetera. There is a seperate cast of Smurfs who are named much like the Seven Dwarfs: Sneezy, Grouchy, Lazy; you get the picture. One could argue that the Smurfs live in a veritable Socialist utopia but I say nay nay. In a Socialist society, the dictator, in this case Papa Smurf, has no religion. Papa Smurf quite clearly practices alchemy and in wiccan/pagan fashion of the middle ages pays tribute to Mother Nature and Father Time. Papa Smurf is the Supreme Smurfy ruler, however a true Socialist Dictator, as history has proved with men like Stalin, would work his subjects to the bone, would stockpile the smurfberries his subject worked so diligently to harvest nor would he be as compassionate toward his subjects as Papa Smurf is. Where did anyone who whined at Stalin wind up? Not at the town campfire, I garauntee that; they suddenly "disappeared".

A Smurf seeking absolute power under the 'easiest way possible' doctrine would, however, make Smurfberry Kool-Aide spiked with various hallucinagenics (which I'm sure were scraped from the innards of their shroom homes within the Smurf village) so that the other Smurfs could "see" of Mother Nature and Father Time and be more susceptible to hypnotic suggestion in their narcotic induced state of delusion. Subjects of a true Socialist society would be practically impoverished, resentful of the dictator, a small faction plotting a revolt. The Smurfs practically worship Papa Smurf as a demigod. In a socialist society would Smurfette get to wear fuck me pumps? No.

Thus, I present to you, the Smurfs are not about Socialism, they are a blue hazed, Papa Smurf brainwashed, smurfberry popping, shroom swallowing, Mother Nature/Father Time worshipping, commune livin' religious zealots. Now, if you choked a smurf, what color would he turn? That is the real question we should be asking here.

Got Nurse?

True Confessions

I believe I found what I hate about being a nurse. All of the education one recieves is based in the worst case scenarios in what happens when your body completely fucks up. Nursing school creates hypochondriacs, I kid you not. After microbiology, once you spy someone in the grocery store wearing artificial nails you automatically start thinking of that person as supergluing small petre dishes on the end of their fingers; if they brush your hand as you each grab for the same can of hominy, you have to mask the fact that you feel as though you just shook hands with someone who is breeding biological warfare agent on their person, or for the more graphic picture, someone who just made the pretty blue water mud brown and didn't wash their hands after the fact. Thoughts of clostridium deficile, methicillan resisistant staphylococcus aureus, e. coli, and streptococcus doing mambo together across your brain.

More importantly though, every ache, pain, cough, sneeze, pinched nerve, edema become something horrible and terminal. Take for instance today. For the last two weeks my back has been killing me. I have a numb spot on my back that also tingles and or stings, my fingertips are numb as are my toes on my left foot. I've been whining that I need to see a chiropractor or go to the doctor and get some muscle relaxants because I'm sure I pinched a nerve. Then today, it happened. Women, go with me on this for a moment; you know when you're in your third trimester of pregnancy and your baby stretches and you can feel the pushing and automatically you try to push your child's hand foot or whatever back whereit needs to be? Yeah, I had that sensation today; shut up, no I'm not pregnant.

So, I push on that area of my belly above my navel, and I feel a pulsing, my abdomen in that area is tender. I began feeling light headed and my pulse was pounding and I sat down. Then it hit me. Back pain, numbness, pulsing abdomen with tenderness above the navel....OH MY GOD I HAVE A AAA, I AM GOING TO DIE! I so need to quit smoking. Ok, that;s dramatic, but still, the thought may or may not have crossed my mind.

For a long time I suffered from migraines. Then one day one of my pupils blew. I have pictures somewhere, but that is niether here nor there. My right pupil was dilated while my left was holding strong at about one to two millimeters. My head pounding, my pupils unequal...OH MY GOD I'VE HAD A STROKE! Dammit, they warned me that smoking while on birth control could do that, but I didn't listen. I really need to quit smoking. I actually went to the ER that time.

So, in order to not be a hypochondriac, many nurses ignore the signs of something serious when it is right in front of them. I know of at least 3 who experienced chest pain that is indicative of a heart attack, NOT gas, NOT indegestion, a freakin full on myocardial infarct. So, what do they do? Pop a tums, try to ignore it and move on until they find themselves flat on their backs getting a heart cath done, or with their chests cracked open for bypass surgery. Not very often will you find a nurse in the ER with a sick kid, not very often will pediatricians see a nurse's child unless they are turning purple or in an obvious siezure unless it's for a well child visit or vaccinations. Why? Because we laugh and snicker and roll our eyes at the people who freakout over every little sniffle, sneeze, slight fever, or gas related chest pain.

My rambling point in all this? Don't go to nursing school. Ignorance really is bliss. Maybe I'll gork out from a abdminal aortic aneurysm, but you won't catch my ass in the doctor's office to find out. Nope. I'll follow many a respectable nurse before me right to my grave for y'all to bring a portable blender and mix some ritas over my cold dead corpse. Which reminds me that I need to pay the premium on my life insurance policy. Good day.

Attenion President Bush: Intelligent Design Is Dumb.

Intelligent Design. Everyone has heard the debate but the point is completely missed. Intelligent design has less to do with whether or not there is a God and more to do with whether or not God is intelligent. God may very well be intelligent, but God, should he exist, is either obviously a man or has ADD or both. BLASPHEMY! You say. Number one, bite my ass, and number two, think this one through.

What intelligent creator would make women who are around eachother frequently, like, oh say, a work environment, biologically go on the same cycle? How intelligent is it to have a whole bunch of women bloated, pissed off PMSing women at the same time? What kind of dumbassed creator goes and does that? All the men should be sent a memo, "ATTENTION ALL PENIS WIELDERS: NEXT THURSDAY THE 3RD THROUGH WEDNESDAY THE 9TH, THERE HAD BETTER BE CHOCOLATE AND MIDOL IN THE VENDING MACHINES. IF YOU FUCKERS EAT ALL THE HERSHEY BARS BEFORE THEN, BE PREPARED TO HAVE YOUR BALLS RIPPED OFF YOUR PERSON AND SHOVED DOWN YOUR THROAT." Ever heard of a hostile work environment? Hello?! I'm pretty sure you can't sue God, but there's a first time for everything. What the hell is up with baboons having blue asses? Come on now; that is a sign of A.D.D. if I ever saw it right there. BLUE ASSES. Think about it.

