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22 hours of chaos

At 6:37pm on Sunday evening I updated my Facebook status to read: “I have never been so bored before.”  I made plans to watch the season finale of True Blood, take a nerve pill, and hit the sack.  Less than two hours later, Karma, that vengeful whore, had other plans.  What follows is a timeline of the craziest 22 hours of my life since I’ve turned thirty.

8:10pm: Talking with my amazing mother on the phone.  My buddy Red sashays her sweet ass across the street.

8:12pm: Hang up with mom.  Red says, “Mind if I hang until my boyfriend Firefighter and his friend Leprechaun show up?”  Sure.  No problem.  I was bored as fuck.

8:20pm: “Hey,” says Red.  "Firefighter just waxed his truck, so let’s make a big fucking deal on how nice it looks." 

8:45pm: Firefighter drives by yelling, “I found a street with hawt women!”

8:46pm: Firefighter exits his extremely shiny truck carrying a cooler.  Leprechaun follows with a twelve pack of beer.  I warn them that my dog bites.  Leprechaun insists all dogs love him.

9:00pm: True Blood season finale starts.  

9:06pm: Firefighter shows that his cooler contains lots of ice and a gallon of rum.  Firefighter is cool.

9:10pm: I think, “Well, I will stay up until 9:30.  These motherfuckers are fun.”  True Blood was getting DVR'd anyway.

9:11pm: Firefighter says, “What’s in your cup?”  I proudly answer, “Cherry Pepsi.”

9:12pm: Firefighter confiscates my cup.

9:13pm: My cup is returned with mystery drink.  It tastes like Diet Pepsi.  I am happy with this Diet Pepsi concoction.  I think, “Hmm... one drink.  Then True Blood.  I will stay up until 10:00pm because I am a good girl.”

9:30pm: I present Firefighter with my cup and demand a refill.  Red informs Firefighter and Leprechaun that I have officially lost control.  I think, “One more drink.  I will stay up until 10:30pm.  Then I will watch True Blood, think of Eric Northman, work my clit like a motherfucking DJ, and go to sleep like a good girl.”

9:45pm: I’m buzzed.  I decide it would be a great idea to show everyone my tits.

10:00pm: I demand another drink from Firefighter.  He obliges.  I inform everyone that I have to go to work tomorrow morning.  No one seems to care. 

10:02pm: I remember that I forgot to help G with his reading homework.  I make Red come into the bathroom with me, supervise me peeing, then make her help me read to G.  G falls asleep in my bed listening to the story.

10:15pm: Back on the porch.  My lovely neighbor J stops by.  She is intrigued by how aggressively we are drinking.  She would like to have a shot.  We do not have a shot glass.

10:16pm: Leprechaun hijacks a coffee cup from my kitchen and fills it with straight rum.  On the way out the door he grabs a bottle of ketchup and squirts it all over his neck.  He runs outside screaming the dog bit the fuck out of him.  No one thinks he is funny.  He redeemed himself by presenting J with the coffee cup full of rum.  J drinks it.  She is happy.

10:20pm: I demand another drink from Firefighter.  I think he just gives me Diet Pepsi.  I pound the drink.  It was not Diet Pepsi.  I am now fucked up.  I show my tits again.

10:22pm: Red shows us pictures of herself all dolled up in tight dresses and hooker shoes.  Firefighter and Leprechaun both pop tents.  This is getting interesting.  I show everyone a picture of my tits, but they weren’t interested, since I showed them my tits several times already in person.

10:30pm: I respectfully request another drink from Firefighter.  Request approved.  Leprechaun fills J’s coffee with straight rum again.  J drinks the rum.  J then decides that it would be fun to run around the yard.  We all giggled because J is super cute when she runs.

10:35pm: Five grown people are fucked up.  Hilarity ensues.

10:40pm: I dare Red to ask her high school friend, Lizard, to text us pictures of his cock.  He responds with pictures of his cock.  I look at the pictures.  J looks at the pictures.  Firefighter even looks at the pictures.  Leprechaun does not look at the pictures, because he insists he is a metrosexual. 

10:41pm: Leprechaun decides that new words like “metrosexual” are not fair.  He wants to invent fancy words, too.  He decides that the new word of the year will be “omniegg.”  According to Leprechaun, “omniegg” means to bring a chick home, fuck her, and have her cook you an egg in the morning.

10:42pm: I demand that we bring Lizard over, because I think that the cock pictures he sent are fake.

10:43pm: J informs Firefighter that his car is so shiny that she can see the moon in it.  J drinks more rum from her coffee cup.

10:44pm: I announce that I am bringing the word “cunt” back.  I insist that everyone no longer say, “Holy Shit!”  I request that everyone now say, “Holy Cunt!”

10:45pm: Firefighter informs me that bringing back the word “cunt” might not be a good idea. He said the word “cunt” in front of a lesbian one time, and the lesbian proceeded to run UP A WALL, do a back flip, land behind him, and bite him in his back.

10:46pm: I realize that Red has indulged in many beers.  I informed her that she must drive me to work the next day, because she made me miss True Blood and forced me to drink.  She said, “You were only going to have one drink.”  I told her, “The last four didn’t count.”

10:47pm: J grabs my tit. 

11:00pm: We are out of beer.  Red makes a pact with the devil and somehow a 12 pack of Bud Light magically appears.

11:05pm: I demand again that Lizard comes over.  Red sends Lizard a text message telling him to walk over, because we are too fucked up to drive the three blocks it takes to get to his house.

11:10pm: J announces that she only gets drunk once every six months.  Red and I know this is not true because she came to my “pre-hurricane-Irene-chicks-only party” two weeks before.  At that party, J got trashed, cooked lasagna, and cleaned my kitchen.  J is an amazing drunk.

11:15pm: Firefighter hacks Red’s Facebook and posts her status as “I love deep in my throught!”  Firefighter invented a new word.  Throught.  Leprechaun is pissed because Firefighter’s new word is cooler than “omniegg.”

11:20pm: I decided that lesbians do not exist since they do not have penises and can only participate in foreplay.  No one cares about my theory.

SIDENOTE: Red is the first of our group to get fucked over this night.

11:40pm: The 12-pack of beer that Red magically conjured disappeared.  Apparently her brand of magic only lasts for 40 minutes.

11:55pm: We decide that more beer is needed.  I continue to demand that Lizard must come over and prove the pictures he sent were real.  Red decides that we are no longer fucked up.  We drive to pick up Lizard. 

12:01am: Lizard gets in the vehicle. We realize that the stores do not sell beer after midnight. 

12:05am: We arrive back to the porch and drink more rum.

12:10am: Lizard proves to me that the pictures he sent were not fake. 

12:20am: We are out of rum.  Six drunks now must now use their critical thinking skills to determine how to make alcohol.

12:25am: J announces that there is a bottle of Evan Williams Honey Reserve at her house. 

12:26am: We respectfully request that she retrieve said bottle of liquor.

12:27am: J does a ninja jump off the porch, drops to the ground, does a front roll, stands up, and runs like a Kenyan across the street.  She staggers back with the booze.

12:28am: Six very drunk adults decide that drinking the Evan Williams straight is an extremely intelligent idea.

12:29am: We all proceed to talk loudly talk about those lame Valtrex genital herpes commercials as two older neighbors are walking down the street.  The neighbors look at us in disgust.  I yell, “Genital Herpes!” very loudly to ensure that they understood the topic of our conversation.  They started walking away very quickly. 

12:30am -- 1:30am: I cannot account for this time, as I have ingested more alcohol than Ted Kennedy could drink in a week.

1:32am: We are out of Evan Williams.  Firefighter and Red decide that they will leave to go to his house. 

1:35am: J does a sweet little dance and announces that everyone will stay longer, because she only gets drunk once every six months.  The group concedes.

1:55am: Firefighter is falling asleep in the chair.  Red is on his lap.  Leprechaun and J are wrestling on the ground.  I ask Lizard again to prove that the pictures he sent were real.  I learned once again that the pictures he sent were, in fact, legit.  I am tickled because I saw a penis.

