It's One of Those Times When Less is More

More of what remains to be seen, but in rare form, I don't know wtf this is going. But, I am loaded up with pics acquired from a blog search of "wtf." May Sarah Lee be with us on this, our epic, imaginary journey down memory lane.

Do you remember that time we dressed in our best leathers and pink fuzzies and walked all around town with vibrators in our asses? You held the remote to mine and I held the remote to yours and we took a Shortbus all over town in our skivvies. Those were good times. I loved you back then.

The romance was hot and we swam naked and fucked and slept in hammocks and hardly regretted not remembering it all, because those hang overs peskily reminded us that the night before involved cattle prodding while drunk driving and taking that stolen pregnancy test in the grocery store bathroom. Ah. Good times.

Wtf have you been since you dumped me pregnant? That was so hot. My favorite part was when the woman that you were really in love with all of a sudden showed up in my dream and I bitch-slapped her like you know I just go around doing all the time when I'm on the Jerry Springer Family Fun Hour and my hand went right through her face and hurt for several days after. If it all weren't so lucid, I'd bottle it up in a microscopic bug pack and send it your way, where ever you are, to bite you in the ass. Our son's fine, btw.

For many years we never spoke of you. Someone felt threatened by that, but I encouraged the truth to be revealed, confident that actions spoke louder than blood. I was right though all of the curiosities are directed at me still, because he knows. He likes marshmallows and I just ate one. I'm much fatter now. My thyroid.

Do you remember when you wrecked my best friend's motorcycle when she was out of town, but allowed you to take her motor cycle to work while she was gone? What ever happened with all that? I remember how I pasted taro root over your arm wounds, fed you tea and you wore that nighty and we stayed drunk and holed up for a week solid. You were my captive. Who wouldn't love that? And Schlitz Malt Liquor.

You always were a better drunk than me. Do I envy your unflailing march toward death? Is my conscience a hindrance, my beloved sobriety a curse? Tonight I watched Ned Flanders's deepest despair involve his son's wearing a Buttholiohole Surfers tee and P got it and laughed. He's smart. He gets everything.

On his first birthday I was hungover, but not nearly like I had been from my thirtieth birthday party, the day after which I hit my all time low. After I blacked out, M put P in bed with me like always so he could nurse in the night and he got so drunk that I thought he was permanently damaged, but did not take him to the hospital, hoping it would pass. It did. I still drank a few more months until that sticky May birthday party when all of the people were around me were drinking, and some tiny tiny metamoment occurred, and I realized without seeking it whatsoever that the scene around me in that neighborhood where we had to clean the needles out of the yard and that guy stopped and asked M if he would do him a solid and just hold his gun for him for a sec, that not one single thing was ever going to be any better than that in my life if I continued to drink. And my bottom was high, I hear.

Oh, there's more you'll never read. As M and I joke, even as we both know of my eternal ambivalence, you are missin' out on all this. We're broke as shit. We're teetering on the edge of breaking up every week and though he stays stoned and hides beer bottles, in trash bags behind that old van I can't find the title to so I can have it hauled off that I discover on the way to show N the peacocks and guinea hens that we've been living next door to for two years for the first time, he stays.

Oh sure, I've given him every reason to leave as has he given me... and I still may, but well, I don't know. There wasn't a point to that sentence. I'm pretty sure you thought you were a sicker fucker than me or at least you said that. Or maybe that's like that line, "It's not you; it's me." I mean, look at the picture I just posted for instance. Look at the all the pot I'm not smoking. Look at all the KoolAid™ I'm drinking to pay minivan and insurance payments, so that I can pollute the air our son breathes. Public schools and vaccinations are part of the indoctrination of a society that makes fat cats fatter and couldn't survive without guns holding it all tightly tightly in place.

But, if you were here right now, I would probably still want to suck your cock and imagine that our pain is a glue that binds us to each other, that makes transcending the physical possible, while we sneak into Willie Nelson's birthday party barefoot needing nothing in our pockets, but that nasty-ass rolling tobacco (I quit by the way) and a rolling paper or two. How can I still regret your absence? How can I still miss your smile- though I barely remember it? How can I think there was anything to miss in any of that? Do I still have some of the same mentalities I did then?

