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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