2:00am: Firefighter, Leprechaun, and Red announce that they have to leave.  I inform Red that she will be taking me to work the next day, as I would still be drunk come 8am.  She reluctantly agrees after I tell her that I will take us to the spa to get our nails done.

2:05am: J is sad that Firefighter, Leprechaun, and Red are leaving.  She tells me and Lizard that she only gets drunk every six months.  Midway through this sentence she does another classic ninja move by jumping off the porch, racing across the yard, and tackling Leprechaun like a football player into Firefighter’s shiny truck.  They fall on the pavement. 

2:06am: We are all laughing hysterically at the possibly mortally wounded duo on the pavement.

SIDENOTE: Firefighter is the second of our group to get fucked over this night.

2:07am: We realize that Firefighter’s extremely shiny truck has a massive dent in the side from where two grown people slammed into it with their bodies.

2:08am: Leprechaun and J are still on the pavement.  We decide not to assist them in standing up, because it is funnier to watch two wounded drunks try to stand upright by themselves.  It was rather like watching a chimpanzee evolve into a caveman in two short minutes.

SIDENOTE: Leprechaun is the third of our group to get fucked over this night.

2:10am: Leprechaun’s knee is more swollen than Kim Kardashian’s ass.

2:11am: Firefighter, Red, and Leprechaun drive away.

2:12am: Lizard, J, and I see Firefighter’s very shiny truck turn around and come back down the street.  They stop at the nearest stop sign. 

SIDENOTE: Firefighter got fucked over not once, but twice this night.

2:13am: We hear very loud, violent puking.  Ha!  Firefighter is puking his guts out!  Fuckin’ right!

2:14am: We laugh until the puking sounds stop.  The truck drives away and is gone for the night.

2:15am: J announces she is hungry.  I realize that Lizard has no way of getting home.  I decide that J needs to eat and drink something.

2:17am: Lizard and I look in the fridge for food and beverage for J.  We find the 12 pack of beer that disappeared earlier in the night in my refrigerator.  The Booze Gods smiled upon us.  We crack beers.  J eats potato chips.

2:25am: J informs Lizard that she doesn’t care what his cock pictures look like.  She states that he has such a small penis it resembles an anthill.  Then she tells me, “I bet you couldn’t suck a dick if your life depended on it.”

SIDENOTE: J is the fourth of our group to get fucked over this night.

2:30am: J is puking violently in my toilet.

2:35am: J disappears.  I imagine her running around the neighborhood drunk as hell and trying to locate her house.  I call Red because this is obviously an emergency.

2:36am: Red answers the phone slightly aggravated.  I announce that J is missing and that we should call the police and file a missing person’s report.  Red informs me that J called her one minute earlier asking for directions on how to get to her house.  Red told J to walk out of my front door, walk straight across the road, and she would be home.  Red did not get off the phone with J until she was safely inside her house.

3:00am -- 4:30am: Lizard and I drink beers and pass out while watching reruns of Tosh.0.

6:00am: Alarms goes off.  I told the alarm to go fuck itself.

7:07am: I realize that I need to get the children ready for school, and I need to get ready for work.  I wake up Lizard.

7:08am: Lizard cracks a beer.

7:10am: Red comes barreling in my house like a drill sergeant.  She manages to get G ready for school, W dressed, makes me curl my hair for work, gets G to ride to school with the neighbor, takes her baby to daycare, and has me ready for work in less than 45 minutes.  I think she worked that Red magic again.

7:55am: We drop Lizard off at his house.

SIDENOTE: Lizard is the fifth of our group to get fucked over.  He apparently locked himself outside of his house and sat on his porch for three hours until someone was able to let him in.

8:00am: Firefighter calls Red.

SIDENOTE: Firefighter was fucked over not once, not twice, but thrice. 

8:01am: Firefighter informs Red that his shiny truck got rear-ended.

8:02am: I giggle thinking about Firefighter’s shiny truck being dented and rear-ended.

8:10am: Red and I drop W off at daycare.

SIDENOTE: I am the sixth and final member of our group to get fucked over.

8:12am: While Red is driving down me to work, I grab an empty shopping bag and puke violently for at least five minutes.  Red continues her conversation to me while I am puking my soul out, because whatever she was saying was very important.

8:20am: I learn that Red’s important information concerned her being hungry and thirsty.  We stop by a gas station for treats and refreshments.

SIDENOTE: I, being the final member of our group to get fucked over, got fucked over again.

8:22am: I grab a desperately needed Gatorade out of the store's fridge.  I offer to pay for Red’s treats.  I open my wallet.  Somehow, $180 walked out of my wallet between the hours of 4:30am and 7:00am.  Fuck me.  How am I supposed to buy beer if I don't get paid until Thursday?

8:23am: I secretly remember that some of Red’s beer is still in my fridge.

8:24am: Red buys my Gatorade.

8:30am -- 9:15am: Red drives me to work while we crack random jokes such as stealing  Coca-Cola trucks and dissing on stupid made-up words like “omniegg.”

9:30am: My first class starts.  I realize that I am still drunk.  I decide to play random YouTube videos for my class because I do not want to teach them.

11:00am: My second class starts.  I am starting to sober up.  I decide to lecture.  Somehow my lecture turns into the pros and cons of genital mutilation.

12:15pm: Redneck, my good buddy, tries to impress me and Red by telling us he caught a “skeeter” in a jar the night before.

12:30pm: Red and I drive off yelling to Redneck, “We are gonna go catch us sum skeeters in a jar!”

12:40pm: Red eats a taco.  I chug some ice water.  We notice two elderly lesbians entering the Family Dollar store.  I tell Red that I could use some hair conditioner, because I would like to see the elderly lesbians up close.

12:45pm: Red sees a Coca-Cola truck.  We discuss the possibility of stealing it. 

12:55pm: I am checking out of the Family Dollar.  The cashier asks me how I am doing.  I reply, “Well, thank you.”  Red informs the cashier that I am lying.  I feel bad for lying.  I correct myself by telling the cashier, “I am actually hungover because I got really fucked up last night.”  The cashier now assumes that Red and I are legally insane.

2:00pm: My third class starts.  A nineteen-year-old girl tries to give me her fourteen-year-old sister’s newborn baby.  I decline the baby.

2:05pm: I decide that I feel well enough to lecture.  The lecture turns into trying to define slang words.  I ask Red if she knows any slang words.  She was texting Firefighter on her phone.  Without looking up from her phone she tells me, “Waddup.”  “Waddup” is now our new favorite slang word.

2:35pm: Over the course of the previous half hour, Red and I learned slang words such as, “beefed out,” “fresh butters,” “blast,” “ish,” and “chillaxin.”

3:00pm: I tell my students to go away because I no longer want to see them.  Red drives me home.

3:30pm: I arrive home.  I want to take a nap.  Then I remembered the True Blood season finale.  I only watched the first few minutes, because I saw Eric Northman and decided my time was best spent rubbing one out.  I nod off because I only slept for an hour an a half the night before.

4:37pm: I check Facebook.  I realized that my last status read, “I have never been so bored before.” 

In summation: Six adults get fucked up.  Red lost her beer.  Leprechaun got his knee tore up.  Firefighter got his shiny truck dented, puked violently, and then got his shiny truck rear-ended.  J turned into a football player and then puked violently.  Lizard got stranded on his porch for three hours.  And I lost $180.  Fuck you, Karma.


the rapist and the three maids

Gather ‘round, boys and girls, to hear the tale of “The Rapist and His Three Maids.”  Listen closely, children, for this story will provide great enlightenment for your young minds!

There once was a squire named Hugh who lived far, far away in the land of Pennsylvania.  He was a good squire, with a good job, and had a good car.  He had a good smile, with a good face, and had a good friend.  One thing, however, was not so good for the squire.  You see, the squire was having a bit of a problem with the ladies.    Despite his valiant efforts, he was failing to get Da Pussy.

