It was the day of Ashlyn's last transfusion. I had to run into the gas station for a few things first thing that morning. And there she was. She had on a pink tank and pink shorts, with cute little white stripes down the sides.I couldn't help but notice her, because she was directly between me and the Mt Dew cooler. I saw her from the back at first. I realize I have put on a few pounds, but oh my GOD, the rear view looked like two pink Studebaker's fighting for the same parking spot. Did I mention these were those little high cut daisy duke shorts that would look trashy even on Barbie? They certainly did not look any better on a rear end that large.
But, heaven help us all, then she turned around..........................................................................................................................and then her boobs caught up with the rest of her. The neckline to this tank top was located somewhere down around her belly button. And even there, you were in absolutely no danger of seeing her nipples. Unless you looked below the waistband of her tank top. And she was working it. Did the woman NOT look in a mirror before she left the house? She primped and simpered and flirted with the man behind the counter. When I finally got a chance to pay for my stuff, he asked if there was anything else I needed.
I asked for a cup of clorox. He looked puzzled until I told him to just hurl it into my eyes...
I'm a little more careful about how I look when I leave the house now. And I am working out again too!
Do your boobs hang low, do they wobble to and fro
Can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow....
Have a great one y'all!
Monday, June 28, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
I checked with NASA and you are NOT the center of the known universe
Pardon me in advance if I ramble. I went partially deaf last night from the crashing sound of a friendship in flames as the delete button was clicked. And since you never gave me a chance, and just assumed the worst, I am going to tell it like it is now. Nobody likes your girlfriend, except for her friends. Nobody likes the person you have become since you started dating her. Your brother, (you know, that guy you go fishing with) said you posted that stuff to stir things up. So we obliged you. Be careful what you ask for, because you just may get it. Then to be COWARDLY enough to delete the post, and 3 of your friends??? You left for Iraq as a man, and you came back a boy. How did that happen? You amaze me. I was, in fact, the LAST person you should have ever expected to remain friends with. But I did remain your friend. And for what??? To be deleted because I said Colonel Mustard did it in the library, with the rope, a candlestick, 2 chickens and a midget??????? Really???? You know, I could see it if I attacked your girlfriend, or even pointed a finger in her direction. It was a conversation that did not involve her until she posted into it. But we get deleted because of this? Open your eyes, and realize, she STARTED this little bonfire, then fanned the flames mercilessly. Her goal is to isolate you from everyone you knew before her. And it's working. I hope you realize before it's too late just what you threw away. Girlfriends come and go, but it's a bitch to find true friends, that will stick by you, even if they don't agree with what a fuckstick you are being. They tolerate the girlfriend because that is the price they are willing to pay to remain your friend. They tolerate the new and improved you, because they still get to see the old you. And they may fight, argue, yell and scream, but they don't delete a friendship just because things aren't going to suit them or their high-maintenance-low-rent girlfriend. You made your bed. I hope you sleep comfortably in it from now on.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Things that make you go hmmmm
Anyone that knows me understands my convoluted thought process. If properly motivated, I can mind-fuck the simplest of things into oblivion. But there are just some places my mind never wanted to go. Like the public display of big girl panties at the park. I don't want to even contemplate WHY this woman thought anyone wanted to see the sample panties from Omar the Tent-and-Panty Creator. To me, your drawers should be personal, not on display in a public park. Especially not while you are wearing them. My brain just did a total vapor lock, and didn't start really working again for at least 12 hours. It was that bad.
And just so no one things I am picking on big girls, I've got news for you. Hey all you skinny look-like-you-did-the-crack-makes-you-lose-weight diet...if your jeans are tight enough that I can not only tell you are wearing a thong, but can also tell that it came from WalMart, well guess what? You need to find a seam-ripper and take those fuckers off. There is such a thing as too tight. Really.
I readily admit that I went through my bad fashion sense era as well. In high school. At my age, fashion is anything that doesn't require liposuction, a can opener, the use of WD-40, or baling straps and a come-along to wear. If it looks adorable on that 12 year old girl next door, then I am thinking it's maybe not so much for me. Although I do still maintain my passion for hooker shoes. Some things you just never outgrow, I guess.
Dear God, it's finally happened. After all these years, I just turned into my mother. What an epiphany. On that note, I'm getting the hell off here and going to bed. So what if it's only 4 in the afternoon. I feel a case of the vapors coming on. Tomorrow is another day. Christ, tomorrow is MONDAY. This just keeps getting better and better. Forget bed. I am going to my happy place. I'll be back by Tuesday. Bye!
And just so no one things I am picking on big girls, I've got news for you. Hey all you skinny look-like-you-did-the-crack-makes-you-lose-weight diet...if your jeans are tight enough that I can not only tell you are wearing a thong, but can also tell that it came from WalMart, well guess what? You need to find a seam-ripper and take those fuckers off. There is such a thing as too tight. Really.
I readily admit that I went through my bad fashion sense era as well. In high school. At my age, fashion is anything that doesn't require liposuction, a can opener, the use of WD-40, or baling straps and a come-along to wear. If it looks adorable on that 12 year old girl next door, then I am thinking it's maybe not so much for me. Although I do still maintain my passion for hooker shoes. Some things you just never outgrow, I guess.
