Okay...
Is it just me or is anyone else pissed off at this whole Madonna-Malawian baby boy thing? What I'm having a problem with is why the media is giving her such a hard time for adopting that baby. Angelina Jolie can walk her happy ass into Cambodia or whatever African nation that she adopted Zahara from and the whole world talks about what a good deed that she is doing and how she's such an amazing parent full of love. The bitch wore a vial of Billy Bob's blood around her neck for heaven's sake! Not to mention the fact that she's a homewrecking slut. (Sorry to sound so harsh but I really, really, really have a problem with infidelity. Another topic, another blog.)
Yet, Madonna, who's only real issue is the fact that she had a bit of a checkered past and that unfortunate decision to have a gold tooth during her 'Erotica' years. Oh, and the fact that she banged Vanilla Ice. And Big Daddy Kane. At the same time, apparently. Which reminds me I never did get a gander at that 'Sex' book so if anyone happens to have a copy of that, hit me back.
One of the major arguments that I hear is that if Madonna really wanted to help the little boy, she would provide money to his family and his village. 'He has a father. Help the father to raise the boy." What a load of shit! Everyday here in the United States people adopt children who have living families. Mothers, fathers, grandparents. When a wealthy couple is looking to adopt, we don't tell them that they should just help the parents financially. No, we let them buy that kid.
Another argument is that Madonna didn't follow the laws of Malawi. Well, duh! When was the last time a celebrity had to follow the law? They get special treatment. The more money you have, the more doors are open to you. It's a sad but true fact of the world. Again, I point to Angelina. She was in and out of Zimbabwe with Zahara before anyone could say 'boo.'
Give me a fucking break!
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Sunday, October 15, 2006
What's up with me?
I haven't posted in a week. What have I been up to?
The answer: a big fat nothing.
I've been making snail progress editing my finished ms. 'Working' on two new projects. And trying to work on my blog story. All with limited success.
The problem: the internet. It's a horrible, horrible thing. I get lost in it for hours upon hours. And the bad part is that I don't do anything all that interesting. I surf the same spots, read the same blogs, read the same e-mails. I think I could do more if I had a faster connection, but I'm working on dial-up. It's free so I don't complain. Much.
So, here I am, 11 at night and instead of working, I'm surfing, trying to think if anything interesting happened in the past week.
It hasn't.
I'm actually a really boring person with a really boring life. I'm a watcher not a doer. I watch entirely too much television (it's on right now. I'm watching a documentary about Wal-Mart, an entirely different conversation) and spend entirely too much time with my family. Why do I do it? I'm young, I'm in the prime of my life, I'm single. Toxically single (a whole other issue).
It's all very sad. Pity me.
What I do have are a sharp tongue and a keen intellect. My powers can be used for good or evil. Lately, they've been doing more evil than good. But, I'm always funny. Well, mostly funny.
I like that about myself. I like the unique perspective that I have on the world. Once, I was considering writing a book full of my opinions. It was going to be semi-autobiographical. It was titled 'Confessions of an Unknown Fat Girl: or Everyone is entitled to my opinion.'
Writer's are generally observers of the world. We see, we interpret, we skew to our own POV. Hey, we're fiction writers, not reporters. At least not the CNN kind, maybe more in the realm of Fox News. But way better. At least we can be believeable.
Ciao bellas
The answer: a big fat nothing.
I've been making snail progress editing my finished ms. 'Working' on two new projects. And trying to work on my blog story. All with limited success.
The problem: the internet. It's a horrible, horrible thing. I get lost in it for hours upon hours. And the bad part is that I don't do anything all that interesting. I surf the same spots, read the same blogs, read the same e-mails. I think I could do more if I had a faster connection, but I'm working on dial-up. It's free so I don't complain. Much.
So, here I am, 11 at night and instead of working, I'm surfing, trying to think if anything interesting happened in the past week.
It hasn't.
I'm actually a really boring person with a really boring life. I'm a watcher not a doer. I watch entirely too much television (it's on right now. I'm watching a documentary about Wal-Mart, an entirely different conversation) and spend entirely too much time with my family. Why do I do it? I'm young, I'm in the prime of my life, I'm single. Toxically single (a whole other issue).
It's all very sad. Pity me.
What I do have are a sharp tongue and a keen intellect. My powers can be used for good or evil. Lately, they've been doing more evil than good. But, I'm always funny. Well, mostly funny.
I like that about myself. I like the unique perspective that I have on the world. Once, I was considering writing a book full of my opinions. It was going to be semi-autobiographical. It was titled 'Confessions of an Unknown Fat Girl: or Everyone is entitled to my opinion.'
Writer's are generally observers of the world. We see, we interpret, we skew to our own POV. Hey, we're fiction writers, not reporters. At least not the CNN kind, maybe more in the realm of Fox News. But way better. At least we can be believeable.
Ciao bellas
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Deja Vu All Over Again
First some funny:
I was reading a book today at BN. Luckily I didn't buy it because it contained the following phrases:
"He buried his face in her muff." EWWW! That's just wrong on so many levels. Muff has not been used since 70's porn. Actually, it was even tacky in "Debbie Does Dallas." I have a few suggestions. Try beaver. Or the always classy hairy clam. Yeah, those work.
Also in the book: "He drank down her girl juice." I am so not even touching that one.
I'm all for 'purple prose' as we call it in the industry. There are only so many ways that one can describe the fluids that accompany the orgasm, but the thought of calling it 'girl juice.' I'm just saying.
Next:
I have one big fear. Actually I have a lot of fears but for the sake of brevity, I'll talk about my big fear of the day.
My fear: becoming my mother.
I can see it happen. Literally. I see some of the gestures that I do and I think 'Oh, shit! That's my mom! That's her. I can feel her start to possess my body. That's not my hand." All of a sudden I have to stop everything I'm doing and run to the mirror. I half expect to see my mother reflected there. You know, kind of like Bloody Mary, only WAY scarier.
Don't get me wrong. I love my Mama. It's just...well, she's crazy. And not in the she's a bit eccentric wearing her panties on her head sort of way. But in the Psycho, I-will-cut-you-bitch, kind of way.
Seriously.
She's going through menopause, but that's only exacerbated an already existing condition.
Growing up, my siblings and I would pray that when we got in trouble, our dad would be the one to whup us because once our mom got a hold of us we'd be lucky to sit down at the end. When my mom used to whup us, it would be in time to her word. I-thought-I-told-you-to-clean-up-your-room. Each word accentuated by a smack. Or there was the switch. Does anybody else the switch? My parents would make us go outside and strip one off the tree. Then...well you know the rest.
So you can see that why turning into my mother is a frightening proposition.
FOOD FOR THOUGHT:
I saw a bumper sticker today. WWLDD. So, naturally I thought of the popular WWJD (What would Jesus do?). And I came to the conclusion: What would Lucifer Do Differently?
What can I say, I'm evil.
How would you interpret it?
I was reading a book today at BN. Luckily I didn't buy it because it contained the following phrases:
"He buried his face in her muff." EWWW! That's just wrong on so many levels. Muff has not been used since 70's porn. Actually, it was even tacky in "Debbie Does Dallas." I have a few suggestions. Try beaver. Or the always classy hairy clam. Yeah, those work.
Also in the book: "He drank down her girl juice." I am so not even touching that one.