It was around this time that Hugh decided to enlist the help of a Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  Hugh promptly made the journey to the land of Virginia where the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) held her court.  The squire brought with him his good face, his good smile, and his good friend.  Upon his arrival, Hugh quickly found an audience with the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).

“How may I help you, good squire?” asked the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).

The squire replied, “I seek your assistance.  I am a man with a good job, a good car, a good smile, and a good friend; however, my game is not so good.”

“Your game?” inquired the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).

“Yes,” responded the squire.  “I am on a quest for Da Pussy.”

“Ah, Da Pussy,” murmured the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  “I see why you sought my assistance.  I am notorious throughout the land of Virginia in assisting good men such as yourself in acquiring Da Pussy.  Let me sleep this night and tomorrow I will provide you help with your quest, but first I must see your junk.”

“M-m-my junk?” cried Hugh.

“Yes, your junk.  I demand to see your tackle!” exclaimed the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  So the squire took the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) behind her castle, quickly showed her his goods, and went to bed.

The following morning, the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) awoke the good squire with good news.  She had met and conferred with a young maid named Butterbar.  Butterbar had agreed to meet with Hugh and possibly give him Da Pussy.

“But you must be warned,” the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) informed the squire.  “If you get greedy for Da Pussy, dire things await.”

The squire was so happy about possibly getting Da Pussy, he barely heard the warning.  Da Pussy would be his this night!

And so the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) and her consort (that’s C) went to Da Bar with the good squire, with his good face, his good smile, and his good friend.  There they met Butterbar, and the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) weaved her magic of Jager and SoCo.  The squire remained good, Butterbar remained interested, and that night the squire obtained Da Pussy he so greatly wanted!

But one taste of Da Pussy wasn’t enough for the squire.  Oh, not enough at all!  Hugh wanted more!  So he met with the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) to discuss meeting Butterbar again.  The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) was not taken with the idea of Hugh meeting with Butterbar again.

“Butterbar will not be with us much longer,” explained the Beautiful Princess.  “She is moving across the pond, so her link to Da Pussy will be out of your reach.”

“But I want Butterbar!  I will see her and get Da Pussy again!” cried the squire.

The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) pondered over the squire’s situation.  Maybe it wasn’t so much Da Pussy that he needed.  Maybe he needed something that gave him comfort.

“I think that your situation requires more assistance on my part,” the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) told the squire.  “This night we will feast at the castle, and I will invite over a second maid.  Her name is Milf.  She is a great beauty, and she has a very kind soul.”

“Will she provide me with Da Pussy?” the squire quickly asked.  Its seemed that Hugh’s last meeting with Da Pussy had caused him to be Pussy Whipped, a common occurrence with many good men.  Da Pussy had Whipped his mind, causing him to think of nothing else.

“We shall see what the night holds,” responded the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) with a secret smile.

That night the Beautiful Princess (that’s me), along with her consort (that’s C), held a feast for the good squire, with his good face, his good smile, and his good friend.  A second maid, Milf, was there and much ale was consumed.  The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) once again wove her magic of Jager and Soco, and all the people made merry and got naked in the hot tub.  Replete with debauchery, they all went off to bed, and the squire laid down for the night with the second maid.

The following morning the squire went quickly to the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  The squire found her in her bedchamber.  She was in a bad mood, nursing a hangover, and cleaning up the mess her consort (that’s C) left from the night before.  It turns out her consort (that’s C) consumed entirely too much ale.  He woke in the night to use the chamberpot.  In his drunken state, the consort (that’s C) stood up and thought that the corner of the bed looked like a proper chamberpot, so he let the piss fly.  The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) chided him at once.  Being far into his cups, however, the consort (that’s C) took a new gown from the wardrobe of the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) and laid it on top of the piss and slept for the night on top of it.  Yes, the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) was in a helluva mood!

“Excuse me, dear lady,” approached the squire gently.  “Might we confer again about Da Pussy?”

“Da Pussy!” screamed the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  “Did you not have your fill of Da Pussy with Butterbar?  Did I not introduce you to Milf to cure you of the Pussy Whip?”

“But Milf did not provide me with Da Pussy!” complained the squire.  “She merely held my hand and cuddled with me!  The second maid failed, whereas Butterbar hooked me up with Da Pussy!”

“You do not need Butterbar for Da Pussy,” explained the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  “You are suffering from the Pussy Whip, and Milf was to provide you the comfort that you needed.”

“Fuck!” cursed the squire.  “I don’t fucking want comfort!  I want some of Da fucking Pussy!”  The squire stormed out of the bedchamber, but the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) followed.

The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) found the squire near his good friend.  His good friend had passed the night on an uncomfortable cot, which had folded up around his body.  The good friend of the good squire slept restlessly, encased in the middle of the folded up cot.

“Beware, Hugh!” warned the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  “I fear your Pussy Whip has affected your good mind.  Just look at you!  Worrying about Da Pussy whilst your good friend sleeps in a taco!”

“I just want Da Pussy,” whined the squire.

“Then let us see what my magic brings forth this night!” proclaimed the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).

Once again the Beautiful Princess (that’s me), along with her consort (that’s C) made their way to Da Bar with the good squire, with his good face, his good smile, and his good friend.  The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) worked her magic of Jager and SoCo for the third time, which brought forth a third maid named Fruitcake.

The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) and her consort (that’s C) invited Fruitcake back to the castle to make merry with the good squire and his good friend.  The ale flowed, and everyone was feeling festive.  The good squire looked at the third maid curiously, for she was quite loud, quite old, and quite odd.  Nevertheless, Hugh still quested for Da Pussy, and his mind was feverish from Pussy Whip.

The third maid, Fruitcake, beckoned the squire behind the castle.  The squire went willingly, thinking only his quest for Da Pussy.  After no more than five seconds, Fruitcake ran up to the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) and started to quack loudly.

“The squire raped me!” cried Fruitcake.  “He’s a fucking pervert!”

“Excuse me?” asked the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).

“You crazy bitch!” exclaimed the consort (that’s C).

“You were with him five seconds, you dumb cunt!” yelled the good friend of the good squire.

“He did!” proclaimed Fruitcake.  “He raped me!  And I will make it known to all that he is The Rapist!”

All the while, the squire stood in shock absorbing these false accusations.  How could one rape this third maid in five seconds, much less pull one’s cock out?

The Beautiful Princess (that’s me) banished Fruitcake from the castle.  Her consort (that’s C) and the good friend of the good squire still made made merry from the situation by calling Hugh “The Rapist.” 

The following morning, the squire sought out the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) for the last time.  He needed to know what went wrong in his quest for Da Pussy.

“I only wanted Da Pussy,” exclaimed Hugh.  “I did not expect to dishonored this way.”

“Ah,” cooed the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  “I am afraid that you have brought this curse upon yourself, good squire.  You did not heed my warning.”

“What warning?” demanded the squire.

“The first night of your quest, I warned you to not get greedy in your quest for Da Pussy,” explained the Beautiful Princess (that’s me).  “After Butterbar, the first maid, gave you Da Pussy, you became Pussy Whipped.  The Whip of Da Pussy frazzled your mind, so my magic provided you with a second maid, Milf, to comfort you.  You did not accept the comfort for your Pussy Whip, which caused my magic to do whatever was necessary to fix you.  The third maid, Fruitcake, cured your Pussy Whip only by claiming you raped her in record time.  You now must forever live with being called ‘The Rapist’ by me, my consort, and your good friend.”

The good squire, Hugh, was humbled.  The good squire, with his good job, his good face, his good smile, and his good friend travelled back to their land of Pennsylvania.  For the entire journey, the good friend of the good squire made merry in calling the good squire “The Rapist.”  Whenever the good squire and his good friend make merry with the Beautiful Princess (that’s me) and her consort (that’s C), they tell the tale of “The Rapist and His Three Maids.”  To this day, the good squire from Pennsylvania is called by this name.