Dear God, it's finally happened. After all these years, I just turned into my mother. What an epiphany. On that note, I'm getting the hell off here and going to bed. So what if it's only 4 in the afternoon. I feel a case of the vapors coming on. Tomorrow is another day. Christ, tomorrow is MONDAY. This just keeps getting better and better. Forget bed. I am going to my happy place. I'll be back by Tuesday. Bye!
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Are you lonesome tonight?
I was just on face book and posted the first part of an awesome Elvis tune. Elvis was the shit. Maybe if more people were worried about feelings, and less about sex, the world would be a better place.
When was the last time you thought about someone in terms other than sex? Sure, sex is great. Awesome, if you have the right partner. But I would trade 1001 nights of hot sex for someone who cared 1002 nights. Seriously. I used to ridicule flowers as a gift. They don't last. They fade away into dust and nothingness. Sex lasts, right? For a while. A short while. And then, it too fades. If I reach into my memory, I can remember the feeling of happiness. Rushing home from work. Heart pounding every time the phone rings. Being held throughout the night. Memories. Fairy tales and unicorns. Sheer stupidity.
I'm tired of doing it alone, of being alone. I wish I had someone that I could believe in. Someone who says, "Let me worry tonight. You rest." Someone who can get a good look at me after a long night in the emergency room, facing a cardiac crisis, and still think I am beautiful, and desirable. Yeah, right. More unicorns.
Instead of unicorns, I get reality. "Oh, sorry you had a rough night, but guess what happened to ME?" Or better yet, "what are you wearing?" I don't fucking CARE what happened to you, and I am wearing a girdle, granny panties, a set of Spanx, sweatpants, and a t-shirt from high school that has holes in it, and a good dose of hair dye to hide the splotches of color fade. FUCK YOU. I am sick of late night phone sex, x-rated gifts, and patronizing attitude. I am me. I know what I want, what I deserve. Too bad it's as surreal as unicorns and anime superheroes.
Are you lonesome tonight?
Do you miss me tonight?
Are you sorry we drifted apart?
Are you lonesome tonight,
Do the stars shine as bright?
As they did before you started playing your part?
Is the life that you live
Worth all of the pain?
Do you wish it was different,
And yet still the same?
I can't anymore.
I'm defeated.
I'm done.
I'm ashamed to be lonesome tonight.
When was the last time you thought about someone in terms other than sex? Sure, sex is great. Awesome, if you have the right partner. But I would trade 1001 nights of hot sex for someone who cared 1002 nights. Seriously. I used to ridicule flowers as a gift. They don't last. They fade away into dust and nothingness. Sex lasts, right? For a while. A short while. And then, it too fades. If I reach into my memory, I can remember the feeling of happiness. Rushing home from work. Heart pounding every time the phone rings. Being held throughout the night. Memories. Fairy tales and unicorns. Sheer stupidity.
I'm tired of doing it alone, of being alone. I wish I had someone that I could believe in. Someone who says, "Let me worry tonight. You rest." Someone who can get a good look at me after a long night in the emergency room, facing a cardiac crisis, and still think I am beautiful, and desirable. Yeah, right. More unicorns.
Instead of unicorns, I get reality. "Oh, sorry you had a rough night, but guess what happened to ME?" Or better yet, "what are you wearing?" I don't fucking CARE what happened to you, and I am wearing a girdle, granny panties, a set of Spanx, sweatpants, and a t-shirt from high school that has holes in it, and a good dose of hair dye to hide the splotches of color fade. FUCK YOU. I am sick of late night phone sex, x-rated gifts, and patronizing attitude. I am me. I know what I want, what I deserve. Too bad it's as surreal as unicorns and anime superheroes.
Are you lonesome tonight?
Do you miss me tonight?
Are you sorry we drifted apart?
Are you lonesome tonight,
Do the stars shine as bright?
As they did before you started playing your part?
Is the life that you live
Worth all of the pain?
Do you wish it was different,
And yet still the same?
I can't anymore.
I'm defeated.
I'm done.
I'm ashamed to be lonesome tonight.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Current Events
Bless me cyber-gods for I have sinned. It has been many months since my last blog attempt. A lot has happened since then. Or, you can just consider me a slacker. But seriously, it's been busy around these here parts. After my own health scare, which is all better now thankyouverymuchdrcallahan, I found out my daughter will be needing a kidney transplant. World officially upside down, again. It's going to be ok, though. It has to be ok. There is just no other acceptable outcome. Everyone has been super supportive. Well, almost everybody. Some people suffer temporary insanity because they can't understand why I can't drop everything when they want me to, but it's usually very short-lived. Generally, once I start screaming and using words strong enough to make a sailor blush, they snap out of insanity mode. And as for the ones who have not been supportive, well fuck off. 'Nuff said there.