I'm all for 'purple prose' as we call it in the industry. There are only so many ways that one can describe the fluids that accompany the orgasm, but the thought of calling it 'girl juice.' I'm just saying.
Next:
I have one big fear. Actually I have a lot of fears but for the sake of brevity, I'll talk about my big fear of the day.
My fear: becoming my mother.
I can see it happen. Literally. I see some of the gestures that I do and I think 'Oh, shit! That's my mom! That's her. I can feel her start to possess my body. That's not my hand." All of a sudden I have to stop everything I'm doing and run to the mirror. I half expect to see my mother reflected there. You know, kind of like Bloody Mary, only WAY scarier.
Don't get me wrong. I love my Mama. It's just...well, she's crazy. And not in the she's a bit eccentric wearing her panties on her head sort of way. But in the Psycho, I-will-cut-you-bitch, kind of way.
Seriously.
She's going through menopause, but that's only exacerbated an already existing condition.
Growing up, my siblings and I would pray that when we got in trouble, our dad would be the one to whup us because once our mom got a hold of us we'd be lucky to sit down at the end. When my mom used to whup us, it would be in time to her word. I-thought-I-told-you-to-clean-up-your-room. Each word accentuated by a smack. Or there was the switch. Does anybody else the switch? My parents would make us go outside and strip one off the tree. Then...well you know the rest.
So you can see that why turning into my mother is a frightening proposition.
FOOD FOR THOUGHT:
I saw a bumper sticker today. WWLDD. So, naturally I thought of the popular WWJD (What would Jesus do?). And I came to the conclusion: What would Lucifer Do Differently?
What can I say, I'm evil.
How would you interpret it?
Friday, October 06, 2006
A BLOW to the EGO
It may surprise many people to know that I don't have that many friends. At least according to MySpace. I have about 40. And I think ten of them are celebrities or bands or some random person. So needless to say that it always gets me excited to log on to MySpace and see that I have a friends request.
And that's exactly what happened tonite. Imagine the scene...a lonely young woman sitting in front of her computer. She longs for some acceptance. After all it is a Friday night. And she is dateless once again. Truthfully, she's only two glasses and a pair of sensible shoes away from playing for the other team. But she has hope. So in an effort to relieve the crushing loneliness in her chest that threatens to turn her soul into an immense black chasm of emptiness.
Well, maybe not quite that dire.
More like the fear of becoming like that creepy old lady who lives in that big house on the corner, her yard overgrown hiding all manner of creature including her seventeen cats and twelve dogs. The entire visage so frightening that little children dare each other to walk past and then end up running past, screaming 'She's sucking out my soul.'
Wait. I hate cats. That was way worse. I'll take the black chasm and sunken chest please.
Back to the story. She's checking her MySpace account when Lo and Behold, she has a freinds request. She could feel the heart begin pound in her chest. Fingers shaking, she clicks on the bright blue word. There he is. John, her mind sighs. could this be him? Could it be that easy? She takes a minute to daydream. This could make a very cute and funny story to tell their grandchildren. How Granddad 'found' Nana in a sea of profiles, choosing her above all. Again she moves the cursor. Click. Her breath stops in her throat. Faster, dammit, faster, show me my destiny.
There. There he is. John. 40 years old. United Kingdom. Okay, that could be a problem. Not too unmanageable. Intrigues she scrolls down the page. It looks a little off. There's something that she can't put her finger on.
Then she sees it.
Thunk. The sound of her heart dipping into her stomach like a boulder. The words blur as the tears fill her vision. It's over. All before it even began. It was the last thing she'd ever expected.
An advertisement for how to make money money using the internet.
Using her sleeve, she wipes her eyes. No more crying. Suck it up and go to bed. Your cold lonely bed.
Awww.
It wasn't quite that involved. I don't think I'd named our grandkids. Just our firstborn. And his sister. Maybe their baby brother as well.
Aw, well. There's always the next random loser that sends you a request to be his friends.
Maybe next time, it'll be an advertisement for Natural Male Enhancement.
And that's exactly what happened tonite. Imagine the scene...a lonely young woman sitting in front of her computer. She longs for some acceptance. After all it is a Friday night. And she is dateless once again. Truthfully, she's only two glasses and a pair of sensible shoes away from playing for the other team. But she has hope. So in an effort to relieve the crushing loneliness in her chest that threatens to turn her soul into an immense black chasm of emptiness.
Well, maybe not quite that dire.
More like the fear of becoming like that creepy old lady who lives in that big house on the corner, her yard overgrown hiding all manner of creature including her seventeen cats and twelve dogs. The entire visage so frightening that little children dare each other to walk past and then end up running past, screaming 'She's sucking out my soul.'
Wait. I hate cats. That was way worse. I'll take the black chasm and sunken chest please.
Back to the story. She's checking her MySpace account when Lo and Behold, she has a freinds request. She could feel the heart begin pound in her chest. Fingers shaking, she clicks on the bright blue word. There he is. John, her mind sighs. could this be him? Could it be that easy? She takes a minute to daydream. This could make a very cute and funny story to tell their grandchildren. How Granddad 'found' Nana in a sea of profiles, choosing her above all. Again she moves the cursor. Click. Her breath stops in her throat. Faster, dammit, faster, show me my destiny.
There. There he is. John. 40 years old. United Kingdom. Okay, that could be a problem. Not too unmanageable. Intrigues she scrolls down the page. It looks a little off. There's something that she can't put her finger on.
Then she sees it.
Thunk. The sound of her heart dipping into her stomach like a boulder. The words blur as the tears fill her vision. It's over. All before it even began. It was the last thing she'd ever expected.
An advertisement for how to make money money using the internet.
Using her sleeve, she wipes her eyes. No more crying. Suck it up and go to bed. Your cold lonely bed.
Awww.
It wasn't quite that involved. I don't think I'd named our grandkids. Just our firstborn. And his sister. Maybe their baby brother as well.
Aw, well. There's always the next random loser that sends you a request to be his friends.
Maybe next time, it'll be an advertisement for Natural Male Enhancement.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Random Ranting
As my loyal readers may already know by now, I'm an asshole with an opinion. I have one for everything. Even those things that I know nothing about. Especially those things that I know nothing about. I go off half-cocked and make outrageous statements that may or may not be correct. But I do it with conviction. I have a lot of that. I have conviction. Which is a good thing but can also hurt me because I tend to see things in terms of black and white, right or wrong.
An example: Infidelity. I think it's just plain wrong. There is never any justification for it. Period. I don't find it romantic, I don't see the participants as tortured souls. THERE WAS NOTHING ROMANTIC ABOUT GUINEVERE AND LANCELOT. They betrayed her husband, their friend, and their king. And for what? The kingdom fell and Guinevere ended up living out her days in a convent. With no sex. Ever. Unless the nuns were doing things that I don't want to know.
But this was so not what I wanted to say tonight. I did have a point to this rant.
WARNING THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS CONTENT THAT MAY BE OFFENSIVE.
It all began with shoes.
I hate the mall. I HATE the MALL. I LOATHE THE MALL. I also hate shopping in general So imagine my surprise when I found myself wandering the esteemed halls of K-Mart. I didn't have any agenda. I was just kind of loafing around with nothing to do on a Saturday night (pathetic but true). So my good friend Julie calls me and we decide to go to a shoe store because we both decided that we needed to buy shoes. And pants. Well, I needed pants. I'm not sure about her. She may have needed pants.