And that, boys and girls, is the end of this tale.  I hope you learned from this tragic story!  The moral should be obvious: don’t involve me in your sex life, ‘cause I’ll probably fuck it  up.

Good day!


i'm a regular, everday normal gal ...

... but your girlfriend is batshit cray-zay.  Seriously.  I’m sick and tired of the craziness women are pulling these days.  I am a woman.  I have a vag.  I am the weaker sex.  I don’t mind being barefoot and pregnant.  I’d rather meet my man at the door with a martini than work eighty hours a week.  All you ugly feminists need to stop fucking up my good thing.  The more pyscho you get, the more disservice you do our gender.  Here’s a list of shit women need to stop doing... ASAP:

1.  Bitching
  • Women complain, nag, and harass men to death.  I don’t believe in the philosophy, “If he ever hits me, I will leave his ass.”  With all your bitching and moaning, you were probably asking for it.  Situational appropriateness.
  • Yeah, you need to get a job, but don’t go mental when you don’t make as much as the guy across the hall from you.  Last I heard men were the bread winners for the past 6,000+ years, so you bitches got some catching up to do before you start complaining.  Or do like me, get majorly educated, and make bank working only two days a week.
  • He’s gonna watch porn.  Or lie about watching porn.  You’re gonna read porn.  Get over it.
2.  Serving in the Military
  • It has been proven that women will hesitate to pull the trigger on a gun ... even when absolutely necessary.  No breasts on the battlefield, thank you very much.  I prefer my wars straight up -- with buff military men kicking ass and taking names. 
  • The military turns the majority of chicks into pregnant whores.  When the USS Enterprise went co-ed it got nicknamed “The Love Boat” for a reason.  Deployed ships are notorious for having prostitutes or for having women get knocked up just to stay stateside.  Here’s a hint: you can whore yourself without infecting my military with the newest STD craze.
  • Yes, I pulled a stint in the Navy for two years.  I was married and pregnant within a year.  The thought of shooting a missile at people horrified me.  I got out, got divorced, and moved on.  I’m proof positive that women shouldn’t be in the military.
3.  Voting
  • Women got the right to vote and then what did they do?  They took all the damn booze away.  That should have been enough to revoke their rights.
  • Yeah, I know by saying this that I would lose my right to vote; however, I would gladly give up my vote to keep some pansy-assed, bleeding-heart chick with a tiny dog in her purse from casting a vote because it “feels good” or “feels right.”  Start voting with your brain instead of your ovaries.
4.  Bullying Your Man.
  • I can’t tell you how many times I have heard a guy say, “Well, I gotta ask my wife first.”  What?  Does she have your balls in a jar on top of her dresser?  Now I’m not talking big stuff, I’m talking small change.  For example, C and I were having a party and brought out the four-wheelers.  We asked our thirty-something-year-old friend if he wanted to try it out.  What did he reply?  “Hold on, let me ask my wife.”  He ran into the house with his dick tucked between his legs and came back a short while later exclaiming, “She said yes!”  Fuck me.  I was embarrassed for him.
  • Since when do stay-at-home-moms and -wives get to control the bank account?  It doesn’t make sense.  I know plenty of chicks that don’t work that control all the money their significant others bring into the house.  I know one stay-at-home-mom that put her husband on an allowance.  An allowance out of his paycheck.  An allowance.  Like a fucking little kid.
    • This is easily fixed.  The person who makes the money is in charge of the money.  Give the dependent an allowance.  Turnabout’s fair play, right?  Problem solved.
    • Have a two-income family?  Kudos!  That means you should have separate bank accounts.  This doesn’t mean you don’t trust each other, it means you are trusting each other enough to be financially responsible.  C and I NEVER mix money and guess what?  We’ve never been in a fight about money.  Problem solved.
5.  Gossiping.
  • Sigh ... I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard things like, “My man isn't romantic enough!” or “My man doesn’t buy me nice things!” or “My man is horrible in the sack!”  Every time I hear comments like these I come back with my own.  “Well, C took me on a surprise getaway!” or “C got me diamonds for no reason whatsoever!” or “C is the best lover I ever had!”  Half the shit I say isn’t even true, but I ain’t ever gonna badmouth my guy to some gossiping little girl.  If you can’t stand your guy so much, get the fuck out.  Oh, that’s right.  If you left, who would give him his allowance?
  • You crazy girls also need to get off the phone.  Here’s a newsflash: 99% of your female friends can’t be trusted with your secrets.  If you tell some “good friend” that your husband gave you crabs, guess what?  She’s gonna hang up that phone and call everyone she knows and tell them that your man gave you crabs.  Shit, if you called me up and told me your husband gave you crabs, I would probably make some calls, too.  Hell, I’d probably blog about it.  Just kidding ... ?

Ta-ta for now!



poor random objects

I have been sitting here thinking about random objects my family has owned.  In the seven years that C and I have been together, many of our personal possessions have suffered.  Between us, the kids, and the dogs ... well, it’s a list worth blogging about:
  1. The hot tub has endured numerous nights of drunken, naked, crazy people.
  2. The side of house got screwed on.
  3. Our old XTerra got colored with red, blue, and green markers.
  4. A running car got keys locked inside while a slutty stripper tried to jimmy the lock.
  5. A vibrator was left in a hotel.
  6. The keys of C’s old laptop were ripped off.
  7. A big screen TV was cracked by a Wii remote.
  8. The love seat was chewed up.
  9. The shower got covered in soaked toilet paper balls.
  10. The washing machine got pissed in.
  11. The house got burned down.
  12. Our bed got pissed on.  And puked on.
  13. The old carpet was pissed on, shit on, puked on, chewed up, burned, and ripped out.
  14. Shower curtains got ripped down.
  15. Bicycles have been stolen.
  16. Fridges got ransacked by a naked C.
  17. The stairs got slept on by the fat (and, at the time, naked) piano player from Crocodile Rocks.
  18. The roof of the RV caved in, while C was standing on top of it.
  19. The walls of the house got covered with marker, crayon, and pencil markings.
  20. The lawn mower seat got chewed off.
That’s all I can think of for now.  Needless to say, there is plenty more than can be added to this list, so watch out for a part two!



the vibrator diaries ii

Dear Vibrator Diary,

This isn’t about a vibrator, but its cousin, a dildo.  One night I was watching a television program that was discussing homemade, personalized dildos.  Apparently you could purchase a kit and make a copy of your partner’s penis.  I was instantly intrigued, and, a short while later, I received a do-it-yourself Pecker Pail in the mail from my dearest C.

I was really excited about making a copy of my husband’s baby maker.  It was perfect timing, since he was about to leave for a long time for work.  He may have been going away, but he would be leaving Little C behind ... well ... Little C’s evil twin.

The Pecker Pail came with detailed instructions.  The person supplying the goods had to get it hard, stick it in this tube of plaster, and keep it hard for ten minutes.  No big deal, right?  Especially considering that C had a more than willing female that was happy to assist.  For some reason, however, C felt this was something he needed to do on his own.  He apparently felt less than masculine with his hard pole stuck in a bunch of white gunk.  I had to leave him to his own devices, which consisted of him getting it hard, sticking it to the plaster, and watching some girl-on-girl cheerleader porn while sitting on the can.

It probably didn’t help that every few minutes I would knock on the door and ask him how things were going.  He would confirm that things were fine, while I was impatiently waiting on the other side of the door desperate to see the results.  Exactly ten minutes later, he presented me with a tube full of hardened plaster, complete with a penis shaped hole inside.

The next part of the process required filling the plaster mold with some sort of goo that would turn into a flesh-colored, synthetic penis.  After filling up the tube-mold with the goo, I was disappointed to learn that it had to sit over night in order to set.

I slept restlessly that night, with dreams of dildos dancing in my head.  I was the first to wake up that morning, and I quickly found the tube-mold-dildo on the bar of our kitchen.  In no time flat I had the plaster cracked to reveal my prize ...