One thing I appreciate a lot more is a good laugh. And I got one this past week. Picture, if you will, a 7 year old boy, small for his size, with lots of older brothers that could thump him on the head and knock him out cold. Imagine the oldest brother, devious glint in his eye, convince their uncle that they need to hang the smallest one from a nail...by his underwear. I swear, it really happened. I couldn't make this shit up. Naturally, they did just that, and we got pictures and some video for good measure. However, this caused his underwear to rip 3/4 of the way around the waistband. Now you would think that hanging by your drawers would be humiliation enough, right? NOT! Small child #1 took the waistband to his drawers and pulled it up around his neck, causing his underwear to look like a wrestling outfit...if wrestlers liked perma-wedgies. Still playing for the crowd, he then takes off around the yard, styling his new workout wear. As if this wasn't enough, he engages in a couple of rounds of dodgeball dressed in only his wrestling thong and a pair of shoes and socks. Let me assure you, we were all sober. It was the middle of the day. Did I mention it was a weekend day, when everyone in the neighborhood was home. We had to contain ourselves and mom made him get dressed when he started running up to wave at passing cars. He did continue to wear the wrestling thong for the rest of the day underneath his clothes. I can't wait til he brings home his first girlfriend. That beats naked bathtub baby pictures any day of the week! I have some great pictures, but I am pretty sure mom and dad would not approve of me posting them. Plus I don't want to be responsible for his eventual appearance on the Jerry Springer Show. I can't wait to see what happens over summer break. check back soon for further updates!
One thing I appreciate a lot more is a good laugh. And I got one this past week. Picture, if you will, a 7 year old boy, small for his size, with lots of older brothers that could thump him on the head and knock him out cold. Imagine the oldest brother, devious glint in his eye, convince their uncle that they need to hang the smallest one from a nail...by his underwear. I swear, it really happened. I couldn't make this shit up. Naturally, they did just that, and we got pictures and some video for good measure. However, this caused his underwear to rip 3/4 of the way around the waistband. Now you would think that hanging by your drawers would be humiliation enough, right? NOT! Small child #1 took the waistband to his drawers and pulled it up around his neck, causing his underwear to look like a wrestling outfit...if wrestlers liked perma-wedgies. Still playing for the crowd, he then takes off around the yard, styling his new workout wear. As if this wasn't enough, he engages in a couple of rounds of dodgeball dressed in only his wrestling thong and a pair of shoes and socks. Let me assure you, we were all sober. It was the middle of the day. Did I mention it was a weekend day, when everyone in the neighborhood was home. We had to contain ourselves and mom made him get dressed when he started running up to wave at passing cars. He did continue to wear the wrestling thong for the rest of the day underneath his clothes. I can't wait til he brings home his first girlfriend. That beats naked bathtub baby pictures any day of the week! I have some great pictures, but I am pretty sure mom and dad would not approve of me posting them. Plus I don't want to be responsible for his eventual appearance on the Jerry Springer Show. I can't wait to see what happens over summer break. check back soon for further updates!
And finally #6
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Shrek Feet and a Bad Hair Day
Current mood: devious
Category: Life
Ok so I have been getting some grief from my friends about not keeping this new blog up the way I used to with my old one. So, I am now making a concerted effort to update my blog and use a lighter tone and mood while doing it. So...
Let's start with laughs. I drove a stand up forklift today for the first time ever in my life. While I was not amused at all, apparently everyone else thought it was hysterical. That shit is all backwards, and so I almost ran over two RTV's a three tractors, and my partner. I may be able to park an ambulance or engine sideways on a diving board, but I suck at forklift maneuvering. I almost parked that bastard in the bathroom for Christ sake. Which was not, by the way, what I was aiming for. At all. Thank God for emergency brakes. I now gaze at anyne that can actually drive one of those things with a healthy admiring respect. And a little envy. They say I will get the hang of it. I am just wondering what all I am going to run over in the process. Updates as they happen on the driving lessons.
I almost got Daddy Rabbit in a sneak rubber band attack. Almost. But alas, I failed, and what's more he shot back! But I guess I can accept defeat in a battle gracefully. I will win the war. And it's good to see him playful again. He was getting too serious there for a while. And for what it's worth, I got his back in his effort to stop smoking. No matter what. If he quits, then hell YES for him, but if he can't, well...tomorrow is another day. Keep smiling Daddy!! That's the beauty of friends. We stand by your decisions (no matter how much we dog you about them) but don't turn away if it turns out to be wrong. Or badly timed. Or of you get cranky from the lack of nicotene. I can't wait to see you dance though!!
So I was having a bad hair day today. You know the one...you can see that one piece of hair that just will not behave out of the corner of your eye. I was helpless to fix it. It just flopped there like a landed fish. For the first part of the day it did not bother me too much, but by about noon, it was giving me a headache. It just kept waving there, in the corner of my eye, teasing me, daring me to find some shears and lop it off. Which I did not do. Note to self...do not fall asleep after showering until your hair is dry. Furthermore, do not drive into work with wet hair and an open sun roof. And I think that just about covers the hair thing.
Shrek feet. This is a normal thing for me these days. Let's face it, 8 hours of walking in steel toed shoes is enough to muck up anyone's pedicure, but my feet are swollen to unbelievable proportions at the end of each day. Men wish they could experience this kind of swelling without the side effects of Viagra. Although why they consider a 4 hour erection a side effect is beyond me. Most men would be proud of that, and I would be thrilled to meet him...But I digress. Back to my feet. Toenail polish never holds up to a regular work week. I have toes that look like snausages...you know...those puppy treats??? All that is missing is the charming green hue and bad Scottish accent. I have lotions, scrubs, buffer thingies and polishes and still I have ugly feet now. Damned gainful employment fetish. How will I ever find a man with Shrek feet????