Go forth and procreate. Alrighty. Women get knocked up, get gigantic basketball bellies, with stretchmarks. After giving birth, the belly deflates, sags down to their knees covering the tuna tunnel thus creating more stretchmarks. I don't think vaginas really needed a curtain, but whatever. Their asses get wider as do their thighs, the cellulite appears and their once perky breasts resemble tube socks, which also have stretchmarks...maybe panty hose with runners in them is a more appropriate simile; tube socks actually lead one to believe there is still some firmness of texture there. What fucking moron came up with this?

And what's more is this very same idiot thought it was brilliant to have a 9 pound watermelon come shooting out something the size of a lime. Do you seriously think that will ever be the same? Intelligent design? Nay, nay fucking nay. Then there's the whole psychotic post partum depression hormone thing again. See above for memo for men who have to share the same workplace environment with these hormonal freaks; pity the men who have to live with them.
90 year old men with swimmers still ready to go knocking up 28 year old gold diggers. I guess in a way that makes sense; at least you can consolidate your trips to the grocery store for pureed food and diapers. Ovaries shrivel up in middle age for women and cease popping out ovum yet we have dudes two steps from the grave making babies. Yep, totally intelligent. Not that an old guy shouldn't be able to get his groove on, but c'mon, there should be some form of spermipause for men also.

The last organs to fully form in a fetus is the lungs. The useless appendix is there before the lungs are ready. How is this intelligent? The appendix is dumb enough in and of itself; a useless thingymadeallydoo just sits there, ripe for infection and ready to blow. Yeah, lets make sure that's ready to survive beyond the womb; that whole breathing thing is completely over rated. Yep, appendix is definately the priority.

If beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy as Ben said, you'd think said Intelligent Designer would give us a second liver. Gave us two of everything else except the liver, brain and heart; the three things that alcohol affects the most. Drink too much, hypertension, stroke out and die. Drink too much, hypertension, have a heart attack and die. Drink too much, liver shrivels, you turn yellow and die. How was that intelligent, again?
Prostates; best orgasm ever for a dude, but to get to it one must permit backdoor entry. Most heterosexual men get a little squeemish abou that, or at least claim to, so again, not very bright now, is it?

No wonder Dubya pushes the God issue so hard, he's trying to enlighten us to the fact that whoever intelligently designed us is a bigger moron than he is. *coughobamain08cough*

I Will NEVER Be My Mother

There is one sentence uttered by every premotherhood woman: I will NEVER be like my mother. This sentence is usually followed by how you will parent your children, and disdainfully proclaiming you would NEVER allow your child to *insert obnoxious child behavior here*. The sentiment remains throughout the first pregnancy as you flip through the parenting and pregnancy books as you pat yourself on the back for being the best mother ever as you pop your prenatal vitamins, avoid caffeine and other parts of life's toxic pleasures as you stuff yourself full of food you generally would not touch while not pregnant because after all, you are eating for two.

Then the baby comes and though sleep deprived you look at that perfect, beautiful dollbaby and continue to pat yourself on the back for creating such a perfect little healthy angelic looking creature. Then the toddler years come and you soon amend your no fast food, no processed sugar opinion flying out the side of the grocery cart. If it will shut the kid up and avoid the humiliation of the public spectacle of the two year old who desperately needs the lollipop and Sprite, you are more than willing to put your superior parental morality to the wayside. The ideation of the perfect mommy in her size 4 jeans two minutes after birth who always looks perfectly coifed at the park brings bile to the back of your throat as you look at your own snot encrusted tshirt, yoga pants and college sport baseball hat you stole from your husband on the way out the door to cover the perpetual bad hair day of chasing a toddler around and never getting to shower by yourself.

You begin to wear slippers out of necessity because the shrieking in the middle of the night often shuts off the lego radar you have during the day and you discover the pile carefully avoided in the sunlight is a very painful experience come nightfall. The shrieking comes in stereo the first couple of times that, like a dumbass, you step on the evil plastic empire. Between the child crying for their mommy and your own colorful exclaimation, it's amazing the parental perfection police don't come and take away your perfect mommy badge. It's nights like this that it starts to sink in that after birthing said child, the transformation into your mother begins to take shape. The full trauma will come in a similar situation, but the motherborg have not completely assimilated you until the full realization hits you.

Inevitably that realization comes when leaning over to pick up a toy in front of a full length mirror; the child walks up behind you and startles you. Yet you find that it's not the child that startled you, it's the reflection of your mother's ass beaming at you. The horror sets in. You stand and with your neck turned as far around as it will go, you examine that once perfect ass, that wonderful bubble butt, is now post child and all your mother's. The trauma of discovering you have mothers ass is far more than any woman can take. Quickly you run to the bathroom and strip off your pants. You also have your mothers cellulite. Your mother's stretchmarks; but worse, you reexamine your ass in the mirror, confirmation! You are your mother. You have been assimilated and no amount of therapy can cure your mother's ass.

Don't worry, your mother had her mother's ass, and her mother had her mother's ass before her. It's nature's way of stripping whatever small ounce of sanity you once had away. We all become our mothers eventually, it's an inevitability. Take heart, eventually your own daughter will endure this traumatic experience. Console yourself with the visual musings that one day, along with your friends who have their mother's asses, can tip back their bottles of wine and cackle in delight. Enjoy your perfect ass now child free mothers; soon your tits will sag and you'll have your mother's ass just like the rest of us; even my rubber boobed friends.

Lying Is Bad...Mmmmkay?

God Hates Liars, You Big Fat Liar Heads

I bet you opened this blog thinking this blog yet another of my rantings about bastardized theological practices. In a way, you were right but not entirely. Actually it's a parental blog about the utter hypocracy adult society has become as far as parenting. We tell our children not to hit, yet in turn we spank them. We tell our children to do unto others, yet inevitably they always hear us talking smack on the phone and repeat it like parrots (to which we tell them it's not nice to gossip even though that's exactly what young ears just busted us doing). We tell them to be honest, yet we lie to them. If there is a hell we are all going there.