I have not even one single ittty bitttty picture of you to remember you by. I'd never had a cell phone back then, much less a digital camera. I cannot show our son how beautiful you were. And, worse yet, neither can you. But, I'll do you a favor. I'll leave you alone psychically. I'll quit missing you and forgiving you in my dreams. I'll remember you like this picture here with pink shit spread all over your dick wishing I would lick that shit off you and without apology I will say, "Not a chance in hell." And, you would say, "Oh no's! Did you just say the h e double hockeysticks word?" And, I would think to say, "You stupid piece of shit," except I don't talk like that. I never did.

Where's the zinger? A post with a picture like this has to have a point, has to have some higher purpose that makes such an image justifiable. I mean, you can't even read this at work because there are pornographic images right there for all the ladies in accounting walking by to see.

You probably don't have a job anyway. That can't be my zinger. That's not even a cut down. Plus, you probably do have a job.

Well, never mind. I'm going to go snuggle with my little Genius. He'll be ten next month- though he keeps insisting that it is incorrect not to count the nine months he spent en utero. I tell him that though he is right and all the rest of society is wrong, there are advantages to playing by the rules. Such as, did you know that a ten year birthday is way specialler than an eleven year birthday party? And, when he asked me who my favorite person in the whole world was yesterday, I said it was him and he said he was going to tell his little brother, and I said, "No, no, no, no! If you do that, you won't be my favorite person in the whole world anymore." And, he said, "I'm going to tell N to come ask you the same question and ask him what you said. But, I'm going to wait until you have forgotten this conversation to do it."

I won't.

Oh, I've got to post this song every few months here:


Tha Florence Joe Diaries: Lord, Let My Ass Be A Instrument Tha' Keeps Tha Peace

Now tha' ah done spilt tha beans 'bout me an' Jesus bein' lovers, ah might as well start writin' in mah diary again. First off. This here picture shows Jesus in she's true form, an' so you gots ta call her Mona now, k? She's touch is majic.

As you can see why, it were hard ta get over mah kissin' cousin Dalisa (she's tha one in tha striped top), but she an' Jina Paige (tha one wit' she's cross necklace) done hooked up an' it seems like everywhere ah looks these days, it's thespians, thespians, thespians.

Ah love this picture. Jina Paige's manager o'er at Waffle House took it of us one day after we was done eatin' we's mornin' waffles. It's in tha back alley. Me an' Mona had just got back from clubbin' in Houston tha night before wit' these cute guys we met on we's shift at Hooters. You could probly tell that from mah fucked hair an' we's evenin' gowns.

What ah love tha most 'bout this picture is seein' how much me an Dalisa looks alike. We's Mommas is sisters an' she's like mah sister, 'ceptin' a course, ah wouldn't never kiss a real sister a mine. Tha' would be sick and ah ain't no prevert, so get you's mind out tha gutter!

Ah jes' s'pose ah gots ta write t'day 'cause a tha way ah feels. Lately it seems like every time me an' Carl Wayne's been fuckin' ah ain't been gettin' off tha way ah used ta. Ah swore up an' down ah weren't gonna let Mona spoil me fer no man, but she done near done that by now. Why, ah used ta cum faster than it takes Paris Hilton ta drop she's drawers , but a few times it even took me a whole episode a Hee Haw. Ahh know. They's long!

Even when ah fucked Reverend Dean after church on tha day this picture was taked, they was times when ah was rammin' he's special crucifix in he's ass that mah mind started ta wonder . Now don' get me wrong. Ah can still repeat he's Bible verses 'bout how we's all sinners without skippin' a beat, but sometimes mah heart ain't really in it an' then it all jes' feels all wrong.

Ah guess ah's jes' started ta question some things, ya know.

Ah knows it don' matter none nohow anyhow, 'cause Mona's always sayin', "Tha Lord loves us jes' tha way we are." So wha' ah can't figure out is why ah holds mahself back from he's will. What ah means is, why do ah even try ta tell Carl Wayne ta stop fuckin' me when ah knows tha sooner ah jes' lays back an' relaxes, tha sooner ah gets wet enough tha' it don't hurt no more an' it can start feelin' good.

Even if ah don't remember it none, Carl Wayne is always holdin' me to mah promise to obey him like a good husband should. Iffin' it weren't fer him an' PBR, ah don't know what ah'd do.

Lord, let my ass be a instrument tha' keeps tha peace.