Speaking of men...there is this one guy that is very, very appealing.....but that's another blog for another day.
Shrek Feet and a Bad Hair Day
Current mood: devious
Category: Life
Ok so I have been getting some grief from my friends about not keeping this new blog up the way I used to with my old one. So, I am now making a concerted effort to update my blog and use a lighter tone and mood while doing it. So...
Let's start with laughs. I drove a stand up forklift today for the first time ever in my life. While I was not amused at all, apparently everyone else thought it was hysterical. That shit is all backwards, and so I almost ran over two RTV's a three tractors, and my partner. I may be able to park an ambulance or engine sideways on a diving board, but I suck at forklift maneuvering. I almost parked that bastard in the bathroom for Christ sake. Which was not, by the way, what I was aiming for. At all. Thank God for emergency brakes. I now gaze at anyne that can actually drive one of those things with a healthy admiring respect. And a little envy. They say I will get the hang of it. I am just wondering what all I am going to run over in the process. Updates as they happen on the driving lessons.
I almost got Daddy Rabbit in a sneak rubber band attack. Almost. But alas, I failed, and what's more he shot back! But I guess I can accept defeat in a battle gracefully. I will win the war. And it's good to see him playful again. He was getting too serious there for a while. And for what it's worth, I got his back in his effort to stop smoking. No matter what. If he quits, then hell YES for him, but if he can't, well...tomorrow is another day. Keep smiling Daddy!! That's the beauty of friends. We stand by your decisions (no matter how much we dog you about them) but don't turn away if it turns out to be wrong. Or badly timed. Or of you get cranky from the lack of nicotene. I can't wait to see you dance though!!
So I was having a bad hair day today. You know the one...you can see that one piece of hair that just will not behave out of the corner of your eye. I was helpless to fix it. It just flopped there like a landed fish. For the first part of the day it did not bother me too much, but by about noon, it was giving me a headache. It just kept waving there, in the corner of my eye, teasing me, daring me to find some shears and lop it off. Which I did not do. Note to self...do not fall asleep after showering until your hair is dry. Furthermore, do not drive into work with wet hair and an open sun roof. And I think that just about covers the hair thing.
Shrek feet. This is a normal thing for me these days. Let's face it, 8 hours of walking in steel toed shoes is enough to muck up anyone's pedicure, but my feet are swollen to unbelievable proportions at the end of each day. Men wish they could experience this kind of swelling without the side effects of Viagra. Although why they consider a 4 hour erection a side effect is beyond me. Most men would be proud of that, and I would be thrilled to meet him...But I digress. Back to my feet. Toenail polish never holds up to a regular work week. I have toes that look like snausages...you know...those puppy treats??? All that is missing is the charming green hue and bad Scottish accent. I have lotions, scrubs, buffer thingies and polishes and still I have ugly feet now. Damned gainful employment fetish. How will I ever find a man with Shrek feet????
Speaking of men...there is this one guy that is very, very appealing.....but that's another blog for another day.
#5
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Semen smells like bleach
Current mood: lonely
Category: Friends
It happens all the time. and usually when I need it most, today being one of those times. I get an email from a friend of mine, the usual, hey-how-ya-doing chatty glimpse into the life of a woman even crazier than I am. In the middle of the inane chatter about high gas price, high milk prices, and I-hate-my-job descriptives, was a single sentence. "Did you ever notice that semen smells like bleach?" And that was all she said on that particular subject..
Now I confess that up until that very point in time, I had NOT noticed that semen smelled like anything, much less bleach. But now rampant images of exactly how one makes this determination blitz through my head. I mean, can you imagine sitting around one night, and deciding that for kicks, you want to get a snootful of semen to see how it smells?? I have never sniffed semen, so I can only imagine. I can also imagine the look on the potential semen-contributing partners face, when you ask for rapid ejaculation, just for the olfactory thrill of it all. And of course, since I am not the most sexually active person in the world these days, it could be eons before I ever get to find out if her statement is true.
But my mind works overtime, as everyone knows, so the thought process did not end there, and that is what really scares me. Ok, so if it smells like bleach, does that mean bleach tastes like semen?? I even grossed myself out on that one, and slammed the door on that particular thought process. But its amazing what my mind can do with that one statement. It opened up a plethora of possibilities. A more enjoyable way to get whiter whites. Ejaculation sanitiation for all your household germs. See? It could go on forever.And since my minds works in overdrive, it probably will.
In the middle of all these thoughts about bleach and semen, it hit me. Beybey sent this to me. Which won't mean a thing to you, I know. Let me explain. My beloved dear friend Beybey is 60 years old, and a single grandmother. Which gives me hope for the future. I may be single, and lonely right now. But it appears that my potential sperm-sniffing days are not over. There is still lots of time for that!