My daughter lost another tooth the other night; she can now stick her tongue through the gap that once housed her two front teeth. Being the doting mother I am, I frequently ask her to say "Sasquatches sure like strawberry soda with a straw so they can sip the super sugary sweetness." It comes out "Thathqauthes thur like thrawberry thoda with a thraw tho he can thip the thuper thugary thweetneth". I figure for my thretchmarths I can cash in on some entertainment. I contemplated putting her long blonde hair up in pigtails with curls and sending her off to school a la Thindy Brady, but even I am not that evil. Or am I? Bwaahaaahaaa. Getting back to my point, the myth of the tooth fairy is rampant at my house, so excitedly she placed her tooth in the plastic baggy we've designated "the tooth bag" and shoved said tooth filled bag under her pillow for the winged tooth stealing bitch.

Where did this "tooth fairy" come from? Looking back historically, the tooth fairy origination seems to date back to Pre-Christian Europe wherein it was widely believed houses of brownies or fairies would offer a valuable trade for items humans deemed useless. These teeth were believed to ward off witches and demons but if these discarded useless items fell into the hands of an enemy, they could open the gate to sympathetic magic wherein the tooth shedder could have curses and spells placed upon them. The tooth fairy came to publication in a French fairy tale where a mouse comes to the aid of a good Queen to conquer an evil king by hiding under his pillow and knocking out his teeth. How that would defeat a king I have no idea unless the queen's idea of the king being evil was biting during foreplay or bogarting all the corn on the cob, but I digress. The common rationale for keeping this myth alive and lying to our children stems in the belief that it will teach them to believe in the unseen or seen as harmless play or tradition. Much like Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny, children are doomed to discover what big fat liar heads their parents are and carry with them the scars of betrayal for eternity. I lie to my children, so I will be seeing the rest of you in the fiery pits of hell. I'll bring the tequila.

As I was saying before I veered off on my history lesson (yes, occasionally my blogs are educational.) my toothless girl child excitedly placed the tooth bag under her pillow and went to bed around eight o'clock p.m. The husband and I left our children in the charge of my sister and snuck out for a date (which, like an asshole, I fell asleep during because I was still recovering from that @$##% Miami trip), came home and went to bed. Around two o'clock in the morning, we hear dramatic sobbing in the next room. My husband stumbled out of bed and went to go find out what the problem was. "SHE FORGOT ME! SHE DIDN'T BRING ME ANYTHING!" Reassuring our daughter the tooth fairy just had not come yet and to go back to sleep, my husband, now wide awake, came back into the bedroom and said, "Hey, do you have any cash?" The answer to the cash question: a resonant, eloquent, "Uh, no." Hurriedly the husband throws clothes on to go on a covert operation to cover for the tooth fairy. He returns with recon; on the internet he has found a website of tooth fairy, "I was running late but I swear the quarter is in the mail" letters that you can pay for which get sent to whatever email address you give them for just such an occurrence. Who knew the tooth fairy was so high tech?! After you read this, you are going to search for said get out of jail free lie to your children card website, aren't you? Well, I am not going to assist you in lying to your children, you big fat liar heads.

So, in the morning before waking her up, I figure I will slide coins under her pillow in a slight of hand fashion. Foiled; she's already awake and pissed that it's morning and still no tooth fairy. So, thinking fast, I say, did you REALLY look? In her drama, I was able to slide the coins under her pillow.
"Yes I really did, and it's not thhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere!"
"But, did you lift up the pillow? Like, lift the WHOLE pillow up?"
"Huh?"
"Maybe you need to go look again."
"But I ALREADY DID!" as she yanks the pillow up to prove to me she REALLY REALLY looked. Glinting in the sunlight is her cash; her much whined for, high drama earned cash. Surprised she says, "She left my tooth too! And my money!"
"Must be interest for your mental distress," I say.
"What's interest?"
"That's a conversation for another day, get dressed and let's go show off your gap! Do me a favor and say, "Sasquatches sure like strawberry soda with a straw so they can sip the super sugary sweetness."
"Thathqauthes thur like thrawberry thoda with a thraw tho he can thip the thuper thugary thweetneth".

Bwaaahaaaahaaaa.

How To Properly Raise Boychildren To Be The Gay

Obviously I should never have conceived, birthed or been the mother of a boy period. Why? Because I'm raisin' him up to be the GAY. That's right, gay, sissy boy, hell, I am just raising him to be a girl apparently. The poor kid is pretty; he will grow up to be a pretty boy, so I figure, hell, why not?

Case in point: the poor child just recently got a hair cut. That beautiful mop of baby fine blonde hair with curls at the ends reached down past his shoulders and tendrils framed his face, around his gigantic blue eyes. That is eloquent bullshit to say his was covering his eyes and he looked like a girl. Everywhere we went all we heard was, "OH! What a beautiful little girl!" Yes, a beautiful little girl wearing boy clothes. I just smiled and said, "Thank you; I think HE'S adorable also." Mostly because I love the look of pure idiocy on their faces and the wheels turning in their tiny little brains (the hamster on the wheel in their skulls suddenly speeding up) rationalizing, "Well if she'd cut his hair and make him LOOK like a boy, I would've known! Damn her for making me feel stupid!" No one can make you feel any way, but congratulations at taking the first step towards owning your dysfunction. The coup de gras of this scenario: the McDonald's Play Place incident.

I had taken my kidlets to burn off some energy at the Play Place. My son, who loves to play with other kids, was chasing around the one other kid in the joint that was his age. The parents of the other child were quite amused at watching them play; I assumed he was probably an only child who perhaps didn't get too much interaction with other toddlers. I was corrected when I heard dad holler, "Hey boy! I think that little girl has a crush on yew!" They were amused that their boy was such a toddler stud. The dad turned red when I said, "I think that BOY wants to play with your son's truck."
"That's a BOY?!"
"Yes, that's my SON, but thanks for sayin' he's pretty." That's me; finding a compliment in anything. Just then the retort I never thought I'd ever hear come out of a grown man's mouth and nearly caused me to pee my pants from laughing so hard, "Well lady, you need to get that boy a haircut; you raisin' him up to be the gay or something?" Oh, brother if you only knew!