... my prize was a small, crooked dick with ginormous balls.  It looked like a small question mark squashed between two scoops of ice cream.  It was the funniest thing that I have ever seen in my whole entire life.  Of course, I immediately woke up C to show him his work from the night before.

V: Wakey, wakey, eggs, and bakey!

C: Sleeping.  Shhh.

V: I’ve got your cock in my hand...
C: No you don’t.  Tease.

V: The one you made me last night.
C: [perks up a bit] How did it turn out?
V: Well ... [shoves tiny, crooked dildo in his face]
C: What the??? That doesn’t look like my dick!
V: I know!  But its still cute.  I love it!
C: [rolls over and goes back to sleep]

Yes, its true the dildo that C attempted to make for me was greatly lacking in what my husband usually supplied me with.  Apparently, it is very hard to keep one’s cock hard while it is stuck in cold plaster without any stimulation.  I still applauded him for the effort.  Little C promptly took a priority spot in my box of adult goodies.

It wasn’t until quite a bit of time had passed that I remembered that I had Little C stored away for a rainy day.  C had long since left for his work duties, and I had been sitting at home alone for several months.  When Little C popped into my mind, I could not wait to put him to good use.

For some reason, I decided that privacy was more important than usual for this adventure.  So important that the privacy of my bedroom wouldn’t even suffice.  Instead, I opted for the office/guest room, which no one ever uses or goes into.  I locked the door, made myself at home on the day bed, got down to business with Little C, stuck Little C into the nearest desk drawer, took a shower, and hit the sack.  Overall, a very pleasant night.

Flash forward two days later.  I am sitting at home, working on the computer.  I was caught up in my own business while my oldest son, G, played around the house.  I was so absorbed, I barely recollect G coming to ask me a question:

G: Mom?
V: Hm?
G: What’s this?
V: [still working on the computer] Nothing.
G: Mom?
V: What?!
G: Why is there a penis in the office?

Fuck me.  I turned around, looked behind me, and, sure enough, there is my six-year-old son with crooked, gigantic-balled dildo in his hand.

I snatched it out of his hands as quickly as possible, executed a sweet slide into my bedroom, and had that puppy locked up faster than you can shake down a leprechaun.  It was the resulting damage that took much longer to deal with.

G: Was that a penis?
V: No, of course not.
G: Well, what was it?
V: [thinking fast] A paperweight.
G: What’s a paperweight?
V: Jeez! It holds down paper!
G: Why does a paperweight look like a penis?
V: It doesn’t!  Its only a paperweight. 
G: B-b-but!
V: Do you think Santa would like to know that you are talking so much about penises!?

A quick save that thankfully worked.  G was entirely too afraid of Santa learning about any penis conversations to question me further.  I could not, however, resist immediately sending a text message to one of my BFFs, T, that read: “G just asked me why a fake cock was in my office.” 

Her response? “LMFAO.”  Yeah.  Me, too.



romance novels lead to divorce

I have been reading romance novels for almost twenty years.  I read an average of four books a week.  Four books multiplied by fifty-two weeks in a year ... that’s more than 200 books a year.  I’m estimating that I have read about 4,000 books over the course of my life, and the majority of those have been romance novels.

Feeling an expert on the subject of romance novels, sex, and relationships, I feel that I should share some of my insight with you.  Feel honored, dear readers, because I have even done a bit of research for you.  Let’s look at some quick statistics:
  • 58 million women read at least one romance novel in 2008.
  • 29 percent of Americans over age 13 read at least one romance novel in 2008.
  • The average reader is female, aged 31-49, and is currently in a romantic relationship.

I could not find any information on the number of romance novels the average women reads per year, but a healthy guess would be around twenty-five per year.  That would be around two books a month, multiplied by twelve months.  I really feel like this is on the low-end, but we will use this number for the duration of this blog post.  Even this small number will be enough to prove my point.  Now let’s look at the average content of a romance novel:
  • One slim, yet curvy, virgin.

  • One sexy man-whore.
  • Two or more sex scenes.
  • Happily-ever-afters in the form of an engagement, a marriage, a baby, or any combination of the three.

Hmm ... now this is starting to get interesting.  So, based on the information that I have given you so far, the average women is exposed to twenty-five skinny virgins, twenty-five sexy man-sluts, fifty sex scenes, and fifty happily-ever-afters.  Many women, after being exposed to just one year of reading romance novels, might begin to think of this equation in their head:

My Virginity - The Freshman Fifteen + One Sexy Man-Whore + Two Hot Bouts of Sex = Happily Ever After!

But we are far from through.  Let’s take a closer look at these sexy beasts that romance novels love so much.  The typical romance novel develops the hero to be approximately like this:
  • Ethnicity: English, Scottish, Southern, or paranormal species (Vampire, Werewolf, Fairy).
  • Body Type: All the men are over six feet tall, broad, muscular, and have washboard abs.  They also have a startling color of eyes (sky blue and storm gray are the most common), along with either black or blonde hair.
  • Finances: They’re rich.  Filthy rich.  Always, always rich.
  • Sexuality: All men portrayed in romance novels are man-whores who have no desire to find love.  They have plenty of sex with many women, and their sexual abilities are known far and wide for being mind-shattering.  All the men have extremely large cocks and huge balls.
  • Interests: All the men only participate in manly activities like riding horses, hunting, doing manual labor, drinking blood, and saving the world.  The men in romance novels never watch sports, sit in the garage, or fart.  The primary interest of these men, however, is to stay single forever ... that is until they meet the skinny virgin.  After that, they suddenly cannot think of other women.  They sometimes even go without sex for months or years, because they only want sex with the skinny virgin.  The majority of the men feel that once they have enough sex with the skinny virgin they will be able to continue with their lives, but, as always, a declaration of love towards the end of the novel seals their fate.  The man-whore then becomes a reformed man of honor.

So now the female readers are left with an even bigger problem if they want to achieve their happily-ever-after.  They must find a six foot tall, muscular, southern Werewolf, with blue/gray eyes, black/blonde hair, and a huge dick, who also happens to love manual labor, drinks blood, and is filthy rich.

It is obvious that many women have found this man of their dreams, or someone who at least closely resembles it.  Worse case scenario, the woman can always “change” him, right?  Every man can and will become like those in romance novels, because no other man exists in romance novels.  Right?  I digress.

A relationship pursues, but then women have an even bigger problem to deal with.  We have already established that romance novels have an average of two sex scenes, and women are exposed to about fifty of these scenes per year.  These scenes are very typical, and I can easily describe the two sex scenes found in every romance novel ever written:
  • Scene One: The skinny virgin has decided to lose her virginity.  The man is often aware that he is dealing with a virgin and acts accordingly.  An extremely long bout of foreplay follows as he “prepares” her.  Once penetration occurs, there is only a sharp twinge of pain, or no pain at all, followed by intense pleasure.  All virgins experience intense orgasms and the man experiences the best orgasm of his life.  After the mind-shattering sex, the man goes on to clean up his deflowered virgin by wiping her down with warm cloths or giving her a bath.  Many times this first sex scene is followed by a smaller scene, in which the man refuses to have sex with the woman again because of her recent loss of virginity.  The man is so in lust he gives her a head job, while his tackle remains painfully swollen.  He does not feel the need to have an orgasm, because her pleasure is his own.
  • Scene Two: This scene typically happens after the hero and heroine have parted ways, experienced severe trauma, or have had a major fight, only to come together again because they cannot stand to be apart.  The sex is hot, intense, and always lasts all night.  Once is never enough, and the couple usually has sex five or more times over the course of the night.  The woman experiences multiple, intense orgasms.

Wow ... okay ... let’s just be honest here.  Romance novels have fucked over men worldwide with this.  While your wife or girlfriend is sitting on the recliner reading what you assume to be an innocent novel, she is really comparing your sexual prowess to that of a fictional sexual-super-hero.  So now women are thinking in these terms:

My Virginity - The Freshman Fifteen + One Hawt Vampire/Cowboy Hybrid = Incredible, All-Night Sex AND the Happily Ever After!