Semen smells like bleach
Current mood: lonely
Category: Friends
It happens all the time. and usually when I need it most, today being one of those times. I get an email from a friend of mine, the usual, hey-how-ya-doing chatty glimpse into the life of a woman even crazier than I am. In the middle of the inane chatter about high gas price, high milk prices, and I-hate-my-job descriptives, was a single sentence. "Did you ever notice that semen smells like bleach?" And that was all she said on that particular subject..
Now I confess that up until that very point in time, I had NOT noticed that semen smelled like anything, much less bleach. But now rampant images of exactly how one makes this determination blitz through my head. I mean, can you imagine sitting around one night, and deciding that for kicks, you want to get a snootful of semen to see how it smells?? I have never sniffed semen, so I can only imagine. I can also imagine the look on the potential semen-contributing partners face, when you ask for rapid ejaculation, just for the olfactory thrill of it all. And of course, since I am not the most sexually active person in the world these days, it could be eons before I ever get to find out if her statement is true.
But my mind works overtime, as everyone knows, so the thought process did not end there, and that is what really scares me. Ok, so if it smells like bleach, does that mean bleach tastes like semen?? I even grossed myself out on that one, and slammed the door on that particular thought process. But its amazing what my mind can do with that one statement. It opened up a plethora of possibilities. A more enjoyable way to get whiter whites. Ejaculation sanitiation for all your household germs. See? It could go on forever.And since my minds works in overdrive, it probably will.
In the middle of all these thoughts about bleach and semen, it hit me. Beybey sent this to me. Which won't mean a thing to you, I know. Let me explain. My beloved dear friend Beybey is 60 years old, and a single grandmother. Which gives me hope for the future. I may be single, and lonely right now. But it appears that my potential sperm-sniffing days are not over. There is still lots of time for that!
#4
Friday, March 14, 2008
The annual ass commentary!
It's that time of year again, where the thoughts of normal women such as myself, turn to things like spring cleaning, summer vacations, suntans, shaving, and the glory of a gorgeous man ass. Only for Aunt Bebey would I attempt the annual butt blog on a cell phone. But, circumstances being what they are, I shall sally forth! This one's for you, my beloved Aunt Bebey! As a faithful admirer of a truly fabulous man ass, I have finally seen one that set me back on my heels. And that is saying something. Ladies, I'm talking hindparts absolutely perfect in form, fit, fur, and finesse. This ass should be forever immortalized in marble for women throughout eternity to admire. It's the kind of butt that makes us stupid as soon as we see it. We discuss its merits over ladies luncheon, and delve into pornographic fantasies about it after a few drinks. And we won't discuss here what sort of behavior said ass causes after several dozen drinks. That is another blog for a day when neither memories nor hangovers are quite as vivid and raw. The perfect butt is attached to a damn good body, kept in glorious shape from daily strenuous activity. Rock hard legs lead to the perfect curve, just made to be held in your hands, pulling as... Ok enough of that. While not smooth as a baby's butt, there is no fear that you can physically see a glaring resemblance to either a bear or gorilla. Its just plain and simple, the sort of butt you want to lay around and rub on for weeks on end. This perfect behind sits above the aforementioned fabulous legs, and below a wonderfully firm waist, that just begs you to stare, open-mouthed and drooling. And wondering why, oh why, does God choose to torture you this way. Men, I encourage you all to develop an ass of this stature. My girlfriend shortsuthernqt, and I have waxed poetic over this. Trust us. You want women who trip over their tongues as you walk by? Take up butt-sculpting sports, such as biking, hiking, blading, or jogging, and watch us fall. We will!
The annual ass commentary!
It's that time of year again, where the thoughts of normal women such as myself, turn to things like spring cleaning, summer vacations, suntans, shaving, and the glory of a gorgeous man ass. Only for Aunt Bebey would I attempt the annual butt blog on a cell phone. But, circumstances being what they are, I shall sally forth! This one's for you, my beloved Aunt Bebey! As a faithful admirer of a truly fabulous man ass, I have finally seen one that set me back on my heels. And that is saying something. Ladies, I'm talking hindparts absolutely perfect in form, fit, fur, and finesse. This ass should be forever immortalized in marble for women throughout eternity to admire. It's the kind of butt that makes us stupid as soon as we see it. We discuss its merits over ladies luncheon, and delve into pornographic fantasies about it after a few drinks. And we won't discuss here what sort of behavior said ass causes after several dozen drinks. That is another blog for a day when neither memories nor hangovers are quite as vivid and raw. The perfect butt is attached to a damn good body, kept in glorious shape from daily strenuous activity. Rock hard legs lead to the perfect curve, just made to be held in your hands, pulling as... Ok enough of that. While not smooth as a baby's butt, there is no fear that you can physically see a glaring resemblance to either a bear or gorilla. Its just plain and simple, the sort of butt you want to lay around and rub on for weeks on end. This perfect behind sits above the aforementioned fabulous legs, and below a wonderfully firm waist, that just begs you to stare, open-mouthed and drooling. And wondering why, oh why, does God choose to torture you this way. Men, I encourage you all to develop an ass of this stature. My girlfriend shortsuthernqt, and I have waxed poetic over this. Trust us. You want women who trip over their tongues as you walk by? Take up butt-sculpting sports, such as biking, hiking, blading, or jogging, and watch us fall. We will!