The haircut didn't help; well, now people know he's a boy, but it's not changing the shoe fetish factor. The boy loves to wear other people's shoes. Specifically MY shoes; heels, clogs, flip flops, whatever. If he can jam his chubby little feet into them, they are going on. He even has a thing for hiding one shoe; you'd think I'd just taken away his ability to breathe when I try to take a shoe away from him. If he cannot find my shoes, than he's in his sister's which royally pisses her off. I think it's cute, so I don't correct him. He loves to shoe shop; the last couple of shopping trips we've made, he's picked out his own. My boy might just be growin up to be the gay, but damn does he have taste!

There is some hope though; he does like girls. For instance, he LOVES Barbie. He even puts her shoes on without putting the shoes in his mouth first. He is more than happy to put her in his plastic shopping cart and push her around the house, brush her hair and generally just keeping her company. Again, this irritates his older sister as they are HER Barbies, but she will play with him. He likes the Pussy Cat Dolls as well; although maybe that's because they look like life sized Bratz dolls or maybe it's because he's critiquing their wardrobe, but whatever.

Often he will wake up early in the morning and keep me company while I get ready for work. He brushes his hair, digs into my make up and will occasionally power his nose. He yammers at me if I walk out the door and forget to put my lipstick on in what I am pretty sure is Russian. He is very adamant; if I put on a shade different from my usual Whore Red, he will very firmly say, "NO NO!," and continue to cuss me out in some unintelligible language. When I put on the correct shade, he says, "YES! Pretty mommy." Aww. This evening, he very delicately took one of my earings out and dangled it off his ear and said, "I pretty" That's right boy! He may grow up to be the gay, but he will always be dressed spectacularly, color coordinated and know how to accessorize. That's mah boy!

*the boy has since had a haircut*

The Sex Toy Wars:The Day I Showed My Dad Anal Beads

That title got your attention, didn't it?! This is a moving blog about Slut Slappers, butt plugs and anal beads; a story about revenge and bringing people together.

A few weeks ago my friend and I were sitting at her house playing with a newly purchased sound prop for her at home business. The prop was a leather paddle with the word SLUT written transversely so that when it makes contact with skin, it will leave the slut mark on it but more importantly makes a loud "WHACK ACK!" We affectionately named the device The Slut Slapper. As I was slapping it against the couch and giving an evil "Bwahhaaahaaaa!" a most devious thought crossed my mind: what if I put this in my husband's brief case for him to find while at class that night? I laughed and mentioned the idea to my friend who said, "We should stick some anal beads in too!"

"Nah, I just want to him to turn a little red, not completely humiliate him; he wouldn't know what they were and would hold them up in front of God and everyone, who of course, would know what they were."
"Ok, just bring the slut slapper back; and call me and tell me what happens."

So, I leave with the Slut Slapper with keen enthusiasm. Deftly as I arrived home, I snuck the slut slapper in his brief case as he prepared for class. I continued loading the dishwasher and swapping out laundry trying to hide my devious grin. He announced he was leaving and I waived him off with "Have a good class! See you when you get home!" As he walked out the door, I cracked up laughing and called my friend to let her know the eagle was in the nest.

Since I had about 3 hours to kill, I cleaned up the house a bit, checked email, took a shower and did girly stuff. Right around the time he should've been home, I realized he hadn't called me during his break and still wasn't home yet. I figured either he never found it or was out plotting his revenge. I had known he wouldn't be angry; he's a good sport. But, I also knew I was setting myself up for retaliation and was geared up for it. About an hour after he was generally home, he walked in the door with a shit eating grin on his face.
"So, is that yours?"
"Nah, I borrowed it. Bwaahaaahaaaa!"

Then he tells me of the events that transpired. He was digging around in his bag and lifted out what he thought was a false bottom to his brief case; he pulled it out of the bag and was examining it when he saw the red emblazoned cut out with TULS and realized what it was. Right as the realization hit him of what he was holding; it hit his classmates as well. Not realizing the evil he married, he assumed it was my grandfather's slapper since the briefcase was originally his. He hurriedly tried to explain, "No! This is not mine! This isn't really my bag! See?! SEE?!" as he showed the name tag on the case that had my grandfather's name and address. One girl said, "Dude, it's ok; whatever you're into man."

Utterly confused, he decides to go grab a bite to eat and run over to his friend's house and show him the slut slapper. Said friend has a room mate and apparently the three of them decided to test out the slut slapper Jackass style. As my husband is relating this to me, he lifts up his shirt to show me the red rectangle on his abdomen; unfortunately SLUT does not show up when you hit someone really really hard with it. I tell him, "Well, we thought about putting anal beads in there, but decided that might be over the top." Laughing, he says, "Yes, thank you for not putting anal beads in my bag; now I have to think of something good." So, I called my friend and relayed the story, but my husband took the phone and relayed it from his perspective and I could hear my friend cackling on the other end.

Later on that evening, we were sitting out in the garage when my husband pulls out a clutch alignment tool that looks like it could double as a butt plug and says, "Here, give this to your buddy." Dutifully, I take it to my friend the next day and return her slapper. She laughs and says, "Oh, I have something to give back to him; hold on." She disappeared into her room and came back out holding gigantic anal beads. Now, call me prude, but I have never seen these in real life before; only in catalogs. These things are HUGE! People's assholes pucker at the thought of a colonoscopy, but these are full on ass wideners. They are about as large as golf balls. I tell my friend, "Ok, if I die in a car wreck on the way home, my good reputation is going to be tarnished forever, and I'll be too dead to explain the joke." She just laughed.