So, we're in the store looking for shoes. And I'm pointing to a pair of chunky-soled something or others and I ask Julie, "What do you think?" "Fine. If you're a lesbian," came her ready reply. Needless to say, I don't buy the shoes but I do leave the store with a nice pair of New Balance sneaks.
Fast forward to the next day. I'm at Payless, my normal shoe mecca, looking again for a nice pair of black shoes suitable for work. And all the shoes that I find are nice, sensible shoes. Lesbian shoes, according to my friend Julie. So I call her and I leave her the following message, 'Hey Julie. I think I'm a lesbian. I like sensible shoes.'
And I did. But I didn't want to buy them.
Now, before anyone jumps down my throat for making crass generalizations, I do now have justification. I was watching an episode of 'The L Word' in which all of the main lesbian characters are on a quest to find out if another woman is a lesbian or not. Their two main tells: The woman's nails and her shoes.
So apparently even lesbians have a dress code. And it starts with the shoes. I guess clothes do make the man, or the lesbian for that matter.
What about you? What would your clothes tell the average people watcher about you?
An example: Infidelity. I think it's just plain wrong. There is never any justification for it. Period. I don't find it romantic, I don't see the participants as tortured souls. THERE WAS NOTHING ROMANTIC ABOUT GUINEVERE AND LANCELOT. They betrayed her husband, their friend, and their king. And for what? The kingdom fell and Guinevere ended up living out her days in a convent. With no sex. Ever. Unless the nuns were doing things that I don't want to know.
But this was so not what I wanted to say tonight. I did have a point to this rant.
WARNING THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS CONTENT THAT MAY BE OFFENSIVE.
It all began with shoes.
I hate the mall. I HATE the MALL. I LOATHE THE MALL. I also hate shopping in general So imagine my surprise when I found myself wandering the esteemed halls of K-Mart. I didn't have any agenda. I was just kind of loafing around with nothing to do on a Saturday night (pathetic but true). So my good friend Julie calls me and we decide to go to a shoe store because we both decided that we needed to buy shoes. And pants. Well, I needed pants. I'm not sure about her. She may have needed pants.
So, we're in the store looking for shoes. And I'm pointing to a pair of chunky-soled something or others and I ask Julie, "What do you think?" "Fine. If you're a lesbian," came her ready reply. Needless to say, I don't buy the shoes but I do leave the store with a nice pair of New Balance sneaks.
Fast forward to the next day. I'm at Payless, my normal shoe mecca, looking again for a nice pair of black shoes suitable for work. And all the shoes that I find are nice, sensible shoes. Lesbian shoes, according to my friend Julie. So I call her and I leave her the following message, 'Hey Julie. I think I'm a lesbian. I like sensible shoes.'
And I did. But I didn't want to buy them.
Now, before anyone jumps down my throat for making crass generalizations, I do now have justification. I was watching an episode of 'The L Word' in which all of the main lesbian characters are on a quest to find out if another woman is a lesbian or not. Their two main tells: The woman's nails and her shoes.
So apparently even lesbians have a dress code. And it starts with the shoes. I guess clothes do make the man, or the lesbian for that matter.
What about you? What would your clothes tell the average people watcher about you?
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Football Freak
I love football. No, I adore football. If football were a real man, I'd be his love slave and allow him unfettered access to my body. THAT'S how much I love football. Most days, football loves me back.
Fantasy football, however, hates me with a passion. For the second year in a row, I am LAST in my fantasy football league. I am a laughingstock. People now stop and point at me on the street and whisper behind my back that my team, Moe's Joes, are now 0-4. They shake their heads in shame as they ask what kind of football fan am I.
A very sad one.
Now, some women who read this may be asking themselves how another of their kindred can be so devoted to such a violent and immature game. To them I say, have you ever taken the time to WATCH a game. To see modern-day warriors take the field in a battle of wits, skill, and brawn is truly an almost holy experience.
Plus they wear really tight pants and most times have great asses.
For me, I think that football is an outlet for all of my pent-up aggression. Since I can't necessarily go around tackling all the people that get on my nerves (mostly because I'd never even have time sleep) I have to get my jollies some way.
What about you? How do you release frustration?
Fantasy football, however, hates me with a passion. For the second year in a row, I am LAST in my fantasy football league. I am a laughingstock. People now stop and point at me on the street and whisper behind my back that my team, Moe's Joes, are now 0-4. They shake their heads in shame as they ask what kind of football fan am I.
A very sad one.
Now, some women who read this may be asking themselves how another of their kindred can be so devoted to such a violent and immature game. To them I say, have you ever taken the time to WATCH a game. To see modern-day warriors take the field in a battle of wits, skill, and brawn is truly an almost holy experience.
Plus they wear really tight pants and most times have great asses.
For me, I think that football is an outlet for all of my pent-up aggression. Since I can't necessarily go around tackling all the people that get on my nerves (mostly because I'd never even have time sleep) I have to get my jollies some way.
What about you? How do you release frustration?
Monday, October 02, 2006
My Blurb
So this is the blurb that my good friend Jaye wrote about my blog...
"Random Acts of Randomness lives up to its title. You never know what subject CreativityVacuum will take on next. But you always know her unique perspective on the issue will be funny. The hot sex scenes are just a bonus."
YEAH!!!! She hit it right on the head. At least SOMEONE sees the humor that I try to spread in the world. And hot sex is never a bonus. It's a necessity, ladies. Am I right? You know I'm right.
Ciao Bella
"Random Acts of Randomness lives up to its title. You never know what subject CreativityVacuum will take on next. But you always know her unique perspective on the issue will be funny. The hot sex scenes are just a bonus."
YEAH!!!! She hit it right on the head. At least SOMEONE sees the humor that I try to spread in the world. And hot sex is never a bonus. It's a necessity, ladies. Am I right? You know I'm right.
Ciao Bella
Sunday, October 01, 2006
ANNOUNCING...
The winner of the 'Name My Book' Contest is....(drumroll please)
Nicole and 'Chasing Riki.'
CONGRATUALTIONS!!!!!!
This was a very hard decision. You all had some VERY GOOD entries. In the end, Nicole's title just seemed to click.
But I have to say that it was a close race with Ljay and 'Mister Opportunity' running a close second. This title alone has sparked an idea for yet another book. And for this, I have decided to offer a prize for runner up which is some very luscious Godiva chocolates.
Thanks to everyone that participated. You guys were awesome. Thanks again for visiting my blog and I hope that y'all will continue to read and enjoy my admitted craziness.
To Nicole and Ljay, y'all can claim your prizes by e-mailing your addresses to me at CreativityVacuum@gmail.com
Later Gators
Nicole and 'Chasing Riki.'
CONGRATUALTIONS!!!!!!
This was a very hard decision. You all had some VERY GOOD entries. In the end, Nicole's title just seemed to click.
But I have to say that it was a close race with Ljay and 'Mister Opportunity' running a close second. This title alone has sparked an idea for yet another book. And for this, I have decided to offer a prize for runner up which is some very luscious Godiva chocolates.
Thanks to everyone that participated. You guys were awesome. Thanks again for visiting my blog and I hope that y'all will continue to read and enjoy my admitted craziness.
To Nicole and Ljay, y'all can claim your prizes by e-mailing your addresses to me at CreativityVacuum@gmail.com
Later Gators
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Evil Bitch Whores
It's time that I introduced the world to a group of women that I call the EBW- Evil Bitch Whores. Now, this is a special category reserved for a certain type of woman.