Okay ... now this is where I step in.  Women need to fucking get real.  I’ve been around the block a time (or two), and I can tell you that the shit in romance novels needs to stay in romance novels.  Women need to look at romance novels for what they REALLY are.  Porn.  It’s fucking porn.  Don’t get all prudish on me, try to deny it, and cover it up with the word “romance.”  That’s bullshit.  Women get off on reading this stuff.  Interestingly enough:
  • 70 percent of men ADMITTED they watch pornography films.  One study, researching men in their 20s, stated that 100 percent watched porn.  I think it is easy to conclude that there are two types of men: those who watch porn and those who lie about watching porn.
  • 80 percent of women do not “allow” their husbands or boyfriends to watch pornography.
  • The majority of those women read romance novels.

Hypocritical bitches.  What is the difference between getting hawt and taking a solo trip down south and your man doing the same while watching some random naked chick?  Guess what?  You’re not going knock boots with a muscular Vampire sex machine, and he isn’t going to bang Bree Olson.  It’s just fantasy.  That’s all it’s ever going to be.

  • 50 percent of first marriages end in divorce.
  • 67 percent of second marriages end in divorce.

Many women cite their partners watching pornography as being the reason why their marriages ended.  I wonder how many of those women read romance novels?  I wonder how many of those women think that they will find their ideal Scottish Fairy if they just look a little harder, magically regain their virginity, and lose a bit of weight?  Get real. 

I bet my last nickel that romance novels have done their part to increase divorce rates.  That also sounds like a fantastic topic for a dissertation.


LOVE IT: Books.

HATE IT: Television.

Unwind by Neal Shusterman

Tennis balls hitting my living room wall.

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double down.

I have been thinking repeatedly that I am leading a double life.  That the professional/church-going/mother-of-two me is completely separate (and MUST be completely separate) from the personal/trash-talking/hottie-wife-and-girlfriend-of-Bruce-Willis me.  I solidified this theory after I recently reordered checks.  Needing a change, I personalized a design and came up with this:

Yes, I deleted my name, address, and account number to keep all the haters guessing.  Anyways, after deleting all my personal stuff, I looked at what I ordered and started laughing at myself.  People could still guess these are MY checks, just because of what they look like.

Take a good look at these checks I ordered.  Here is the proof, in black and white (and purple), that I will never be able to separate the two me’s.
  1. Overly proud and vain.  I love my name so much, I want my last name in a large initial on the very top of my check.  I want people to see this check coming and know who its from.
  2. Love my Jesus.  I think that is obvious here.  I got the Jesus fish blaring dead center.  I especially love the scriptures at the top (one for each of the four colors in the set).
  3. The giveaway.  Then there’s the red flag that sets my checks apart from all others.  There, in the signature line: “Livin’ Large and Takin’ Charge.”  One of my favorite sayings -- because it embodies who I am and how I live -- “Livin’ Large.”  
Yup.  That's me.  Bragging on how fucking awesome I am.  Right there on the Jesus check.

That’s when I realized that I do NOT live a double life.  I am who I am, and that will always be who I am.  I talk and act the same way in front of my husband and friends as I do in front of my parents.  People in my professional life might get offended by how I act in my personal life.  People in my personal life might feel overwhelmed by what I do in my professional life.  People in both of my “lives” will no doubt judge me and find flaws.

You know what, though? 

Players are gonna play.  Haters are gonna hate. 

This player’s gonna play.


the frog and the crackhead

This, boys and girls, is a true story entitled, “The Frog and The Crackhead.”  Gather ‘round, children, and learn from this tale.

Once upon a time there was this beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) who had many, many redneck friends.  The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends loved to play redneck games like stealing the occasional road sign, playing in the mud, and drinking beer.  And, boy, did they ever drink a lot of beers!

One night the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends began drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they ever drink a lot of beers!  After the Drunk Fairy came and dusted them all with a thick layer of buzz, it was decided that the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends would play a new redneck game.  They decided they would take their paintball guns down into the ghetto and do drive-by “shootings” on all the silly crackheads that would be there!

The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends climbed into a Ford F-150 chariot.  The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) sat up front with two redneck friends, while four redneck boys sat in the back of the chariot’s bed.  Off they went into the night, holding their paintball guns, and ready for their redneck game.

The game began slowly, but it was quite fun!  The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends continued drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they ever drink a lot of beers!  The group made their way down into the ghetto, making their first pass of the night.  The Ford F-150 chariot slowed when the corner came into view where the silly crackheads hung out.


“Drive-by!” yelled the silly crackheads, for they did not know that it was merely paint being shot at them and not bullets from a Glock.  The silly crackheads scattered, and the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends laughed in merriment while drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they drink a lot of beers!  This redneck game was so fun, they decided to take another pass into the ghetto!

Once again, the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends slowed the chariot when the silly crackheads came into view.  There were fewer crackheads this time, but this redneck game was such fun!

“Is dat da same truck?!” cried the silly crackheads.


“Mutha fucka!” screamed the silly crackheads. 

“Shit!  Dat’s fuckin paint!” they yelled. 

“Dem crackas got paintballs!” they exclaimed. 

The silly crackheads scattered, and the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends laughed in merriment while drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they drink a lot of beers!  This redneck game was so fun, they decided to make one last pass through the ghetto!

Only this time, the pass through the ghetto did not go as planned.  On the way to the corner where the silly crackheads could be found, something extraordinary happened!  The Ford F-150 chariot was making its progress through the ghetto, while the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends drank their beers.  And, boy, did they drink a lot of beers!  The chariot continued on its way.


“What was that?!” cried the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me). 

“What happened?” questioned the redneck friends that sat in the front. 

“We ran over something!” yelled the redneck boys from the back.

They did, indeed, run over something.  A very big, very dark something was stone-cold dead in the middle of the road.  At the thoughts of a poor dog being killed that fine redneck night, the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends lost much of their merriment.

“We must look at the creature!” cried the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me).  “The blood of a beloved family pet may be on our hands, but we can make amends!”

So the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends left the safety of their Ford F-150 chariot to march down the street of the ghetto to see what had been killed on that fine redneck night.

The body was large, not moving, and long.  As the group got closer they could see long, thin legs extending from a very large body.  What an odd looking dog!  On and on the group marched until they halted in front of the family pet that was killed that fine redneck night. 

Only it wasn’t a family pet.

It was a frog.

A. huge. fucking. frog.

A huge fucking frog from a deep, dark mud hole.  The kind of frog people jigged for.  The kind of frog that gets ran over by a Ford F-150 chariot and gets mistaken for a dog.  A huge fucking frog.

All the rednecks gathered round the huge frog and wondered what to do.  Being rednecks, it was against their nature to just leave such a large prize behind.  It should either be eaten, stuffed and mounted, or put to use.  The rednecks did not want to eat the frog; its legs were too lean.  They never heard of a frog being mounted for display.  The rednecks had to find a use for the large fucking frog.

“Ah!” cried the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) as an idea emerged.  The frog could prove useful in their redneck games!  The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) encouraged her many, many redneck friends to put the frog in the back of the Ford F-150 chariot.  The rednecks continued on their way through the ghetto, all the while drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they ever drink a lot of beers!

Once again the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends slowed the Ford F-150 chariot when the silly crackheads came into view.  There were far fewer crackheads this time, as only the truly desperate remained.  Paintballs could never interfere with a crackhead’s love for crack.  This time, however, would be different.  This time, the paintball guns would not be used.  This time, the rednecks had a huge fucking frog.  A frog that must be put to use, lest it be wasted.

Two of the redneck boys picked up the huge, dead frog.  Working as one, the redneck boys swung the frog back and forth, building momentum.  Back and forth, back and forth, the dead frog swung back and forth, until --


“Argghh!” screamed a silly crackhead, who had fell on his silly crackhead ass when the huge fucking frog busted his silly crackhead face.

“Crackas hit me with a frog!  Them motherfucks got frogs!”