#3
Thursday, March 20, 2008
My Introduction to the Lickter Scale
Current mood: used
Category: Friends
So as I sat around swimming in my own sea of self-doubt, my friend called to fill me in on her new personal trainer. She chatted about him for a few minutes, and summed it up by saying that he rated a 15 on the Lickter Scale. Which, it seems, only goes to 10. Of course this little pearl grabbed my attention. Never one to let something this juicy pass me by, I had to ask about the Lickter Scale. The Lickter Scale was created in response to the way men rate a woman’s fuckability quotient. Only it is much more thought intensive, and strict. Let’s face it, a man can throw a flag over any woman, and do her for his country and patriotism.
Women aren’t built like that. There has to be appeal. On more than one level.
Sean Connery, for example, shall always rate a 10 or higher on the Lickter Scale, but Nicholas Cage tends to be on a downward slide.Tom Cruise, playing volleyball in the movie Top Gun, scores a resounding 12, but hit about a 2 during his Oprah interview. There is Mel Gibson, that moves between a 4 and a 7 depending on just what he is doing. I’d rate Michael Chikless as at least a 14, George Clooney as an 11, Conan O’Brien as a 2. Are you with me so far?
In order to rank highly on this scale, not only must he have the look, he must have the personality, the moves, and the attitude.He can be the best looking thing in the world, but ruin it all the minute he opens his mouth and allows his brain to fall out of it. Then again, he may not be drop dead hot, but makes up for it with personality and attitude, thereby making him more appealing. The ones that grow on you that way are the dangerous ones, by the way. They are the ones that sort of sneak up on you, smacking you right between the eyes with sex appeal you never noticed, and always at the worst possible moment.
I have been trying to classify the men I know since learning of this scale. It makes me realize a lot of things. Like the fact that I don’t know all that many men. And most of the ones I do know, score fairly low on this scale, with a few notable exceptions. Don’t even look for them to be listed here. Are you nuts??? I’m not giving them away for everyone to enjoy, for Pete’s sake! They think they know who they are, which is funny enough if you really think about it. Because the ones that think they rate a high score are the ones I am least worried about. It’s the few, the proud, the dangerous, that scare me. And they shall remain nameless. If they know how highly they ranked, it will go straight to the ego, ruining a perfectly good thing. And I am sick of being everybody’s ego-stroke. Stroke your own, already!
But for now, I will continue to learn and utilize this wonderful new tool. No pun intended. Give it a try. You might really be amazed at how you start to see the men around you.
My Introduction to the Lickter Scale
Current mood: used
Category: Friends
So as I sat around swimming in my own sea of self-doubt, my friend called to fill me in on her new personal trainer. She chatted about him for a few minutes, and summed it up by saying that he rated a 15 on the Lickter Scale. Which, it seems, only goes to 10. Of course this little pearl grabbed my attention. Never one to let something this juicy pass me by, I had to ask about the Lickter Scale. The Lickter Scale was created in response to the way men rate a woman’s fuckability quotient. Only it is much more thought intensive, and strict. Let’s face it, a man can throw a flag over any woman, and do her for his country and patriotism.
Women aren’t built like that. There has to be appeal. On more than one level.
Sean Connery, for example, shall always rate a 10 or higher on the Lickter Scale, but Nicholas Cage tends to be on a downward slide.Tom Cruise, playing volleyball in the movie Top Gun, scores a resounding 12, but hit about a 2 during his Oprah interview. There is Mel Gibson, that moves between a 4 and a 7 depending on just what he is doing. I’d rate Michael Chikless as at least a 14, George Clooney as an 11, Conan O’Brien as a 2. Are you with me so far?
In order to rank highly on this scale, not only must he have the look, he must have the personality, the moves, and the attitude.He can be the best looking thing in the world, but ruin it all the minute he opens his mouth and allows his brain to fall out of it. Then again, he may not be drop dead hot, but makes up for it with personality and attitude, thereby making him more appealing. The ones that grow on you that way are the dangerous ones, by the way. They are the ones that sort of sneak up on you, smacking you right between the eyes with sex appeal you never noticed, and always at the worst possible moment.
I have been trying to classify the men I know since learning of this scale. It makes me realize a lot of things. Like the fact that I don’t know all that many men. And most of the ones I do know, score fairly low on this scale, with a few notable exceptions. Don’t even look for them to be listed here. Are you nuts??? I’m not giving them away for everyone to enjoy, for Pete’s sake! They think they know who they are, which is funny enough if you really think about it. Because the ones that think they rate a high score are the ones I am least worried about. It’s the few, the proud, the dangerous, that scare me. And they shall remain nameless. If they know how highly they ranked, it will go straight to the ego, ruining a perfectly good thing. And I am sick of being everybody’s ego-stroke. Stroke your own, already!
But for now, I will continue to learn and utilize this wonderful new tool. No pun intended. Give it a try. You might really be amazed at how you start to see the men around you.
#2
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
The tale of the mistaken Reece's cup
I have now discovered what not to do about a lot of things. It’s been an adventure, to be sure. But yesterday, I learned another of life’s valuable little lessons. And I don’t think I’ll be able to eat Reece’s cups for a long, long time. If ever.