Please don't misunderstand. I'm not a misongynist. Some of my best friends are women. But as with everything there are the proverbial 'bad apples.' Or immensely evil crazy bitches. Both men and women.
Evil Bitch Whores are women who amplify everything that is wrong with the world. They're narcissistic. They prey on the misery of others. They create misery in other people's lives. The worse part is that they somehow always come out smelling like roses. It's never that they did anything wrong. It's always turned back on you. Other people like them. There are moments of normality. But they can turn just as quickly. Cross her and she will make it her life's mission to make sure that you pay.
They do it with a smile on their faces and a knife behind their back or in yours.
Don't get me wrong. I don't want to be too gloom and doom, They're not always the Devil Incarnate. They can be arrogant, self-agrandizing, sanctimonious, self-involved, patronizing, or just plain stupid.
And because I consider myself an evil bitch- not to be confused with an Evil Bitch Whore- I'm also a bit petty. So, I include those women (and men) that I simply don't like.
Now, I have my own list of EBWs. There is even a Queen of the EBWs-well more of a shared title. I will reveal my Queens but I must warn you that there will be an outcry the likes of which the earth has never seen. So when you read the next sentence please keep your scream to that of a low roar.
The Queens of the Evil Bitch Whores are: Martha Stewart and Oprah Winfrey. I cannot stand these women. Martha for the obvious reasons. But Oprah you may ask. Why Oprah? Well, the simple answer is that I hate her. I can't stand her. I am the first to admit that she has done a lot for a lot of people. She is an incredible philanthropist. She is also incredibly fake. I think she is out of touch with the common person. She is sanctimonious and presumptuous and thinks her shit doesn't stink. That's just my opinion. I don't actually know her but I'm sure that I don't want to either.
There are also EBWs that don't reach the status of Queen. Mine are too numerous and my time limited.
Okay. So what brought about this discussion?
I'm watching Larry King Live with Dr. Laura Schlessinger. This bitch is out of her fucking mind. I literally cannot believe the steaming, heaping piles of shit that come out of her mouth. She basically said that women belong in the home, raising her children, and catering to her husband's every whim, sexually and otherwise. They shouldn't work outside the home, they should be self-sacrificing drones, and be happy about it.
Don't get me wrong. I am all for women being good mothers and wives. But I think the way that this is defined is different for everyone. If you want to work outside the home and need to put your child in daycare, that DOES NOT make you a bad mother.
But Dr. Bitch would tell you differently. She would tell you that you need to be at home raising your children, cooking their meals, and screwing your husband blind. Women are to be submissive towards their husbands.
But Dr. Laura, I'm a single mother. What do I do? Dr. Laura says that you need should move in with your parents and only work at night. Simple really.
Premarital sex? Never!
Women should act like 'unpaid whores.' But only for their husbands. Direct quote. Lay back and open your legs, ladies! Not in the mood? You will be. Just let him rut on top of you for a few minutes and eventually you'll have an orgasm.
But what if I'm not happy, not fulfilled? You should get the joy in your life from taking care of your family and catering to your husband. How could you not be happy?
She has now made the Queen of the Evil Bitch Whores a triumvate.
If you had a league of EBWs, who would make the cut?
Please don't misunderstand. I'm not a misongynist. Some of my best friends are women. But as with everything there are the proverbial 'bad apples.' Or immensely evil crazy bitches. Both men and women.
Evil Bitch Whores are women who amplify everything that is wrong with the world. They're narcissistic. They prey on the misery of others. They create misery in other people's lives. The worse part is that they somehow always come out smelling like roses. It's never that they did anything wrong. It's always turned back on you. Other people like them. There are moments of normality. But they can turn just as quickly. Cross her and she will make it her life's mission to make sure that you pay.
They do it with a smile on their faces and a knife behind their back or in yours.
Don't get me wrong. I don't want to be too gloom and doom, They're not always the Devil Incarnate. They can be arrogant, self-agrandizing, sanctimonious, self-involved, patronizing, or just plain stupid.
And because I consider myself an evil bitch- not to be confused with an Evil Bitch Whore- I'm also a bit petty. So, I include those women (and men) that I simply don't like.
Now, I have my own list of EBWs. There is even a Queen of the EBWs-well more of a shared title. I will reveal my Queens but I must warn you that there will be an outcry the likes of which the earth has never seen. So when you read the next sentence please keep your scream to that of a low roar.
The Queens of the Evil Bitch Whores are: Martha Stewart and Oprah Winfrey. I cannot stand these women. Martha for the obvious reasons. But Oprah you may ask. Why Oprah? Well, the simple answer is that I hate her. I can't stand her. I am the first to admit that she has done a lot for a lot of people. She is an incredible philanthropist. She is also incredibly fake. I think she is out of touch with the common person. She is sanctimonious and presumptuous and thinks her shit doesn't stink. That's just my opinion. I don't actually know her but I'm sure that I don't want to either.
There are also EBWs that don't reach the status of Queen. Mine are too numerous and my time limited.
Okay. So what brought about this discussion?
I'm watching Larry King Live with Dr. Laura Schlessinger. This bitch is out of her fucking mind. I literally cannot believe the steaming, heaping piles of shit that come out of her mouth. She basically said that women belong in the home, raising her children, and catering to her husband's every whim, sexually and otherwise. They shouldn't work outside the home, they should be self-sacrificing drones, and be happy about it.
Don't get me wrong. I am all for women being good mothers and wives. But I think the way that this is defined is different for everyone. If you want to work outside the home and need to put your child in daycare, that DOES NOT make you a bad mother.
But Dr. Bitch would tell you differently. She would tell you that you need to be at home raising your children, cooking their meals, and screwing your husband blind. Women are to be submissive towards their husbands.
But Dr. Laura, I'm a single mother. What do I do? Dr. Laura says that you need should move in with your parents and only work at night. Simple really.
Premarital sex? Never!
Women should act like 'unpaid whores.' But only for their husbands. Direct quote. Lay back and open your legs, ladies! Not in the mood? You will be. Just let him rut on top of you for a few minutes and eventually you'll have an orgasm.
But what if I'm not happy, not fulfilled? You should get the joy in your life from taking care of your family and catering to your husband. How could you not be happy?
She has now made the Queen of the Evil Bitch Whores a triumvate.
If you had a league of EBWs, who would make the cut?
Thursday, September 14, 2006
CONTEST UPDATE
So, I decided that if this were to be a real contest I should at least offer a prize. And that's what I've decided to do. The winner of the 'NAME MY BOOK' contest will receive a $25 gift certificate for the book store of your choice. To sweeten the pot I'll even throw in some Godiva Chocolates. Contest restarts today and ends 9/30/06.
Good luck Peeps!
Good luck Peeps!
Saturday, September 09, 2006
NAME MY BOOK CONTEST
So, I'm working and reworking and reworking my query letter when all of a suuden it occurred to me that I'm seeking representation for a book that has no name. So, I'm enlisting the help of my five loyal readers to help me find a name.
So here it goes...
Riki Watson’s life was…well, boring. But it was hers and if she wasn’t happy then at least she could be content. So when exactly did her orderly life turn upside down? In the space of twenty-four hours she learns that her best friend, a woman for whom the word hoochie seemed to have been invented, has become involved with their boss, a man that would make any Trekkie look like The Fonz hanging out at Arnold’s on a Saturday night with two hot chicks on his arm. As if that weren’t bad enough, their sex life was apparently nothing short of Sexual Olympics. Added to these startlingly revelations is the fact that her entire family believes her to be gay. Well, sure she hadn’t had a date since Bush the First was in office but that had more to do with lack of opportunity than lack of desire. It was definitely not lack of desire.