I Know a Good Smite When I See One

Dear Patriotic Saint of Cuntly Affairs,

I am almost over what has retroactively come to my attention as being my undiagnosable Swine Flu. Just a little dizziness here and there with ears popping remain. Were I to have had a fever, I would be taking advantage of my ailment by co-opting someone to send me into quarantine, but as it is, I am just more likely to suffer silently and get it now that my immune system is compromised by some mere feline flu.

It's karma, I suppose. The other night, Mr. Bee took the boys to the fundraiser BBQ, so The Lip Model cooked up bacon and I made salads and baked potatoes and I broke my year-and-a-half respite from meat eating by eating bacon of all things. Delicious, but deadly. And, then the next day, I first hear of swine flu. Coincidence? I think not. At least I didn't eat beef and get Mad Cow Disease, but since I ate turkey meatloaf yesterday, I figure that's why the swine flu mutated with the bird flu. The Lord is punishing me for all those dirty thoughts I had yesterday.

Here's another example of a person who has been smited recently...

Pregnant Woman Hit By Car While Running From Bear

Here's a guy who will no doubt be smited by getting what he askes for.

Anonymous Millionaire Employs New York Matchmaker Janis Spindel to Find Him a New Wife

Those are the worst.

Lest you begin to think that I am not authenitically and sufficiently suffering, do not think I am above color coating my cries for help as snide rainbow-speak. I'm not. In fact, by the time you are reading this, I will have already shipped myself in a box to one of your houses, so beware of strange and or stinky packages which you may recieve soon, and if you get a fortune cookie that says as much, Lard, Help Our Souls!

I'm out of colors. Plus, this post really screams, "I get my useless news and entertainment from Yahoo News." (Did anyone else get creeped out by Ted Nugent's being featured on CMT?) Shirley, I will ba back later with something so pithy and substantial that even your dark, jaded heart will be moved to tears and kittens.

Love, Cuddleslut, Inc™


Housewife Log Stardate WD40: Live Blogging a Soon-to-Be Purple File Cabinet, My French Press, the Dishes, a Movie, a Dream, and a Mess. Oh My!

Boy howdy.  Here we go.  In real-time.  You may think it's in slow mo, but I assure you, this is precisely how slow I work.  Appreciated in some realms.  In others- not so much.

I woke up at the crack of noon.
I have been sick all week, and at 6:30- when everyone else was getting up to go live his and or her respective lives, I felt sick.
I woke up again at 8:24 when Mr. Bee erroneously thought I would like to chat on the phone.  "I'm sleeping 'til 9:15, ok?"

At 9:15, it was apparent that more sleep was needed.  My body ached, so I turned over on the couch- to insure maximum infestation of the whole family- and re-set the alarm on my dying phone until 10:30. 

Futility at it's finest.

I refused to wake up until after I had given a party for myself- for my family in a house that wasn't mine, but I had...

(PAUSE-  The water is boiling.  It is now 1:07.  Where has the day gone?)

... loved for years.  My step-father saw my interest in the house, and he implied he would help me get it and I laughed that it was well within the price it would take to get me to teach in Arkansas.  I don't think that's legally binding, fortunately.

(She rubs her eyes.)

At 12:12, I rolled over and sorted through the papers that came home in The Genius' Wednesday Folder, though there was no folder really and they were spread all over the floor, the closest thing to the couch- hence their immediate attention.  There is a Barbecue Dinner fundraiser tonight for my son's grade to go on an overnight field trip that I have already paid a pricey amount for anyway.  @$8.00 a pop x 5 people- no vegetarian assumed, as well, though to be irrelevant as mentioned here shortly.  It's a little early (1:15) for math like that, but I think we can do better.

Plus.  On my list of things to do today I have the following:
Don't leave the house.
I'm kinda busy. 


I must now find a suitable pic and movie on Netflix that can broadcast all over the living room and kitchen while I putter around and fold massive amounts of laundry that live on the kitchen table these days and appease the dishes monster.  

Oh, a pic.

Pictured above is Isaac- the cat we found with the people name who used to be tiny.  Awwww.

It's 1:24.  I'm not doctoring the pic or even putting a witty caption above him.  Those are actually folded clothes from two days ago (plus a couple bags a potatoes, a bag o' onions,  and some bananas in the background).  The ones to be folded are less interesting to look at.  I assure you.