I was working yesterday morning, and we were fairly steady, what with customers, deliveries, and the day to day stuff that goes with employment at Dollar Glorious. I would dash into the office for a quick guzzle of my drink, and a longing look at my 4 pack of Reece’s cups, which I had no time to actually stop and eat. I thought about those stupid Reece’s cups all day. Everyone knows its my favorite snack at work. I had a conference call coming up at two that afternoon, and so I was trying to get everything done beforehand. I should have known it was going to be one of those days, because I had to lock up the men’s room. It would seem some people just do not take a shit at home, they save it up for a week or two, then unload it in my store. The toilet was blocked totally, and it was NOT with toilet paper. But I didn’t realize that part. I finally snarfed down my 4 Reece’s cups, and went out to pick up the parking lot before the conference call. It had been looking a little like Beruit out there. I was going to deal with the men’s room after the conference call was over. Or so I thought. The landscapers, bless their busy little hearts, had cleaned the parking lot while I was inside the store. Which left me at loose ends for about 20 minutes until the call. So, what the hell, I’ll go deal with the men’s room now and get it over with.
DO NOT EAT REECE’S CUPS AND THEN PLUNGE A TOILET. Here I was thinking it was just toilet paper that was the problem in there. I opened the door and the stench hit me. It was so bad it made my ears water. The visual was even worse. The bowl was completely filled and there was very little toilet paper in sight. Oh. Dear. God. They don’t fucking pay me enough for this. I rapidly flipped through my mental file of customers to see which one, exactly, I was going to fucking dismember for this little stunt. That was not so little. And then, being the good little company bitch that I am, I took plunger in hand, held my breath and commenced Operation Smash Shit. It takes a lot to gross me out, but that sure as hell did it. I was gagging, and heaving, eyes streaming, nose running, valiantly fighting to keep the Reece’s cups where I put them, down in my stomach. Because I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that if I yakked up the Reece’s cups on top of what was already there, I would just have to lay down and die. 15 minutes and a half a gallon of bleach later, the men’s room was cleared of both stench and obstruction. It took me about an hour after that to stop trying to puke every time I breathed. I’ll never look at Reece’s cups the same way again. Or one of the vendors, because I am pretty sure he was the one that laid the shit bomb to start with.
I need a new work snack. Any suggestions? And don’t say Twizzlers. Red licorice brings up a whole new set of bad memories in the women’s room…
The tale of the mistaken Reece's cup
I have now discovered what not to do about a lot of things. It’s been an adventure, to be sure. But yesterday, I learned another of life’s valuable little lessons. And I don’t think I’ll be able to eat Reece’s cups for a long, long time. If ever.
I was working yesterday morning, and we were fairly steady, what with customers, deliveries, and the day to day stuff that goes with employment at Dollar Glorious. I would dash into the office for a quick guzzle of my drink, and a longing look at my 4 pack of Reece’s cups, which I had no time to actually stop and eat. I thought about those stupid Reece’s cups all day. Everyone knows its my favorite snack at work. I had a conference call coming up at two that afternoon, and so I was trying to get everything done beforehand. I should have known it was going to be one of those days, because I had to lock up the men’s room. It would seem some people just do not take a shit at home, they save it up for a week or two, then unload it in my store. The toilet was blocked totally, and it was NOT with toilet paper. But I didn’t realize that part. I finally snarfed down my 4 Reece’s cups, and went out to pick up the parking lot before the conference call. It had been looking a little like Beruit out there. I was going to deal with the men’s room after the conference call was over. Or so I thought. The landscapers, bless their busy little hearts, had cleaned the parking lot while I was inside the store. Which left me at loose ends for about 20 minutes until the call. So, what the hell, I’ll go deal with the men’s room now and get it over with.
DO NOT EAT REECE’S CUPS AND THEN PLUNGE A TOILET. Here I was thinking it was just toilet paper that was the problem in there. I opened the door and the stench hit me. It was so bad it made my ears water. The visual was even worse. The bowl was completely filled and there was very little toilet paper in sight. Oh. Dear. God. They don’t fucking pay me enough for this. I rapidly flipped through my mental file of customers to see which one, exactly, I was going to fucking dismember for this little stunt. That was not so little. And then, being the good little company bitch that I am, I took plunger in hand, held my breath and commenced Operation Smash Shit. It takes a lot to gross me out, but that sure as hell did it. I was gagging, and heaving, eyes streaming, nose running, valiantly fighting to keep the Reece’s cups where I put them, down in my stomach. Because I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that if I yakked up the Reece’s cups on top of what was already there, I would just have to lay down and die. 15 minutes and a half a gallon of bleach later, the men’s room was cleared of both stench and obstruction. It took me about an hour after that to stop trying to puke every time I breathed. I’ll never look at Reece’s cups the same way again. Or one of the vendors, because I am pretty sure he was the one that laid the shit bomb to start with.
I need a new work snack. Any suggestions? And don’t say Twizzlers. Red licorice brings up a whole new set of bad memories in the women’s room…
Old Blogs from myspace #1
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Would you sell your soul for a month?