A chance meeting in a bookstore brings Marsh Evans into her life. Riki knows from that moment that her life would never be the same. He was everything that Riki could ever want and nothing she believed she could have. Riki doesn’t believe that they have anything in common. Even if she disregarded the fact that he was White and she was of mixed heritage, there was still the fact that Marsh was drop-dead gorgeous and she was well…not. However, these obstacles don’t seem to stop Marsh in his pursuit of Riki despite her attempts to put distance between them. Eventually, Riki has no choice but to give in to the incredible desire between them.
There's more to the story but that's a general sketch. So people...
NAME MY BOOK!!!
So here it goes...
Riki Watson’s life was…well, boring. But it was hers and if she wasn’t happy then at least she could be content. So when exactly did her orderly life turn upside down? In the space of twenty-four hours she learns that her best friend, a woman for whom the word hoochie seemed to have been invented, has become involved with their boss, a man that would make any Trekkie look like The Fonz hanging out at Arnold’s on a Saturday night with two hot chicks on his arm. As if that weren’t bad enough, their sex life was apparently nothing short of Sexual Olympics. Added to these startlingly revelations is the fact that her entire family believes her to be gay. Well, sure she hadn’t had a date since Bush the First was in office but that had more to do with lack of opportunity than lack of desire. It was definitely not lack of desire.
A chance meeting in a bookstore brings Marsh Evans into her life. Riki knows from that moment that her life would never be the same. He was everything that Riki could ever want and nothing she believed she could have. Riki doesn’t believe that they have anything in common. Even if she disregarded the fact that he was White and she was of mixed heritage, there was still the fact that Marsh was drop-dead gorgeous and she was well…not. However, these obstacles don’t seem to stop Marsh in his pursuit of Riki despite her attempts to put distance between them. Eventually, Riki has no choice but to give in to the incredible desire between them.
There's more to the story but that's a general sketch. So people...
NAME MY BOOK!!!
And speaking of Jaye...
I was IMing my friend Jaye tonight and like always I enjoyed our 'conversation.' But it did get me to thinking. A dangerous occupation to be sure but one in which I engage in with startling regularity. Anyhoo, my good friend, who is also a romance writer and although I've not read her stuff her blog is enough to convince me that she's nothing short of brilliant (Please note that these comments are solely the opinion of this writer and were not in any way solicited or paid for by Jaye) and I were discussing telling people what we do now as our avocation although we hope to soon make it our vocation. And we both agreed that we're a little, shall we say hesitant, to tell people that we write romance.
Now, I know that I've written about this before and I've said that I'm proud to tell people that I write romance. And I am...after a bit of hesitation. And under the right circumstances. And to the right people. But the fact that I hesitate seriously pisses me off. Why should I hesitate? To be honest I think that it has a lot to do with the perception that what I do is somehow less than honorable or worthwhile.
And that's the problem. Our society has a grudge against not only romance but also 'popular fiction.' Which is somehow different than 'literary fiction.' Jaye described it as the difference between a huge Hoolywood blockbuster and a critically-acclaimed indie flick. And to all this I say...bullshit! There is nothing wrong with commercial success. Nothing wrong with bringing a good story with a happy ending to the public. Nothing wrong with a bit of brain candy. And by implying that writers of 'popular fiction' are somehow less talented that those that write the other crap sounds like a whole lot of jealousy to me.
And really how does one distinguish 'literary from 'popular' fiction? I know it's not the level of telent. So what makes it 'better'? I wish I knew, But I do know that those who write that type of fiction look down their snooty little noses at us lesser peons. But they can kiss my ass. I'm having way more fun.
Hasta Luego
Now, I know that I've written about this before and I've said that I'm proud to tell people that I write romance. And I am...after a bit of hesitation. And under the right circumstances. And to the right people. But the fact that I hesitate seriously pisses me off. Why should I hesitate? To be honest I think that it has a lot to do with the perception that what I do is somehow less than honorable or worthwhile.
And that's the problem. Our society has a grudge against not only romance but also 'popular fiction.' Which is somehow different than 'literary fiction.' Jaye described it as the difference between a huge Hoolywood blockbuster and a critically-acclaimed indie flick. And to all this I say...bullshit! There is nothing wrong with commercial success. Nothing wrong with bringing a good story with a happy ending to the public. Nothing wrong with a bit of brain candy. And by implying that writers of 'popular fiction' are somehow less talented that those that write the other crap sounds like a whole lot of jealousy to me.
And really how does one distinguish 'literary from 'popular' fiction? I know it's not the level of telent. So what makes it 'better'? I wish I knew, But I do know that those who write that type of fiction look down their snooty little noses at us lesser peons. But they can kiss my ass. I'm having way more fun.
Hasta Luego
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Fat Fashion
I wish that I had the discipline to post everyday like my good friend Jaye (see sidebar for link, she's kick-ass!). As it is, I surf the internet for untold hours and get nothing accomplished. If I ever get an office in my home, my computer won't have an internet connection. It helps to have no distractions.
So...what great thoughts have I been thinking?
Well, number one is how hard it is to find sexy lingerie for big girls. C'mon designers! Big girls want to look good for their men. We want the crotchless panties. But not the edible undies. We'd go throigh like 10 packs in a day. Plus there's the added downside that most women have no desire to stick fruit roll-ups (or any other food product-see previous post) in our hoo-has. SIDENOTE: I should really look into all the euphemisms that I know for human genitalia.
But back to my point...I have been scouring the internet for said items (sans fruit panties) and have not been very successful.
And that leads to yet another related point. Why do fashion designers feel that all big girls want to do is wear MuuMuus? I know that there's been a shift, but for the most part, it's same ole, same ole when it comes to larger women. Did you SEE Project Runway? That design that Jeffrey made was made for a cow. Now I may be a heifer but I am not a cow.
What else?
My best friend just got engaged. And while I am very happy for her, I also want to gauge her eyes out.
Is this normal or am I more demented than I thougt?
Adios
So...what great thoughts have I been thinking?
Well, number one is how hard it is to find sexy lingerie for big girls. C'mon designers! Big girls want to look good for their men. We want the crotchless panties. But not the edible undies. We'd go throigh like 10 packs in a day. Plus there's the added downside that most women have no desire to stick fruit roll-ups (or any other food product-see previous post) in our hoo-has. SIDENOTE: I should really look into all the euphemisms that I know for human genitalia.
But back to my point...I have been scouring the internet for said items (sans fruit panties) and have not been very successful.
And that leads to yet another related point. Why do fashion designers feel that all big girls want to do is wear MuuMuus? I know that there's been a shift, but for the most part, it's same ole, same ole when it comes to larger women. Did you SEE Project Runway? That design that Jeffrey made was made for a cow. Now I may be a heifer but I am not a cow.
What else?
My best friend just got engaged. And while I am very happy for her, I also want to gauge her eyes out.
Is this normal or am I more demented than I thougt?