So, I went home and walked into the bedroom where my husband was playing on the computer; I said, I have a present for you from my buddy and tossed the anal beads at him. He pretty much had the same reaction I did; it's been about a week and is still trying to top this. This morning, I am telling my dad this story; and I ask him, "Have you ever seen anal beads?!" My dad says, "Uh, no." So, I ran and got them. That is the whole point to the story; I've led my father to the path of enlightenment o' anal beads. TOP THAT! Bwahhaaahaaahaaa.

Advenures In Bad Mommy Land

So, my son has been up since the ass crack of dawn, my husband is deathly ill and I managed to rub some unknown goober in my eye (could it be...hair gel?) that has been causing it to burn since pre ass crack of dawn; in short, I have gotten no sleep. This leads me to be a bad, bad mommy; even worse than usual. Take for instance: to quel the screeching while trying to watch the Dharma and Greg marathon this morning, I gave the boy pizza for breakfast. Unheated. The horrors! In my defense, I expect my son to go to college; training for college lasts a lifetime, you know, until 18 when he gets out of my house. The first lesson in surviving college: Left over cold pizza.

Let us look at the list of transgressions that will strip away the good mommy badge that I never had to begin with. My daughter, though I love her to bits, is a dramaqueen. I do not mean this lightly; the girl is destined to be some sort of dramatic interpreter; soap opera actress, motivational speaker, that chick who used to work down at the DMV. Every morning is a battle with her; she HATES getting up in the morning. To make my life and hers easier I have her set out her clothes the night before, including back pack, socks, underwear, coat, etc. That way there's no decisions to be made in the morning, I just have to micromanage the hell out of her to get her dressed; if we get through a morning with only one meltdown, we're good. Anyway, one morning after many meltdowns and her still not being dressed, I remembered my friend telling me about taking her kid to school in pjs because he wouldn't get dressed. Well, I did the same. That's right; I got tired of fighting her and took her to school in her pjs with a change of clothes in her backpack when she decided to get dressed.

My child will be traumatized; let us take a look at the list of bad mommy things I've done just to her:
She wanted to wear flip flops. It was snowing out. I told her it was cold and her feet would freeze. She really wanted to wear the damn flip flops. Fine. I know the henmeeting moms were horrified, but you know what? She hasn't worn flip flops when it's snowing out since.
Let me get this straight kid: you want to wear pink tights, with a black and blue plaid skirt, and a polka dot shirt? With 3 pigtails? And tennis shoes? MMkay, well, express yourself away smallfrye. And I, I shall tell the raised eyebrow people with a shrug of the shoulders and say, "I work, her dad stays home with her. Isn't it funny how you can always tell when the dads get the kids dressed?" with a chuckle as I look down at my embroidered wrap skirt, fishnets, fuckme boots, buddha top and sweater. Um, yeah, not so sure they're buying it.

When she was about 4, she threw the stark ravingist mad temper tantrum at the supermarket. Now, generally I would abandon shopping cart, load her in the car and go home. This night, however, I was having a dinner party; specifically my husband's grandmother and her brother and his wife, my friend and her husband who was on leave from the army, her sister and brother in law, and a friend of my husband that he worked with. I did not have time to deal with this because I had to get home and cook, so I stepped over her and said, "Wow, that is a LOUD scream. Where's your mother at? Scream a little louder, maybe she'll find you." and continued on to the produce department to try to find some fresh feta for the greek salad. Fortunately she simmered down, thoroughly confused.

And as if traumatizing my daughter to the point where some have college funds, my kids have therapy funds, I now have my son to torture. My son, who, no matter how hard I try to explain no matter how hard he tries he will never have a go go gadget penis that will stretch over his head, is proving to more traumatize me than I can him. Boys are a lesson in patience and gray hair; god bless hair dye. But I will triumph!

Last night, he slept in a cardboard box. That's right, you heard me. After months of waiting for our aircompressor to arrive, we got a shiny new compressor to decorate the garage and a giant box. The box immediately got thrown to the children; the boychild promptly dragged his pillows, his blanket, and his cup, crawled in and promptly shut the lid. This morning, he had his cold pizza in that box too. Rather than materialistic toys and such, I think perhaps people should just give my kids boxes.

With the holiday season, I've been getting many requests for the kids "christmas lists". Enter bad mommy again. Christmas drives me nuts; the season of giving has become the season of assholes using thier credit cards as penis extensions. The latest toy is a status symbol and this should be the season of giving to others, others not inclusive of credit card companies. So, I give my standard, "They don't need anything; anything that allows them to use their brains and explore creativity is good. Art sets, books, boardgames, educational stuff, clothes etc. The biggest thing banned in my house: bratz dolls. Those scare me, and frankly if I wanted my daughter to dress like a skank, I'd let her watch the 24 hour Britney Spears channel. Bratz dolls are the in thing this season, as are mindless video games; I'd just as soon leave those at the store for other people to push, shove and fight over.

My kids are going to think I'm the biggest asshole ever until they have kids of their own.

I'd Like To Thank Yahoo

So, I open my email today when the subject of one had told me I must be dreaming. To quote this title, ahem, "Pinch me. Glass Dildos for just $5 has to be a dream, right?!" So, of course I have to click it because, frankly this is funny considering the email above it was a prayer chain request (how do I get these spams?!) Inside the email proclaims "YOUR DREAM HAS COME TRUE! GLASS DILDOS FOR ONLY $5 with purchase of other to HURRY WHILE SUPPLIES LAST!" There was a nice marketing graphic of a translucent glass dildo (they also come in blue, red, orange, white and marble) resting on a soft bed of red velvet.

THANK YOU YAHOO! What ever would I do without yahoo? I never knew that glass dongs for $5 was my dream come true and that I'd need to be pinched. This whole time I was deluding myself with dreams of finding the cure for bipolar disorder, striving for world peace and not injuring sentinent beings (spiders exempt, of course. I don't care what the Kleenex commercial says), helping my fellow man and all that crap. Who knew? I guess I should go ahead and get this glass dildo, since it's my dream and all. I should also get the penis pump and free trial sample of viagra that I get in my email box weekly. The first time I got this email I had to look between my legs to make sure I hadn't grown a penis over night. So, since this penis pump and viagra aren't my dream (because if they were Yahoo would've told me), I can donate it to a charitable cause. I can think of a couple of guys off hand who could use it. Oh, and yes. That is why we broke up. But, Yahoo found the cure! Yahoo, saving lives one dick at a time. It makes me all teary eyed.