I shall go press down my french press, become civilly caffeinated and pet my kitty, no doubt.  Before day's end, I promise to provide a pic of the softest kitty in existence, Applesauce, as well.

(1:30)  Housewife Out.

(2:00)  Uh-oh.  All I've done is drink one cup of coffee and be on Facebook looking at pics of my ex and his gorgeous wife in Belize.  Ooh.  Maybe a little Alanis Morisette is appropriate, or my other fav, the Dan Savage Love Podcast while I do dishes.  Probably Netflix.

Randal-  That's the sexy flannel shirt I wore when I was in AC yesterday.

(2:03) Housewife Out.

(2:31)  Uh-oh.  I went to the married lesbians who love ladiez or whatever you call it board and read and posted and am thoroughly appalled at what keeping track of how I spend my times is revealing.  

Seriously.  Two cups of coffee down.  Shouldn't my ability to sit in a chair be compromised by this point.  

Must. Resist. Urge. To. Read. Blogs.

Fred Ricky.  Onions and bananas?  I can see the bananas things, but to make onions into a sexual innuendo takes more talent than even I can muster... yet.  It is that to which I aspire.

Coming Soon...  I'm horny as hell or ouch I banged my toe.  (Yet to be determined.)

(2:35) Housewife (kinda) Out.

(3:20)  Settled on Simple Men, a Hal Hartley film from '92.  I've been liking his movies lately, watching them on Netflix.  Folded a little laundry, found an arrowhead on the floor of the laundry room- hoping it's not stolen.  Surely, it's from a young one's jeans pocket.  Have blown my nose 56.3 times.  Finished a third cup of coffee.  I drink half caff, so I can drink more coffee before I become a jittery mess.  I don't think it's too healthy for me.  I'll hope that chopping up and swallowing a clove of raw garlic will offset the negative effects.

I didn't tell you yet that my laptop hard drive crashed yet, did I?  Nope.  Sucks.  

Oh.  I am transitioning to a new therapist, since they won't allow me to see the one at UT after I (presumably) graduate.  She is very beautiful and smart and surely the initial crush will ensue, the one that accompanies meeting (even if I have to pay him or her) a person who is willing to hear me blather and offer up only supportiveness.

(3:29)  I don't want to do dishes.  I have to stick my hands in the sink of cold dirty water to start and I'm squeamish when it comes to discomfort and/ or scummy water.

Oh yeah.  I also forgot to tell you that as I was leaving the house yesterday, I heard a baby animal yelping and saw my cat looking at this clump of yuccas we have, so I ventured closer and saw a snake tail.  It was a big snake and me and the cat that went right up to it and Snaggletooth too- who stayed home sick yesterday with me, but then only had a stomach ache because he fell asleep inordinately early before eating his supper, but I kept him home anyway because he's also my Snugglecat (which I may change his name to- as his teeth have grown in and he's not such a Snaggletooth anymore anyway.  Done.)  We all saw that this big snake had a baby bunny's head in its mouth, just enough that it couldn't get away, but not so much that it couldn't yelp.  We inadvertently disturbed the cycle of nature so much so that the snake let go of it and slithered off and the bunny hopped around and I don't think Isaac got it in the end either and  Happy Earth Day!  I think it was a rat snake though Snugglecat insists it was a rattle snake.  We saw it rattle it's tale, but there was no rattle- though its head did look large like a venomous snake, but there was a rabbit in it.  It wasn't a copperhead or a coral snake clearly, and I doubt a water moccasin would be near our house, but I understand that it increases Snugglecat's standing in the lucky brother department if he survived to tell the tale of the rattlesnake and the rabbit, so I'll not argue it too much with him.  Happy Earth Day, indeed.  

Mauigrrl.  Rrrarrr.

(3:39)  Back to the grind- but, not the good kind.  Housewife Out.

(3:55)  Running a bath way too hot (and environmentally insensitive) so I can take my own sweet time doing the burdensome deed.  I always feel that way until I get in it.  

Thanks, Kevin.

Did I ever tell you about the time I bathed Isaac with me as a wee young kitten with too many fleas and he liked it and was curious a shit about the bathtub forever after, until the day he jumped right in... and then right out.  I laughed my fucking ass off, or for expediency (which is obviously my goal today)- LMFAO.