Adios
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Fat Chicks and Horror Flicks
Fat people aren't in horror flicks. Not that I'd actually want to be in a horror film but I'm saying that even if we were I wouldn't be much of a challenge. This is how I imagine the scenario:
A dark cabin in the woods during a thunderstorm. Six friends are on vacation. After a night of laughing and wine, the friends prepare for bed. Unfortunately, two of the friends are also a couple so they decide to make love. And as you all well know, sex is like a psycho magnet. Suddenly, outside the window, a crazed machete-wielding sociopath appears in the window with a flash of lightning. He silently makes his way inside the cabin while the unsuspecting friends sleep or bone. He goes for the sex monkeys first, slashing and slicing his way through the beast with two backs. The noise awakens the other residents who run toward the noise. (Which in and of itself is a huge mistake.) All, that is, except for the lone fat girl who decides to stay her happy ass exactly where it is. The others, upon seeing the massacre of flesh and blood, run toward the phone, whose service has been inconveniently disrupted due to the storm. They decide to make a run for it.
Now, where the sociopath is at this time is anyone's guess, he's off plotting his next move in his elaborate cat and mouse game.
They rush into bigt girl's bedroom. She waves them away, 'Nah, I'm good.' They look at her incredulously. Doesn't she know that a machete-weilding psycho is trying to kill them. Yes, she answers, she does. But there's also no way that she can outrun him so they should just go ahead and do what they do. She's just going to chill. They don't have time for this shit, someone yells angrily. Let that fat bitch die. Yeah, well it's not looking that good for you either you, dumb fuck.
So, the friends leave the big girl to her fate and run off to eventually get maimed somewhere deep in the woods because that's what usually happens in these movies. She knows that when they get outside none of the cars will work because true psychos are truly genius and he would have thought about that before starting with the dice-o-matic thing.
So, she waits. Kicking back, bowl of popcorn in her lap, reading a romance novel. The psycho burts into the room. Blood rnning down the wicked blade in his clenched fist. She looks up and in a bored voice states, Well, lets get this over with. Mr. Crazy Pants tilts his head as if in askance. Look, Crazy, Machete Wielding Psycho, you and I both know that there's only one way this will end. I'm too big to try to outrun you, even if you do do that slow walk thing that somehow always manages to catch unsuspecting coeds. So, I'll save you the trouble and myself the effort. I'll just lay here and you can go ahead and kill me. Just let me finish this paragraph right quick and then we can do this.
The psycho is clearly bewildered. She was supposed to be running. She was supposed to be afraid. He had a fucking machete for chrissake! To prove his point he waves said object. No deal. She continues to read her book, idly turning the page. Needless to say he's in a bit of a quagmire. He's a killer. It's what he does. But he's also a man so he likes the thrill of the hunt. She's not cooperating. Added to that, there were three other who were locked and loaded as it were.
Decision made, the psycho turns and leaves the room. She's no fun.
So, the fat chick is saved and uses her cell to call the police because she's apparently the only person that thought of that. And she looks very sad as she attends five funerals but deep down inside she thinks, that's what y'all get for all those fat jokes.
Of course I AM Black so these are all moot points.
Later
A dark cabin in the woods during a thunderstorm. Six friends are on vacation. After a night of laughing and wine, the friends prepare for bed. Unfortunately, two of the friends are also a couple so they decide to make love. And as you all well know, sex is like a psycho magnet. Suddenly, outside the window, a crazed machete-wielding sociopath appears in the window with a flash of lightning. He silently makes his way inside the cabin while the unsuspecting friends sleep or bone. He goes for the sex monkeys first, slashing and slicing his way through the beast with two backs. The noise awakens the other residents who run toward the noise. (Which in and of itself is a huge mistake.) All, that is, except for the lone fat girl who decides to stay her happy ass exactly where it is. The others, upon seeing the massacre of flesh and blood, run toward the phone, whose service has been inconveniently disrupted due to the storm. They decide to make a run for it.
Now, where the sociopath is at this time is anyone's guess, he's off plotting his next move in his elaborate cat and mouse game.
They rush into bigt girl's bedroom. She waves them away, 'Nah, I'm good.' They look at her incredulously. Doesn't she know that a machete-weilding psycho is trying to kill them. Yes, she answers, she does. But there's also no way that she can outrun him so they should just go ahead and do what they do. She's just going to chill. They don't have time for this shit, someone yells angrily. Let that fat bitch die. Yeah, well it's not looking that good for you either you, dumb fuck.
So, the friends leave the big girl to her fate and run off to eventually get maimed somewhere deep in the woods because that's what usually happens in these movies. She knows that when they get outside none of the cars will work because true psychos are truly genius and he would have thought about that before starting with the dice-o-matic thing.
So, she waits. Kicking back, bowl of popcorn in her lap, reading a romance novel. The psycho burts into the room. Blood rnning down the wicked blade in his clenched fist. She looks up and in a bored voice states, Well, lets get this over with. Mr. Crazy Pants tilts his head as if in askance. Look, Crazy, Machete Wielding Psycho, you and I both know that there's only one way this will end. I'm too big to try to outrun you, even if you do do that slow walk thing that somehow always manages to catch unsuspecting coeds. So, I'll save you the trouble and myself the effort. I'll just lay here and you can go ahead and kill me. Just let me finish this paragraph right quick and then we can do this.
The psycho is clearly bewildered. She was supposed to be running. She was supposed to be afraid. He had a fucking machete for chrissake! To prove his point he waves said object. No deal. She continues to read her book, idly turning the page. Needless to say he's in a bit of a quagmire. He's a killer. It's what he does. But he's also a man so he likes the thrill of the hunt. She's not cooperating. Added to that, there were three other who were locked and loaded as it were.
Decision made, the psycho turns and leaves the room. She's no fun.
So, the fat chick is saved and uses her cell to call the police because she's apparently the only person that thought of that. And she looks very sad as she attends five funerals but deep down inside she thinks, that's what y'all get for all those fat jokes.
Of course I AM Black so these are all moot points.
Later
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Crimes of Fashion
I've never proclaimed to be a fashion expert. I don't know DKNY from Chanel. But even in my limited experience I know that there are certain things that must never be done. Ever.
1. No booty shorts in church- even if they are the 'classy' ones that look like a pair of nice plaid pants that some hoochie chopped off just before they reached the lower curve of your ass. Now while I have no problem with this at the club. In fact, I think it's quite cute. But don't wear them to church. God's house deserves more respect than your half-moon. For that matter, there are any number of things that you shouldn't wear in church. T-shirts that say 'I'm with Stupid' or 'Co-ed Naked Volleyball.'
2. Men should never wear cut off shorts. EVER. Not unless you live in rural Alabama and are sitting in front of your trailer, cigarette dangling from your mouth with a can of Budweiser in a beer cozy. If this happens to describe you, then go on with your bad self. If not, then can I interest you in a nice pair of bermuda shorts, or a pair of Dockers perhaps?
3. Fat people- including myself- should not wear clothes that cause the following body parts to hang out: belly, ass, or thighs. Now if you want to play up your assets, more power to you. Let those titties run free. Ain't no shame in your game. But at all time, remember, classy can be sexy. Honestly, those looks aren't even all that on skinny bitches.
Now, I'm sure that there are more Crimes that I haven't reported. What's on your Most Wanted List? Better yet, What are your Pet Peeves?