All the remaining silly crackheads scattered into the night, as they were apparently more afraid of dead frogs than paintballs and bullets combined.  Only the one silly crackhead remained -- the silly crackhead that had been been hit in the face with the huge fucking frog. 

As the Ford F-150 chariot carrying the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends drove off into the night, they could hear in the silly crackhead in the distance weeping...

“Frog right in my face... fucking frog hit me right in da head... frog bits on my clothes... that was a huge fucking frog.”

And the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends continued drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they drink a lot of beers!  The rednecks laughed with merriment because of their wonderful redneck game!  Oh, what a fine redneck night!

And the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) lived happily ever after.  The end.

So that, boys and girls, was the true story of “The Frog and The Crackhead.”  I hope, children, that you understood the moral of this tale:

Stay off crack, or you may get hit in the head with a frog.

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the vibrator diaries

I am starting a special section of my blog devoted entirely to vibrator stories.  I’ve experienced and heard so many mishaps, embarrassments, and just plain ole craziness associated with these blissful electronic devices, that I feel they deserve a special blog-type standing ovation.   Welcome to... The Vibrator Diaries!

Dear Vibrator Diary,

This story began long, long ago during the days when orgasms were something I had only experienced by myself.  In more blunt language, this story took place while rubbing one out DJ style when X was not at home.

I loved the days when I got home from work early, knowing that X would not arrive for several hours.  Those times were “me” times.  Times I could experience sexual bliss quickly and multiple times, without the sweaty, oozy, small knob that could barely make it thirty-seconds to weigh me down.  Times when I could fantasize about my perfect lover -- tall, shaved head, politically conservative, and big tackle.  *cough* -- Bruce Willis! -- *cough*

This particular “me” session started like any other.  I had a nice long bath.  Shaved my legs, trimmed the hedges, and freshened my breath.  I couldn’t have my BOBs (Battery Operated Boyfriends) disappointed, now could I?  Even BOBs have standards.  I made the bed, climbed under the cool, silky sheets, and brought out Buzz Lightyear, the newest member of my collection.

Buzz was particularly special to me.  You see, Buzz plugged straight into the wall.  No batteries needed!  No fumbling around stealing an extra "AA" out of the remote control or a desperately needed "C" from the flashlight.  Buzz gave me pleasure without limits.  Well, except for the cord I had to plug in the wall.  Still, Buzz could go for hours and hours without ever having to recharge, take a shower, or get hard again.  Buzz was always ready.

With wickedly delicious thoughts running through my brain, Buzz and I had a marathon session.  It was extraordinary.  Time and time again Buzz worked his magic until I became so thoroughly satiated that my bones felt like jelly.  Afterward, Buzz and I laid there for a while, staring at each other with love-sick puppy-dog eyes.  I glanced at the clock.  Another twenty minutes before X was due home.  A whole twenty minutes!  Who knew when I would have this kind of opportunity again?  So Buzz and I went for yet another round.

Things started out normally.  Buzz buzzed while I warmed up.  Buzzing Buzz.  Blissful Buzz.  Buzz, buzz.  I was starting to get really warmed up.  Sexually, and... physically, too?  Yes, I was definitely feeling extra warmth down south, but I chose to ignore it.  I did, after all, only have a few minutes left before X came home.  More buzzing, more warmth, but almost there!  More buzzing, definitely getting hot, but so close!  Even more buzzing, even more heat down south, then... FIZZLE! POP!  I blacked out.

Sigh... no, readers, I did not black out from the most incredible orgasm ever.  I blacked out in reaction to my pathetic situation.  When I came to, I smelled smoke.  Confused, I looked around.  Buzz was beside my splayed legs, his cord burned in two, ... and X was standing in the doorway.  This is the conversation that pursued:

X:  What the hell is going on?
J:  I’m not sure.
X:  What do you mean, “you’re not sure?”  What is that next to you?
J:  [looks around in a daze]  Oh... that’s just... Buzz.
X:  Buzz?!
J:  I mean, that’s my... um... vibrator.
X:  Your what?!  THAT is a vibrator?!
J:  Yeah, and I was just...
X:  It plugs into the wall?!
J:  Yeah, and I’m not sure...
X:  Why is the cord burned in half?!
J:  [mind clears... comprehension sets in]

Yes, folks, yes.  I got 115 volts AC straight through my fucking clit.  Buzz electrocuted my junk like it was on mutha fuckin death row.  Right as I was about to peak, Buzz reneged.  Rather than humbly declare defeat, Buzz kamikaze’d my ass.  I managed to turn poor ole Buzz into a suicidal terrorist.  And, to beat it all, X was there to witness my shame.

X:  Did you electrocute your pussy?  BWHA-HA-HA-HAR!
J:  Did not.  Shut the fuck up.
X:  You did!  You really did! 
J:  No, I did NOT electrocute my who-ha.  BUZZ did.
X:  BWA-HA-HA-HA-HAR!  Blaming it on your vibrator?  HA!  Classy.

I picked up Buzz’s remains and threw them straight at X’s short-dicked face.  Of course, I missed.  Of course, he laughed.  After X and I were through, I was finally able to laugh as well.

So this, dear friends, if the first entry of The Vibrator Diaries.  Stay tuned for more!

Do YOU have a funny vibrator story?  One that you are dying to tell the world, but would rather it happen anonymously?  Please share your stories with me at (YES, this is FOR REAL!), and I will blog about your experience.  You can also use this email to send in questions you'd like to have answered or blogquests!  All emails and stories will be completely anonymous.  NO NAMES!  Pinky swear. 


to infinity and beyond!

I catch a lot of shit about things that I don’t believe in, agree with, or just think is not worth my time.  I get called out the most for dissing the Speed of Light, Darwin’s Theory of Evolution, and the concept of Infinity.

Not Worth My Time -- The Speed of Light: Seriously... who gives a fuck?  How does the speed of light affect my life?  Everybody’s like, “Unh, well, if, like, the sun stopped shining and stuff, we wouldn’t know for, like, eight minutes.”  Who. Gives. A. Fuck?  I think the important part of that statement is that the sun STOPPED shining.  Shouldn’t we worry about that part first? No, I do not think it takes eight minutes for the light in my light bulb to appear.  Does it take eight minutes for your light bulb to flick on?  I don’t know where you get your electricity from, but when I hit the switch, light appears. No eight minutes here.

Don’t Believe In -- Darwin’s Theory of Evolution: First off, it is a THEORY.  Do you people know what the word THEORY means?  “A supposition or a system of ideas intended to explain something, especially one based on general principles independent of the thing to be explained.”  In other words, the system of ideas did not have enough proof to become fact, so they made it a theory and now inoculate our children with it through government school systems.  For those Darwinists out there -- explain the evolution of the eye to me.  Oo, oh!  How about the Cambrian Explosion?  The only Darwinism I believe in is the Social kind, and those who buy into the “theory of evolution” with no aspect of Intelligent Design have fucked that up for me, too.

Don’t Agree With -- Concept of Infinity: Karl Pilkington (one of my personal heroes) was asked to explain this statement: “If an infinite amount of monkeys were given an infinite amount of typewriters and typed for infinity, eventually the entire works of Shakespeare would be written.”  Karl’s thoughts?  “Impossible.”  My thoughts?  Ditto.  That’s absolute bullshit.  First show me an infinite amount of monkeys, then I will consider the statement.  In the interim, infinity is another way smart people try to explain away something stupid.  The best example of infinity is Pi.  “Pi never ends!”  How do you know?  Prove it.  Every time someone calculates Pi and proves this so-called concept of infinity, they prove it by giving up.  Luh-oo-zer!  Then they’re like, “Well, that’s infinity.”  Or, better yet, they put a computer out there somewhere that will never stop calculating Pi, proving that Pi is infinite.  Well, guess what?  Eventually that computer is gonna reboot, or the sun is gonna stop shining.  Then guess what fucking happens?  It stops.  The computer loses.  Infinity wasn’t proven, and, better yet, neither was the speed of light.  Cause if it takes eight minutes to know the sun stopped shining, then the computer should have had an eight minute warning to save its work before it got fucked while trying to prove this elusive “infinity” you people keep blathering about.