I did manage to Twitter.  My neck just popped.  Did you hear that?  No, it wasn't the hot EMT's here to have a sexy romp as they try to strip off my tank top and Mr. Bee's boxers in order to put me in an XL straightjacket.  

Oh no's!  This is like one of those sitcoms where they incessantly insert scenes from old episodes- a flashback episode if you will.  I hate those.

MUHAHAHA cough cough cough.

Crap!  I made my bath perfect.

To get in now or to wastefully run superhot water in it in 30 minutes is the question.

(4:04) Housewife Out is the answer, Alex.

(5:34) Only an hour later and I am pretty sure Darkblack is right.  As my agent, I am hoping the next gig involves  my editing erotica or my going blind nil in spades.  I'm better at both of those things and they can be done in my underwear.

I am afraid The Lip Model is requiring me to not accomplish my one goal for the day in needing a ride.  She will also be getting anew name soon- though humorously Mr. Bee and I call her new beau (sic) "Lip Ring" and the irony is not lost on me.  I am actually blogging without my glasses and I'm okay with all the fuzziness.  I am hoping for the garlic power to kick in any moment, because I am going to cook a meatloaf.  Seriously.  And, I have decided in the last couple days that I am really craving to eat meat right now, so I am going to for a couple months, and so ground turkey meat will be my first step back into carnivorousness after a year and a half.  I refuse to be dogmatic about something when it defies my intuitions as denying the cravings I have is doing lately.  And, yes, that can be read metaphorically as well- though more generally than specifically.  

(5:43) Housewife Out.


Eye Spy Something Gooey





When Randal says, "Don't blink," I blink.

When Randal says, "Don't touch me there," I touch him there.

When Randal says I'm pretty, I bitch-slap his face like I'm offended and then we play strip Canasta.

After I get Randal all aroused, I tell him I'm a lesbian.

When Randal tells me I'm too busy to do a meme, I'm like putty in his wicked hands, getting right to the meat of the matter.

Under his spell, firstly, I wore baby blue eyeshadow in order to requite his dark, deep-seated Three's Company fantasy.

Then he shaved off my eyebrows WITH HIS MIND!

When I saw the hoffifying sight (Chuck Norris), my eye twitched and one became evil in order to ward off all lifeforms, sentient (not Chuck Norris) and otherwise (Chuck Norris).
(Blame Christopher and his Power of Suggestion.)

While Randal was beating me at Strip Canasta, I got so drunk, he smuggled me onto a ship where I got terribly seasick and he hypnotized me to tag these Dilfs (I don't know if they are all actually daddies, but I am always open to kinky long-distance sugar daddy relationships if they involve CA$H, penis (or strap-on) pics or immortal candy corn statues, all of which involve looking into a reproduced image of the eyes):

In the end, it is neither Randal nor I you should blame, but rather he that is called iSplotchy!


On The Go...

Oh. The crazy excitement. I have been in this, the quietest library on campus (I discover a month before my hopeful graduation), for 3.5 hours and have not accomplished one iota of studying. It's nice, but my guilt is kicking in. I have nothing to show for it whatsoever, so I'm resorting to posting.

What can I say? I took my second teaching certification exam yesterday and should find out the results momentarily. Geez. That's boring. The first was a content proficiency exam and this one pertained to teaching pedagogy. If that seems like a funny word to you. Join the club, google it, or just read on. We're moving past it.

I think Mimi's getting married tomorrow, and I don't have a thing to wear. I confess to stopping at the outlet malls between San Antonio and Austin and blowing an entire $35.oo on clothing that added up to $550 on the original price tags..., and I still feel guilty.

And, to boot, I have been perusing Craigslist and even made a Facebook quiz of my own. It's pitiful, really. I did start going back to Al Anon this week as I am living with a spousal unit who's taken drinking back up and a daughter who's stealing pills from her dad and all sorts of other fun things. One would think I would be writing here more often to maintain my sanity, but no. I prefer insanity, apparently.

Should I tell you what is interesting me on craiglist? I posted one rant that said,
"Hey (insert bitch's name here), Why are you fucking others' husbands?"
which I don't think I'll elaborate on at this moment, suffice it to say that much will be vented here via poetry, undoubtedly, and notice the plurality....