Ciao
1. No booty shorts in church- even if they are the 'classy' ones that look like a pair of nice plaid pants that some hoochie chopped off just before they reached the lower curve of your ass. Now while I have no problem with this at the club. In fact, I think it's quite cute. But don't wear them to church. God's house deserves more respect than your half-moon. For that matter, there are any number of things that you shouldn't wear in church. T-shirts that say 'I'm with Stupid' or 'Co-ed Naked Volleyball.'
2. Men should never wear cut off shorts. EVER. Not unless you live in rural Alabama and are sitting in front of your trailer, cigarette dangling from your mouth with a can of Budweiser in a beer cozy. If this happens to describe you, then go on with your bad self. If not, then can I interest you in a nice pair of bermuda shorts, or a pair of Dockers perhaps?
3. Fat people- including myself- should not wear clothes that cause the following body parts to hang out: belly, ass, or thighs. Now if you want to play up your assets, more power to you. Let those titties run free. Ain't no shame in your game. But at all time, remember, classy can be sexy. Honestly, those looks aren't even all that on skinny bitches.
Now, I'm sure that there are more Crimes that I haven't reported. What's on your Most Wanted List? Better yet, What are your Pet Peeves?
Ciao
Saturday, August 19, 2006
FINALLY!
...well not yet but soon. It's official, I've fulfilled my occupational obligations. I took my licensing exam and I passed. Thank you very much! Now I can concentrate on what's important. So you can expect an update to my story VERY SOON! I swear. Thanks to everyone for being so patient.
Monday, August 07, 2006
*Peeking my head out*
Yeah! There really is a 'real' world out there. Not that I get to see much of it these days. I hope y'all know that I'm not avoiding you. I've just been really busy studying for this test that I need to take for my job. In 12 more days, the test will be over and I can get back to my real life and my real world. Writing.
I was talking to a friend today and he was commenting on some of my blog entries and he told me the sweetest thing. He said that I should get a collection of essays together and he would buy them. Now he wasn't talking about my romantic writing but my funny writing. He told me that he'd been showing my blogs to friends and he was very impressed with me. I thought that was the sweetest thing he'd ever said...and if you knew him, that's saying a lot. He's not exactly the soul of kindness. But he's fun and quirky and an asshole so I love him.
Now, if y'all couldn't tell from my previous writings, I'm a tortured artist which means I'm massively insecure and in constant need of validation.
Part of me wants to be the next Nora Roberts while the other half wants to be the next Dave Barry. I want to write romance novels and have a weekly column in the New York Times. Is that too much to ask? I am nothing if not a study of polarities.
So I thank everyone who reads this blog and appreciates both sides of my personality.
And to those who check to find the next installment of 'On Business' I know I've said it before and I've meant it every time, it's on its way. I think there will be two more and then it'll be done. But never fear, another will soon take up the torch.
Making like a gopher,
Me
P.S. Speaking of polarities and talent, I think I'll take a cue from my pal Jaye's blog and posit something: Does talent transcend genre? If you're good at fiction would you be equally fabulous at say being a columnist? Answers appreicated.
I was talking to a friend today and he was commenting on some of my blog entries and he told me the sweetest thing. He said that I should get a collection of essays together and he would buy them. Now he wasn't talking about my romantic writing but my funny writing. He told me that he'd been showing my blogs to friends and he was very impressed with me. I thought that was the sweetest thing he'd ever said...and if you knew him, that's saying a lot. He's not exactly the soul of kindness. But he's fun and quirky and an asshole so I love him.
Now, if y'all couldn't tell from my previous writings, I'm a tortured artist which means I'm massively insecure and in constant need of validation.
Part of me wants to be the next Nora Roberts while the other half wants to be the next Dave Barry. I want to write romance novels and have a weekly column in the New York Times. Is that too much to ask? I am nothing if not a study of polarities.
So I thank everyone who reads this blog and appreciates both sides of my personality.
And to those who check to find the next installment of 'On Business' I know I've said it before and I've meant it every time, it's on its way. I think there will be two more and then it'll be done. But never fear, another will soon take up the torch.
Making like a gopher,
Me
P.S. Speaking of polarities and talent, I think I'll take a cue from my pal Jaye's blog and posit something: Does talent transcend genre? If you're good at fiction would you be equally fabulous at say being a columnist? Answers appreicated.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Human Root Cellar?
WARNING: FUNNY BUT SICK HUMOR AHEAD
Ok.
I admit it.
I have never had the urge to mate with a fruit. Or a vegetable. Or sausage.
Or really any food stuff in general
Odd topic for a blog you say?
Definitely.
Do you, CV, spend a lot of time thinking about vegeatility? (It's supposed to be a play on beastiality but it's two am here in CO and I'm not about to pull out Roget and find a cleaver new word for vegetable. Is there one?)
Actually, dear reader, I do not. But I was recently listening to Howard Stern on my SIRIUS satellite radio. (The BEST investment I ever made, by the way.) When his ever-annoying sidekick Robin Ophelia Quivers announced that when she was younger she was (and I quote) "Like a rabbid dog" with lust that she would raid the refrigerator--IN HER PARENT'S HOUSE- bto look for suitable items to pleasure herself with.
NASTY ASS!!
She then proceed to lead a detailed discussion about the process of finding just the right 'material.' A cucumber was too 'girthy' and a carrot wasn't 'girthy' enough. She then moved to the freezer. A hot dog, which needed to be defrosted, wasn't the right size so she moves on to the sausage. Finally a match.
As I listened in my car, parked outside my apartment building as neighbors peeked out their windows, I could feel my jaw drop as the story unfolded. It was one of those things where I don't want to listen but I couldn't turn ot off.
In my head I imagined a young, blonde Robin rifling through her parents' refridgerator like some sort of perverted Goldilocks.
A cucumber? Too big, she decided.
A frozen hot dog? Too small, she decided, her vaginal lips starting to turn that purpley-blue tint that us Black folks get when we get hold.
A Polska Kielbasa? Just right, she moaned in ecstasy.
Sick.
So, a few days later, I decide to tell my mom and dad about this phenomena. To my horror, neither of my parents were surprised.
'Girls do that all the time," my mother says, my father shaking his head in emphatic agreement.
I'm thinking what nasty hos do my parents be hanging out with.
'You'd be surprised,' my father chimes in.
Hell, yes, I'd be surprised. Never once in my like have I considered sticking meat into my cooch. (No jokes please)
Or any vegetable for that matter.
So, I get to thinking. This must be a generational gap. I mean, I grew up in an age of dildoes and vibrators. They had the potential to be easily accessible. I even got one from my oh-so-generous-sex-shop-employee cousin for my eighteenth birthday.
Then I started to feel a little sad for all of those poor women who came into their sexuality at a time when it was still a dirty thing. Who reduced themselves to fucking bananas. Who quivered in ecstacy at the sight of a cucumber. Who's only way of releasing all of their pent-up frustration was to stick a sausage in their womanhood.
But then I thought, 'You had your hands and fingers, you nasty bitches. They were invented like 10 million years ago. Use them.'
I am proud to say that I have never desired to be a human root cellar.
I have never placed groceries in my poon.
God Bless America!
Ciao
P.S. I can tell you this though, I now look at my parents' friends in a whole new light. Mrs. Walters definitely has the look of a woman who's molested a pickle. Or a prune. At least if the saying 'You are what you eat' also refers to your nether lips as well.
Ok.
I admit it.
I have never had the urge to mate with a fruit. Or a vegetable. Or sausage.
Or really any food stuff in general
Odd topic for a blog you say?
Definitely.