I'm trying to figure out what to do with this can't miss offer of the glass dildo. I do collect blue glass, I think it'd make a kick ass sculpture to sit on my mantle, don't you? I can just picture the look on my kid's face when they are old enough to realize what it is. You know, when they're like 30, 35. Building memories, and dreams Yahoo. Thank You. Thank You.

Rockin' The Fuck Me Pumps

Every girl has at least one pair and if she doesn't, she wants a pair. They are as essential to the female wardrobe as the little black dress. Of course, what I speak of is the Fuck Me Boots, a subcategory of the Fuck Me Heels. The Fuck Me Boot is an exterior accessory that conveys power, control, supreme confidence, and a bit of mystery. I love my Fuck Me Boots and can wear them with nearly everything.

Wearing such a heel, or boot for some psychological reason peaks the male interest; perhaps it is the girl next door look combined with that one item on each foot, that one item that says, "maybe I'm not such a good girl after all," that lead men to fantasize about what the woman wearing those boots could possibly do to him. They convey, "I could climb your body like a jungle gym, break you and make you pray for recess to be over." Whether they admit it or not, male ideation of the perfect woman is that of a chef in the kitchen, a hostess in the living room and a whore in the bedroom. Wearing the Fuck Me Boot does not make a woman a whore, but conveys that perhaps she is in touch with that inner erotic goddess that could break a man.
The Fuck Me Boot can be worn both formally or casually. They can be worn with the little black dress or under a business suit or long skirt. Women who wear their Fuck Me Boots to work are often subliminally telling corporate America that while she may be exploiting them for their monetary value, in wearing her Fuck Me Boots, she's saying she hasn't been completely assimilated. Fuck Me Boots are often worn with Gouchos to formalize them a bit; but while there are many boots in the world, the Fuck Me Boots are special; They most often have three inch narrow heels, pointy toes,are knee high thus completely encapsulating the calfand are some form of black leather. To make a Fuck Me Boot truly a Fuck Me Boot, it is best to wear said boots with a pair of fishnet stockings.

The Fuck Me Boot is wonderful because they make nearly any leg look good; even fat tree trunk legs much like my own. Fortunately, the shoe makers of the world saw the need for even girls with tree trunk legs to be able to own and wear their own pair of Fuck Me Boots so they now come with elastic to fit snugly around fat calves. So, ladies, pull the uptight "but I'm a GOOD GIRL!" sticks out of your asses (we all know that at some point you were a backseat debutante anyway), drop the fascade and go buy yourselves a good pair of Fuck Me Boots. Your husbands and boyfriends will thank you and after you stop feeling so dirty, you too will thank yourself. Shed the hypocracy and go get fashion's must haves or be tragically trapped in decades gone buy for all eternity.

Firecrotch: Not Just For Redheads! (I was blonde then)

First, I must make this disclaimer to my parents who read my blogs. Don't read this one. I cannot be responsible for what you may read in this particular blog. We have a deal; I was hatched, I've never had sex and my children were concieved via divine intervention. That's our deal. Don't blow it. Second, I was young when this happend; yes, it's ye olde young n dumb defense.

With that out of the way, it was the summer of 1996 and I was hanging out at my boyfriend's house. As usual, my piece of shit Nissan Pulsar was at the shop with it's voodoo electrical problem getting alternator number 8,000 put into it. I was driving his pick up and we were out "camping" waiting for my car to be fixed which we both knew would last about 2 days before that white hunk of junk was back in the shop. Now, usually we really were camping but this particular day, well, we werent. We were sitting at his house watching movies. As my aunt likes to say, the man 'heats' , he does not cook. His specialty was nachos. Now, the proper way to make nachos is one layer of chips, one layer of cheese, another layer of chips, another layer of cheese and some jalapenos sprinkled over the top. Not fresh jalapenos, mind you, but the kind in a jar with all the jalapeno juice in it, like a jar of pickles, only with hot peppers.

My boyfriend lived by himself, a bachelor. You know the kind, drinkin straight from the carton, take out and beer lining the fridge and only using the fine china to eat off of (read plasticwear and paper plates), the toilet seat was always up, occasionally the coffee table would be shoved out of the way and an engine would be it's place, or a transmission in the tub looking like TubGirl: The Menstrual Addition (for the automotive illiterate, tranny fluid is red). You get the picture.

So, we're watching movies, chowing down on nachos and inevitably, we start fooling around. He lived alone, we were in no danger of being intruded upon and remember, we were "camping" thus no one could get ahold of us, and if they needed to, they'd be out circling the lake. It started with making out, then all of a sudden, my pants were gone. I have no clue how *that* happened. Off came the pretty panties and fingers were exploring and trying to get things "in the mood". Then then it started to tingle.

I of course, was a little uncomfortable, but hey man, I was getting some action so I wasn't complaining. Concentrate, concentrate, there's an orgasm on the way..forget the whole burning sensation...burning, burning passion, burning desire, burning "OH MY GOD MY CROTCH IS ON FIRE!" I jumped up and ran to the bathroom, one leg up on the sink cupping cold water and throwing it onto my groin region to try to put out the fire. He was quite confused and kept asking me "What's the matter?!" Then a thought dawned on him; he knew why I needed a damn fire hose to calm down the nerves of a very tender region.

The chef had pulled the jalapeno slices out of the jar with his bare fingers and designed the top of the nachos with some nice symmetrical design; there is an art to nacho making and he was an engineering student, so you do the math. Badumpbump. The lesson: Never finish what you can't start, but always WASH YOUR FUCKING HANDS AFTER HANDLING JALAPENOS.

The End.

New Word of the Day!

I am a firm believer in expanding one's vocabulary in a life long persuit of further education. Recently, I learned a new word that will likely never be in a spelling bee. It sounds a rather innocuous word, so simply latin sounding, much like a medical diagnosis or something heard in Sunday morning mass. Once one learns the power behind said word, one will never purge it from their brains and will shudder at the mental image.