Crap. Double crap. I had decided to move out last week. Into all my wonderous choices. And, I am not sure if I am a coward or wonderfully loyal. I think it's the former. I am having to transition to another counselor as school draws to an end (I HOPE!!!! I have to pass Real Analysis to graduate) and I am going with a cool local group that specializes in sexuality issues.

I did answer one cl ad and have been in communique with a person and it's a cute one and I think I'm kinda pathetic, but it's in a moving forward kinda way though. Plus, I'm sporting this $88 sweatsuit jacket that I go for $7.00 and feel pretty fly. So, suck it. Please.

I'm going to get kicked outta here in 13 minutes. This library in the UT tower closes at midnight- the lady with the sexy voice just said so.

I bid you a doo.


Tha Florence Joe Diaries: Blog Against Tha Crock a Sh#@!

This here's me an' Jesus. We's lovers. When she approached me in tha street askin' me iffin' ah could help her make change, I din't know ezactly what she had in mind. Ah told her all's we gotta do is to get we's selves on over ta tha Quickie Mart an they'd make us change, easy 'nuff. Boy, was ah right!

I weren't sure ezactly why Jesus buyed she's self some condoms, 'cause she din't have she's beard back then an' she were a dead ringer fer a lady, but ah weren't one ta say wha's right fer anybody else, but fer me an' mah li'l rugrats.

When Jesus got change fer she's hundred dollar bill, she asked me iffin' she could take me ta eat out. Ah were hungry, so's ah said, "Sure thang!" Ah followed her over ta tha Lucky Motel. Ah were surprised tha's where she took me, 'cause ah din't even know they had a restaurant in there.

Ah come's ta find out Jesus's words often has them doubled meanin's. Yeah, she ordered us up some chicken fried steaks, mashed potatoes with gravy, coleslaw, chicken salad, biscuits an' corn on the cob from room service first, but after that, afore ah could say, "Uncle Skeeter's weener," she had she's tongue down mah throat slicker than a weasel covered in Vaseline™. Tha' day, Jesus did thangs ta me Carl Wayne ain't ne'er done, an' ah learnt the true meanin' a eatin' out.

When Jesus had me puts mah hand on she's hard penis, sure, ah was confused, but Tha Lord's Will became clear ta me. We had we's safe sex, which Jesus insisted was Tha Lord's way an' told me later, when we was sharing a PBR, she were 'bout ta have she's self a operation. Ah was a little worried she might be sick, which would explain why she needed tha condom, but then she told me she were born a woman stuck in a man's body an' she were approved ta have one a them gender realignment surgeries. She were gonna have she's cock turned into a pussy.

Now, ah thought ah'd heared 'bout everything kinky afore then, but a whole new world an' way a life opened up in front a me, and ah felt like ah was born again right then an' there. All's of a sudden ah knew ah could love Jesus iffin' she were a man or a woman. Now, don't get me wrong. Ah ain't no thespian. Reverend Dean told me it were a sin fer two ladies ta lay together an' ah shouldn't tell no one 'bout them times between me an' Dalisa an' him, 'cause then Tha Lord would find out an' surely curse ma Hooter's tips, so ah's been keepin' we's secret real good. Even ta this day, Jesus is tha only one ah told 'bout that.

'Ventually, Jesus said she wanted me ta wear this dildo ah strapped on mah self ta fuck her. Who was ah to deny Tha Lord? Ah could go into all the details 'bout how Jesus taught me how ta please she's self, but it's really all 'bout stickin' around ta finish tha job and tha's how ah started ta learn me a little somethin' about commitment to Tha Lord.

Sure 'nuff, Carl Wayne were pretty jealous a how close me an' Jesus was gettin'. He even got some a them guys in they's white sheets ta come on over to us when we was eatin' over at Waffle House one day ta say she oughtta watch she's back. A course ah was gonna kick they's asses right then an' there, threatening the grrl ah loved, but Jesus told me ta turn tha other cheek, so ah shook it extra ta show them what they weren't man enuff ta get again, an' we jes' walked away.

Pretty much, every day these is tha things we face. When me an' my Jesus moved in with each others, we got these letters on we's front door from folks concerned about Jesus wearin' she's dresses she buyed over at WalMart wit' she's very own money. An, even though they got's benefits at Hooters, Jesus cain't be on mah health insurance, on a count we's both females now.