Do you, CV, spend a lot of time thinking about vegeatility? (It's supposed to be a play on beastiality but it's two am here in CO and I'm not about to pull out Roget and find a cleaver new word for vegetable. Is there one?)
Actually, dear reader, I do not. But I was recently listening to Howard Stern on my SIRIUS satellite radio. (The BEST investment I ever made, by the way.) When his ever-annoying sidekick Robin Ophelia Quivers announced that when she was younger she was (and I quote) "Like a rabbid dog" with lust that she would raid the refrigerator--IN HER PARENT'S HOUSE- bto look for suitable items to pleasure herself with.
NASTY ASS!!
She then proceed to lead a detailed discussion about the process of finding just the right 'material.' A cucumber was too 'girthy' and a carrot wasn't 'girthy' enough. She then moved to the freezer. A hot dog, which needed to be defrosted, wasn't the right size so she moves on to the sausage. Finally a match.
As I listened in my car, parked outside my apartment building as neighbors peeked out their windows, I could feel my jaw drop as the story unfolded. It was one of those things where I don't want to listen but I couldn't turn ot off.
She told the story, it was in a weird second person way. She kept on saying 'You look in the fridge to see what might work' or 'You decide that hot dog doesn't work.' And all I could think about is 'Don't lay your shit at my feet, bitch.'
In my head I imagined a young, blonde Robin rifling through her parents' refridgerator like some sort of perverted Goldilocks.
A cucumber? Too big, she decided.
A frozen hot dog? Too small, she decided, her vaginal lips starting to turn that purpley-blue tint that us Black folks get when we get hold.
A Polska Kielbasa? Just right, she moaned in ecstasy.
Sick.
So, a few days later, I decide to tell my mom and dad about this phenomena. To my horror, neither of my parents were surprised.
'Girls do that all the time," my mother says, my father shaking his head in emphatic agreement.
I'm thinking what nasty hos do my parents be hanging out with.
'You'd be surprised,' my father chimes in.
Hell, yes, I'd be surprised. Never once in my like have I considered sticking meat into my cooch. (No jokes please)
Or any vegetable for that matter.
So, I get to thinking. This must be a generational gap. I mean, I grew up in an age of dildoes and vibrators. They had the potential to be easily accessible. I even got one from my oh-so-generous-sex-shop-employee cousin for my eighteenth birthday.
Then I started to feel a little sad for all of those poor women who came into their sexuality at a time when it was still a dirty thing. Who reduced themselves to fucking bananas. Who quivered in ecstacy at the sight of a cucumber. Who's only way of releasing all of their pent-up frustration was to stick a sausage in their womanhood.
But then I thought, 'You had your hands and fingers, you nasty bitches. They were invented like 10 million years ago. Use them.'
I am proud to say that I have never desired to be a human root cellar.
I have never placed groceries in my poon.
God Bless America!
Ciao
P.S. I can tell you this though, I now look at my parents' friends in a whole new light. Mrs. Walters definitely has the look of a woman who's molested a pickle. Or a prune. At least if the saying 'You are what you eat' also refers to your nether lips as well.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Sparkle Moments
It's hard being a genius. I mean, the pressure alone is enough to break lesser persons. You, the average reader, would be amazed at all of the positively brilliant things that I think everyday.
The problem is that I never remember them.
Seriously, out of the blue, I'll think of something funny and I'll want to blog it.
But as quickly as the idea comes to me, it leaves me.
Now, if I were a smarter person, I would carry a notebook to catch my sparkle moments as I just now thought about calling it. Well, the problem with that is that I would have to remember to carry it and then I would have to remember to write it.
Now, I said I was a genius, I didn't say that I was smart. Intelligent maybe, but smart, not always. Did you know that Einstein couldn't tie his shoes and Howard Hughes never bathed? That didn't stop him from getting laid on the regular, but then again he had money. Women and men have done a lot more for a lot less. It's no hardship having sex with a smelly person. C'mon, you know you've done it for free. You probably won't tell anybody, but it was probably the best screw you ever had. I tell you, I would so do Bill Gates, that troll looking dude simply for the fact that he's the friggin' richest man in the world. Does that make me a whore? Probably. However, I was already having issues around being a slut so we're just talking semantics, here.
But I digress. Which, of course is another one of the perils of being...
yes, a genius.
Ciao
The problem is that I never remember them.
Seriously, out of the blue, I'll think of something funny and I'll want to blog it.
But as quickly as the idea comes to me, it leaves me.
Now, if I were a smarter person, I would carry a notebook to catch my sparkle moments as I just now thought about calling it. Well, the problem with that is that I would have to remember to carry it and then I would have to remember to write it.
Now, I said I was a genius, I didn't say that I was smart. Intelligent maybe, but smart, not always. Did you know that Einstein couldn't tie his shoes and Howard Hughes never bathed? That didn't stop him from getting laid on the regular, but then again he had money. Women and men have done a lot more for a lot less. It's no hardship having sex with a smelly person. C'mon, you know you've done it for free. You probably won't tell anybody, but it was probably the best screw you ever had. I tell you, I would so do Bill Gates, that troll looking dude simply for the fact that he's the friggin' richest man in the world. Does that make me a whore? Probably. However, I was already having issues around being a slut so we're just talking semantics, here.
But I digress. Which, of course is another one of the perils of being...
yes, a genius.
Ciao
Celebrity Obsession
Okay, I admit it. I'm obsessed with celebrities. Not in the I'm-going-to-stalk-you-until-you-realize-that-we-should-be-together-forever way. More in the I-think-it's-really-funny-when-bad-things-happen-to-famous-people. I think that we all are. Americans in general relish the misfortunes of others. It's what we do. Now do we do it because we're jealous? Probably. Do we do it because it's fun? Definitely! I have to say that when I hear that a celebrity is going into rehab or lost all their money to unscrupulous business managers, it puts a smile on my face. C'mon, you have to admit that you feel the same way.
Expect for death. I draw the line at death.
Unless it's a funny death. Like they died while on the toilet jacking off to kiddie porn. I'm sorry. I don't care who you are, that's just funny.
Except for the kiddie porn. That's sad.
And what is this thing with mashing celeb couples' names together. TomKat or Brangelina. That's just stupid and wrong. Do they have no other identity? Will they forever be entwined? And it's a recent phenomenon. Brad and Jen weren't called Braden or Jenad. It's a sad commentary on our country today.
I mean can you imagine going to a dinner party and introducing yourself as "Moniken." (Monica and Ken---get it?)
I seriously spend too much time thinking about this shit.
But like I said, it's an addiction. I can't help but lapping up gossip like a drunk man with his last bottle of rotgut.
Later
Expect for death. I draw the line at death.
Unless it's a funny death. Like they died while on the toilet jacking off to kiddie porn. I'm sorry. I don't care who you are, that's just funny.
Except for the kiddie porn. That's sad.
And what is this thing with mashing celeb couples' names together. TomKat or Brangelina. That's just stupid and wrong. Do they have no other identity? Will they forever be entwined? And it's a recent phenomenon. Brad and Jen weren't called Braden or Jenad. It's a sad commentary on our country today.
I mean can you imagine going to a dinner party and introducing yourself as "Moniken." (Monica and Ken---get it?)
I seriously spend too much time thinking about this shit.
But like I said, it's an addiction. I can't help but lapping up gossip like a drunk man with his last bottle of rotgut.
Later
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