A month of perfect health, guaranteed. A month of delirious happiness. A month of pure, undiluted true love. How about all of the above? Just what is your soul worth? I haven’t figured out what mine is worth, yet. But with all that has gone on in the past year, it’s something that I have started giving some thought to. It’s not as easy a decision as you might think. I look at people that I am convinced have no soul, and I see that it does seem to have its pros and cons. While not much seems to bother them, and they generally look fairly happy, I wonder about the total deadness of it all. Would a month of perfection in every way be worth giving up being able to feel imperfection? On the plus side, there would be no more pain. And hey, I gotta tell you, I am all for that. But there would also be no good feelings either. And then, wrap your mind around this…IF you decided to trade your soul for a month, a year, 50 years of perfection, could you really be truly happy knowing that you were under a deadline, and that perfection would come to an end?? Kinda defeats the purpose of perfect happiness and harmony, if you ask me.
Gah! I just read that last paragraph, and all I could think was “Oh crap! Look at the small town shop keeper getting all existential!” I swear I don’t mean for it to sound that heavy. But my mind can conjure the oddest things to mull over when I am trying to avoid thinking about something else. My cowardly lion side would rather think about this crap than what’s really bothering me today. Sheesh, how sad is that??
Ok, basically it’s all about goodbyes. Some are harder than others. Some goodbyes are no more difficult that saying the words, and some goodbyes tear at your heart (and soul) like rusted razors and dull barbed wire. Some goodbyes are full of words, and sometimes, there just are no words that could possibly cover it. Goodbyes, as a rule, suck bloated toad feet. Today, I said goodbye to someone. And it hurt in ways I could quite happily live without for the rest of my life. In fact, I’d rather suck bloated toad feet. But there comes a time when dreams do die, however harshly. And then goodbyes give some closure, a least. So I said goodbye, the best way I knew how. And then I started contemplating my soul.
Birds are chirping madly away outside, traffic flies along the road, my daughter is sitting peacefully, reading a book, a half smile on her face at the twists and turns of the plot. The neighbor’s kids are laughing and playing outside, while their dad jams to something on the car stereo that has a solid Cuban sound to it. Less bass, please. Really. The dog, missing his favorite tennis ball, keeps dropping a rubber chicken in my lap to play with. And barking at the neighborhood feral felines. Pretty annoying. The sun is coming in the window, too warm on my skin, reminding me that it will only get hotter. All of these feelings hit me at the same time. And with them, clarity.
I don’t know what my soul is worth. To you, at least. But I know what it is worth to me. And I think I will be keeping my soul, thank you very much. Because I can feel. Everything. Good, bad, ugly, indifferent. I am here, and I can feel. I wonder how many others can say the same?
Would you sell your soul for a month?
A month of perfect health, guaranteed. A month of delirious happiness. A month of pure, undiluted true love. How about all of the above? Just what is your soul worth? I haven’t figured out what mine is worth, yet. But with all that has gone on in the past year, it’s something that I have started giving some thought to. It’s not as easy a decision as you might think. I look at people that I am convinced have no soul, and I see that it does seem to have its pros and cons. While not much seems to bother them, and they generally look fairly happy, I wonder about the total deadness of it all. Would a month of perfection in every way be worth giving up being able to feel imperfection? On the plus side, there would be no more pain. And hey, I gotta tell you, I am all for that. But there would also be no good feelings either. And then, wrap your mind around this…IF you decided to trade your soul for a month, a year, 50 years of perfection, could you really be truly happy knowing that you were under a deadline, and that perfection would come to an end?? Kinda defeats the purpose of perfect happiness and harmony, if you ask me.
Gah! I just read that last paragraph, and all I could think was “Oh crap! Look at the small town shop keeper getting all existential!” I swear I don’t mean for it to sound that heavy. But my mind can conjure the oddest things to mull over when I am trying to avoid thinking about something else. My cowardly lion side would rather think about this crap than what’s really bothering me today. Sheesh, how sad is that??
Ok, basically it’s all about goodbyes. Some are harder than others. Some goodbyes are no more difficult that saying the words, and some goodbyes tear at your heart (and soul) like rusted razors and dull barbed wire. Some goodbyes are full of words, and sometimes, there just are no words that could possibly cover it. Goodbyes, as a rule, suck bloated toad feet. Today, I said goodbye to someone. And it hurt in ways I could quite happily live without for the rest of my life. In fact, I’d rather suck bloated toad feet. But there comes a time when dreams do die, however harshly. And then goodbyes give some closure, a least. So I said goodbye, the best way I knew how. And then I started contemplating my soul.
Birds are chirping madly away outside, traffic flies along the road, my daughter is sitting peacefully, reading a book, a half smile on her face at the twists and turns of the plot. The neighbor’s kids are laughing and playing outside, while their dad jams to something on the car stereo that has a solid Cuban sound to it. Less bass, please. Really. The dog, missing his favorite tennis ball, keeps dropping a rubber chicken in my lap to play with. And barking at the neighborhood feral felines. Pretty annoying. The sun is coming in the window, too warm on my skin, reminding me that it will only get hotter. All of these feelings hit me at the same time. And with them, clarity.
I don’t know what my soul is worth. To you, at least. But I know what it is worth to me. And I think I will be keeping my soul, thank you very much. Because I can feel. Everything. Good, bad, ugly, indifferent. I am here, and I can feel. I wonder how many others can say the same?
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