Ah's always sayin', "America, Land a tha Free and Tha Brave, you can kiss mah sweet ass!" But, Jesus, who's stronger than me, says what we's seein' is tha start a legalization a gay marriage in we's country an' one day we can have Reverend Dean hisself marry us, but 'til then, she's gonna get she's self some knockers a her own an' get on a' Hooters she's self, so's she can afford she's meds tha' makes she's beard disappear, all thanks ta tha generous work a tha folks on o'er a' Blog Against Theocracy!


Feeling Soooo Ms. Understood

I have been having the biggest fucking pity party ever. You were invited telepathetically, but you didn't show. You didn't miss anything anyway. The band sucked, someone spiked the punch with Diet Coke (so it had a nasty aftertaste), and the police came and handcuffed everyone, but me..., since I was off holding the bag.

Before the cop on hipster action began, there was all this having fun and dancing and the people I wished I were just gave me their professionally disdainful looks. I had to pay them in advance to come, so when I told them I wanted my money back, they just laughed at me.

It was right around that time when my pants fell down, which was just as well, since I had just started my period and they were white (and unflattering) and had gotten bloodsoaked anyway. For some reason, I responded to the humiliation by yelling at them all that they'd all be sorry, which is a mistake when your real name is what mine is. That's when someone called the cops.

I would have been thankful if I could have cut my losses and just curled up into a ball right then and there, but I didn't. I decided it was time to toast the bride I was pretending to be in my white wedding shirt sans the white hotpants. Even though I felt conspicuously naked with no tattoos showing, at least I had my dimply thighs to distract from my message of sniveling propiety.

About then, Mr. Bee announced that he had never seen me in his life and everyone cheered and the piñata broke open and everyone rushed up and got all the chocolate footballs before I could even get one piece, even though I had done a perfect slide into home base- aka the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

When I got up and dusted off my naked, dimply ass, I saw that this was Mr. Bee's new wife and they were kissing and she threw a bouquet at me and I caught it and noticed it was nettles and my eyes were burning, since I caught it with my face and my glasses were lost and I had thought it was some sort of chia pet. When I realized that I was not going to have a pet whose fur I could feed on, I got very lonely and distraught.

I figured the kids could cheer me up, so I went to sit at the kids' table, but they were playing musical chairs and they all crowded me out every time I went to sit in a chair lest I get my bloody, leaf-encrusted rear on the presents that weren't for me.

I was starting to think that no one wanted me there, but then they announced there was going to be a snipe hunt, and I was selected to hold the bag.

I was elated.

It was about 12 hours later, when I returned to the house, that I saw the note informing me that the after-party had moved to an undisclosed police location.

And, to top it all off, when I looked in the mirror, I noticed I had been having a bad hair day all along.

Fortunately, these messages of hope cheered me up.


I'm a Little Squirrelly (Done to the Dance of I'm a Little Teapot- Except with Squirrelly Gestures)

This squirrel is getting more action than me.

Just thought you should know.


This Here's My Not So Privates

Well, after I found the picture of some guy's penis on my desktop via The Lip Model, I decided to lift the private readership deal for the time being- just to try it back on for a bit.

OK, the decision really had nothing to do with finding that pic, but it was after I found it that I decided to lift the veil for a time. It helped that my invites, etc will be preserved, and I can be fickle. Also, I lost a follower and know that along the way, the folks I was seeing here previously were not all invited. fsjfh sdfkh ksfh. Boring.

It feels different since I'm not student teaching anyway. For one thing, I have time to blog. Kinda.

I wish I had something better for you right now. I don't. I'm watching crappy latenight tv. The guys just took off their shirts on Jerry Springer, the strawberry cheesecake ice cream has been consumed, and I just remembered that I like Netflix better than infomercials and gossip shows that feel the need to feature Valerie Bertinelli in bikinis. (It's a little late for that, isn't it?- not VB, netflix.) Even though I don't need a lawyer, I'm thinking I may need to get in on a class action lawsuit. I'm pretty sure that those ladiez I could call on the phone are very nice and they would be even more impressed if I got a good tech carreer.

I am thankful right now that I'm not the town whore. Other times I might lament that, but right this second I am very glad I'm not getting my ass kicked and hair pulled by a stripper on national television. If I had any sense, I'd heed Jerry's words of wisdom and go onto bed. Who knew Martha Stewert's show is on at 3AM..., and that MS and JS have the same demographic audience. Actually, they don't. I'm going to bed.