SANTORUM: As defined by Urban Dictionary, santorum is "the sometimes frothy, usually slimy, amalgam of lubricant, stray fecal matter, and ejaculate that leaks out of the receiving partner's anus after a session of anal intercourse. Named, by popular demand and usage, after legislator Rick Santorum because of his homophobic political statements."
Could you please use that in a sentence? Why, yes, yes I can! "That move was about as slick as santorum!" or, "Wow! that Tub Girl is a santorum queen!"

This leads me to conclude that with a word specifically used for said physiological occurance, this country is filled with a bunch of ass fuckers. If you knew this word, you are likely an ass fucker; and I, so naively thinking I was worldly, had to look it up because I am not an ass fucker. But now that I know the word, people will think I am; thanks a lot, ass fuckers.
My poor traumatized midwestern mind cannot wrap itself around the sexual depravity so common place. *swooning like Scarlet for dramatic prose* I was once told by a very good friend to not knock it til I tried it because a million Gay men cannot be wrong.

Ok, seriously, lets take a look at this.. Even as adventurous as I am, I was blessed by the graces of two x chromosomes to have a hole specifically made for both entry and exit. I rather enjoy a hemorrhoid free ass and the ability to control my bowel movements. The act of anal intercourse between two gay men is more enjoyable because number one, they only have one dedicated hole down there and two, it stimulates the prostate. WOMEN DO NOT HAVE PROSTATES. If you're trying to find her g-spot in her ass, you're in the wrong fucking hole dumbass. Go take biology over again.

I blame the sex industry and the importance placed on male performance. Viagra, penis pumps, the energizer bunny phenomenon; even in the birth control section, guys need a little help; you have the "ribbed for her pleasure" condoms. Perhaps ass fucking is a way of taking that back; go for the ass and the inevitable hemmhoroids create speed bumps that's an instant ribbed for HIS pleasure. Voila. There's even a product out to perpetuate this most unbilblical phenomenon called 'anal ease' which is essentially oragel. What is this world coming to?! Ladies, if you're constipated, go eat some fiber, preferably sprinkling some moral fiber atop, pop a laxative or use a good ol fashioned enema; do you suppose maybe your man is latently gay and that's why he'd rather have the ass as opposed to the vajajay conveniently located about an inch in front of that?

All of you ass fuckers may keep your santorum, your hemorrhoids, your anal fissures and fistuals and rectal prolapses, may you find utopia in your Greek Love. I, I will keep my continence. For shame, Assfuckers, for shame; I shake my head. You make me a sad panda. This country is going to hell in a handbasket, and it all started with assfuckers; I will pray for all of your souls.

The moral to this story: Use the power of the ass, just let it remain an untapped resource. Remember people: it's an asshole, not a keg.



*these blogs are written strictly for comedic purposes and should be taken with a grain of salt. If you are offended by this blog, you're probably a closet ass fucker and should join Ass Fuckers Anonymous*

The Orange Oil Demon

Ladies..ladies, ladies. You know how it goes; we have kids, our asses explode and immediately post birth, we hit the gym , cut out major food groups, pop pills or all of the above. That is, those of us with intiative and slow metabolism; this blog does not include the freaks of nature who walk out of the hospital in their regular prepreganancy sizes or you lazy bitches who lie and say you don't care how you look because you're mothers now. I digress. Perhaps y'all have heard bout the new over the counter drug out on the market that hit the shelves exactly two days ago: Alli.

Alli is the 60mg dose of the popular prescription drug that comes in 120 mg dose, Orlistat, aka Xenical. Now, Xenical is a drug that binds with lipases to prevent them from breaking down the fat that you eat which in effect cause about 1/3 of the fat you eat to get flushed out with your bowel movements. Sounds pretty simple and easy, right? Well, let me tell you about my recent adventures in orlistat land.

My friend tells me, "Dude, when I took it back when it was Xenical, I lost about 15 lbs in three weeks!" Being the lazy American I am, and the fact that I've been blessed with estrogen and all it's related reproductive crap that caused be to gain 15lbs in the last TWO FUCKING WEEKS, I decided to give it a shot, because I'm a lazy American like that. Did it occur to me to incorporate some excercise a la the good ol days? Sure, but if I actually exercised as much as I thought about it, I'd be fucking Cindy Crawford right now; and frankly, if I can eat whatever I want, not get off my fat, lazy ass and pop a pill instead, dude, I am so there! So I hightail said fat ass to Wal Mart and got some.

It says to take 1 three times a day with meals. But they are 60mg tabs, and my nursey spidey senses (aka my handy dandy drug guide) tells me the prescription dose is 120. Now, I suck at math, but I can multiply times two. This whole concept fits into my theory that if one works, more is better! This theory has proven correct on more than one occasion. For instance: one beer is good. 20 is better. Sex once a night is good, but 3 times ROCKS. The only time the if x amount works, than x to the 3rd power is better is proven wrong, it's with birthing kids; ain't no amount of drugs albeit good or bad to fix that, but that's a whole different blog. Again, I digress.
I am not even out of the parking lot and my friend and I are swallowing capsules and feeling all health concious. We're going to be slender smokin hot bitches yet. I suck down some water, trying to cut down on my carbs and all, and we go to lunch. I had a couple of margaritas (I passed on the Pepsi at Wal Mart...that is sacrifice people so fuck off) and some chicken quesadillas. Totally healthy choice,right? I go home, no problem. Take the doses again today, no problem.

I had a chunk of pizza for breakfast, totally nummy and a completely balanced meal. Think about it, the crust is your bread, the peperoni and sausage the protien, the onions the veggies, the tomato sauce the fruit...that's all the major food groups in one slice of pie!
On my way to work, I'm chugging a green tea, thanks to my new health concious mindset when it happened. I am jamming out to Lilly Allen (Everything seems to look as it shouldBut I wonder what goes on behind doorsA fella looking dapper, and he's sittin with a slapperThen I see it's a pimp and his crack whore...)