Playing Devil's Advocate


Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Ran

The Nymph King by Gena Showalter.  (It's awwight... need something with more oomph, though)


my first time

I figured if I am gonna put it all out there, might as well GO BIG, OR GO HOME. 

Memories... ah, the good ole days.  For me, that included blowdrying your bangs straight up and laying the AquaNet on thick.  Friendship bracelets.  Shorts paired with turtleneck sweaters.  That was middle school.  High school was even more colorful.  Dark lipstick.  Clothes straight from the Goodwill.  Grunge music.  My flat chest before my momma invested in my “girls.”  The good ole days.

This story occurred during those (definitely not sweet, but not quite bitter) high school years.  The days when I got more sexual education from my bedroom floor than Life Skills class.  The days when I learned that used condoms neither flush down the toilet nor magically disappear when thrown out your bedroom window.  Yes, the days of “my first time.”

I don’t know about you, but my first time bumping uglies really sucked.  I thought it would be simple: Insert Tab A into Slot B.  No one prepared me for the awkwardness of the entire situation.  Or that my extremely high hopes of having a mega orgasm during the act would not only be completely dashed but also put firmly on the shelf until I met C (thanks again, baby!).  There was also no romance, candlelight, or prom dress to go along with the first-time horizontal mambo.  That’s not my style, anyway.  No, I had to do one better and include sneaking the guy through my bedroom window, forgoing my bed because it squeaked too much, and whispering, lest my parents woke up, unlocked my bedroom door, and found their innocent little girl trying to figure out what part of a “blow job” required blowing.

My first and only time with X was definitely lacking.  Sixteen, and in love with being in love, I was easily swayed that X was “the one.”   Or rather, “the one until he banged the girl from down the road.”  The weeks leading up to it were very engaging, but the night we actually made the beast with two backs was anything but.  The decision was made quickly:
X:  Are you sure?
Me:  Yeah.
X:  Kay.

Mature adults that we were, of course we made sure to practice safe sex:

Me:  Do you have a condom?
X:  In my wallet, hold on.
Me:  [waiting]
X:  Got it.  Do you think we need two?
Me:  Can we do it twice?
X:  No, I don’t think so, but I think wearing two at one time would be safer than just wearing one.  What do you think?
Me:  Do you have another one?
X:  No.
Me:  Well... I guess we just need to be REALLY careful then.

Then the magical moment of penetration:

X:  Oh, yeah.
Me:  Is it in?
X:  Oh, yeah.
Me:  All the way?
X:  Oh, yeah.

Yup... only I would learn about small knobs through first hand experience.  Finally, the big finish, about thirty seconds later:

Me:  Yeah... wait, what?

The following weeks were miserable.  In that short amount of time, I convinced myself I was not only pregnant, but that I also had AIDS.  This led to me confessing all to my mother and answering embarrassing questions such as, “Did you have your period yet?” and “Did you use protection?”  The answers to both questions was “yes,” but somehow I still wasn’t convinced that I was neither pregnant nor HIV+.  We did, after all, neglect to use that second condom.

So after that first time, I took a vow of celibacy and got a promise ring.  Neither of which panned out after two years and my first semester of community college.

The moral of this story?  Go big, or go home.  In ALL things.



Monogamy in which condoms, pregnancy, or worrying about contracting an STD are no longer issues in my life.


G complaining about not finding that ever-elusive “swagger.”

The Nymph King by Gena Showalter

dream lover come and rescue me...

I have now officially dreamed of knocking boots with Spencer from iCarly three sleeps in a row.  It got so good last night that I found myself waking up mid-dream, only to try and force myself back to sleep so I wouldn’t miss anything.  I feel utterly ashamed.  Not because of dream-cheating on C, but that my subconscious standards are so low.  Yeah, Spencer's hawt, but I am attracted to a more diverse set of characteristics than plain ole hawtness.  Specifically, I am partial towards shaved heads, conservatism, large tackle, and the occasional goatee.  Yes, I’ve just described C and my boyfriend, Bruce Willis.  What?  Didn’t know me and Brucie are an item?  I don’t think he knows, either.


my personal rules to live by.

Haven’t blogged in foreva!  Thanks to a friend, Mrs. C.S., I have dug my blogspot out of its cyber hole and decided to update.  I will strive to do this regularly from this point out.

To start anew, I thought I would share with my readers MY PERSONAL rules to live by.  Please note that this post does not read “Should Be YOUR Personal Rules...”  These are mine, but feel free to borrow.
  1. School rules.  Education is one investment that you will always get a return on.
  2. Get a fucking job.  Unless you have a kid at home that is not school-aged, get your lazy ass off the damn couch and get a J-O-B.  “Housewife” is no longer an occupation.  “Stay-at-Home-Mom” only works if you ARE a stay at home mom to a child under five.
  3. Never give it up until he goes down.  He should also kiss you while touching your face and tell you that you are beautiful.  All three requirements must be met before he dips his stick into the honey.
  4. Don’t mix money.  There are and will always be two types of money: Yours and His.  I don’t care if you have a joint checking account and everything you have is in each others’ names.  There will never be “our” money.  You might say it, but you KNOW you don’t feel it.  If you don’t have any money, see #2.
  5. Become fluent in a second language.  Notice I wrote, “fluent.”  Knowing one sentence in a different language doesn’t count, ‘tard.
  6. Know the foundations of your political party.  Don’t just say you are Democrat or Republican, Liberal or Conservative, Left or Right.  Unless you know what those terms stand for your “party” can go fuck itself... because you are doing it to them already.
    • Read the Constitution.  Know what it is and understand it.
    • Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.  This goes politically and socially.  Watch, listen, and learn.  I am sure that C and I kept Air America in business an extra year by upping their ratings from 0 to 2.
  7. Read the book instead of watching the movie.  Use your (no doubt) government funded education and put it to good use by READING something.  If you don’t know how to read blame your liberal mommy and daddy for not sending you to a school that could teach you how.  Seriously, turn off the television and open up your mind.
  8. Find God.  “There are no atheists in a foxhole.”  Seriously, how many times has your unbelieving self said, “Oh, Jesus!” when you are in pain or “Oh, God!” when you feel intense pleasure?  Coincidence?  I think not.
  9. Don’t hate the playa, hate the game.  Seriously.  Don’t hate on me cause I live large, and I won’t hate on you cause you don’t.
  10. “Release the dogs, muthafuckas!”  One of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite books by one of my favorite authors.  I read this as “don’t go down without a fight.” I will fight.  I’ll pull a bitch’s weave straight out her head. 
  11. Practice safe sex.  You’d think this is a no-brainer.  C and I were watching the history of the condom one night (after about three years of marriage and zero condoms).  At one point we both looked at each other and one us remarked that condoms seemed useful.  Then the other replied, “Yeah, I guess they are.”  So fucking lucky.  We are so. fucking. lucky.
    • Take a serious look at your IQ before reproducing.  We have entirely too many dumbasses and absolutely no Social Darwinism thanks to all the libtards.
    • If you’re broke, jimmy up.  My tax dollars are raising enough welfare babies. 
  12. Drugs not Hugs.  Give me a valium over a therapy session any day.
  13. “No boom boom soul brotha.  Too beaucoup.”  Yeah, I’m skerred. I can’t lie.  I’ve seen flicks.  Too beaucoup.
  14. Go big or go home.  Hate your life, your significant other, your job?  Quit.  Just fucking quit.  Fuck it.  Fuck them.  If you don’t feel the passion, it isn’t meant to be.  Find the passion, feel the drive.
  15. Make a hole, bitches!  I’m leaving this life with a beer in one hand, a piece of chocolate in the other, my book deals making serious bank, and my resume being pursued by every international organization on the Forbes Top 100.  Beat dat.




Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand

I am Number Four by Pittacus Lore