Tummy rumbling a bit, I set the green tea in the cupholder....(There was a little old lady, who was walking down the road She was struggling with bags from Tesco, There were people from the city having lunch in the parkI believe that is called al fresco,When a kid came along to offer a handBut before she had time to accept it, Hits her over the head, doesn't care if she's dead,Cause he's got all her jewellery and wallet...) tummy rumbles some more. IT"S GOOD! IT"S OK!

I keep driving a long, singing to my blaring stereo, "You might love me my friend, walkin round London Town, sun is in the sky oh why oh why would I want to be anywhere else...."
Anywhere else. Hmm. Anywhere else, hmm. THUD. I'm clenching my ass cheeks so tight I'dve broken Susan Somers' fucking thigh/butt master. Flash Gordon doesn't have anything on these glutes. Now I'm in a fight with my colon. I have nice leather seats. My colon says, "FUCK YOU! EJECT EJECT! DAMMIT CAP'N, I'M GIVIN HER ALL SHE'S GOT AND SHE'S GONNA BLOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I get to the parking lot, and my colon says, "Congratulations, Capn. I haven ejected our cargo, but if you don't get thee into a bathroom now, I'm going to ruin that pretty lace thong you're wearin." I do the clenched buttcheek walk all the way inside. My ass feels the burn between the isometric butt master and my colon giving the submarine dive sirin. I haven't had to make way to the bathroom that badly since the last time I ate at the Shoney's breakfast buffet...or Jack in the Box; each establishment gave my digestive tract the same reaction. I do the waddle run into my office, run to the bathroom, which, by the way, though I have an office, I do not have a private bathroom. I rip at my jeans trying to get them down fast enough, barely making it.

"HOUSTON! WE HAVE LIFT OFF!" It was one of those experiences wherein you should light a candle in order to be considerate, but should one try that, they'd probably blow the building up. The toilet paper looked like I'd just blotted all the excess grease off a double meat pepperoni pizza; in other words, I had that not so fresh feeling. When I was a kid, my grandma used to lecture me about not putting grease from the sausage down the drain because it would clog it up, so after an evening of making gourmet hamburger helper, I decided to pour the grease down the toilet...yeah, it was like that. Wouldn't you know grandma knew her shit because even though pouring the cooking grease down the toilet didn't clog it up like it would the sink drain, Xenical poo looks exactly the same, only it DOES clog up the toilet; it turns you into a three flush chump.

So, in relaying the wonders of the xenical experience to my officemates, who were the source of my trying this crap to begin with, I get the wise words of advice not to eat a cannister of slim jims while on Orlistat for the same reason. We have deamed it "The Orange Oil Plague." Oh, you may pretend to be grossed out and swear about the evils of diet drugs, but my bet is that 99% of you bitches who read this blog will run out and buy it to not only in an attempt skinny, but to cure constipation. When you come over here, stink up my bathroom and leave an orange oil ring within my toilet bowel, you're so busted. Yet another educational blog, I'll see you in the pharmacy aisle; I just had brats for dinner, so it's time for another dose. Catch you on the runway!

National Hump a Nerd Day

I look at the different celebrity blog fodder, like TMZ and Perez Hilton and inevitably they always have some hollywood hunk being naughty. I'm not sure how many times I've seen the nekky pictures of Brad (Pitt, not my husband. I get to see that in real time.), Jude, Nick, et al. These boys do nothing for me. Sure, they are pretty in some way that is supposed to get my vagina all tingly, but alas, they do nothing for me. Here is my confession. I love nerds. The nerdier the better. I'd sooner do John Heder than Jon Bon Jovi.

I won't deny that seeing a nice athletic body jogging past me in the gym does tend to make my head turn; but more than that, a debate over whether or not LOTR is superior to Starwars always gets my panties wet. And by the way folks, there really is only one real return, and that was the Jedi. Tell me, tell me why Apple is superior to Microsoft..tell me, tell me, OH YES YES YES! A man could woo me quicker with a pitcher of margaritas and snuggling up to watch the latest documentry about World War II on A&E or the History channel quicker than one weilding a bouquet of flowers and offerings of a 5 star restaraunt. I know, I know, I am shallow.

I am a music lover. I will sooner listen to my stereo than watch TV (Except during Shark Week, when there's a good WWII documentary on, or a new episode of Grey's Anatomy; but, those are pretty much givens, right?) I have always dug Black Flag and Rollins band. Hank is a talented dude, man; though, I never thought about him much beyond that of musical legend. Then I saw YouTube clips of his stand up; he gave me braingasms and now I would like to climb his body like a jungle gym.

Henry, may I call you Henry? I will watch 12 hour documentaries with you; I will tell you how Ayn Rand is the greatest novelist of our time, I will tell you my conclusions of how the French Revolution is relative to our current political climate while making small jokes about how we can't behead Bush and Cheney, I will take you to art museums so that we may get into deep philosophical conversations about the artists' statements with each brush stroke it took to create the masterpieces, I will wash your windows and be your grocery buying, dinner cooking concubine domestic; although I hope you don't mind me not being submissive; I've tried that route and frankly, I'm not good at it.

But, let's face it. Henry, henry is not nerdy. As much as I love his brain and dry wit, he's not a nerd. He is the rare Nerd in Disguise, the Hot Nerd, if you will. It's really much like when you see those lame after school specials where they dress the hot girl in glasses, ill fitting clothes and maybe some braces. What am I talking about? How about Ugly Betty. Who wouldn't tap America Ferrera sans costume? I digress.

Allow me to put this in perspective for you. If you only sleep with dudes who look like Brad Pitt but have the substance of Sponge Bob, your offspring will have the IQ of Paris Hilton. Eventually those pecs will sag into flab man boobs, and you are left with, that's right, spongebob. Or Uncle Rico. Take your pick.

Some may think I'm crazy, but I love nerds, and I'm unapologetic. I've been told I should go to nerd rehab; I said no, no, no. I declare tomorrow National Hump A Nerd Day. Get to it ladies, think of it as your civic duty in pulling this country from the depths of despair; we need more Michael Scherotters(Microsoft Dude for those who are saying, Huh?) and less Michael Kelsos.