Listen, I have a problem.

It’s with baby corn. 

I don’t know whose idea it was to take a delicious food product like corn and serve it as food before it fully grows into the actual delicious food product it is, but it was a mistake. No one should make an argument for eating baby corn when it has so much potential.

Someone walked through the tiny corn fields, peeled back the tiny husk, looked at the tiny piece of corn struggling to grow into it’s full sized magnificence and said “You know, I bet this would be delicious right now… especially in Chinese food!” 

It was probably the same person who looked at a palm tree and said “I bet the heart of that tree tastes delicious, we should put it in a can!” 

Baby corn should not be a thing. Baby corn is the equivalent of pumpkin spice – there are those of you who love pumpkin spice, and then there’s the rest of us who find you incredibly annoying. 

We’re heading into pumpkin spice season, and all I can say is pumpkin spice can suck it. Every product is given the scent of that foul smelling stuff starting in September, and to those people who assume that everyone loves the clingy, cloying, overbearing smell of cinnamon wafting through the air just because they do, have been snorting way too much of the stuff. 

Pumpkin spice is just a massive spoonful of cinnamon with the promise of a possible sprinkling of other indiscernible spices, so I don’t see what the big deal is. You’re all getting ripped off by Starbucks right now… which is probably deserved since you like pumpkin spice to begin with. 

People who love pumpkin spice, do not email me

But about baby corn… 

Baby corn tastes like straw taken from the floor of a pig pen, and it looks like an albino okra, which is another disgusting food product. Someone cut open an okra, saw seeds floating in a viscous slime and said “You know, I bet this would be delicious right now… especially in Chinese food!” That person probably also eats quinoa… and pronounces it keen-wa.

Quinoa is a horrible, bitter grain eaten by indigenous people who ate it by necessity and are laughing at everyone eating it now as a health food product because they don’t like it either.

But back to baby corn…

Baby corn is a hot button issue: Vegetarians think it’s okay to eat baby corn whereas vegans think it’s murder. 

Baby corn looked up at its mother one summer and said, I’m really hot right now and the mother replied, I’m gonna tell your Pop. 

ahem, sorry.

The only thing baby corn is good for is to be the dick on a Mr. Potato Head, and seeing as how Mr. Potato Head only has a head, his name will have to be changed to Mr. Dick Head. 

ahem, sorry.

Look, it’s compulsive.


I’ve been thinking about how we women screw up relationships. 

Notice I said we, because I’m not trying to make myself out to be perfect. 

I’m no expert but I’ve fucked up plenty of relationships. Certainly enough to realize what I should and should not do anymore. It really wasn’t that many, but you know, some. One or two… or one… if that. 

Okay, lemme backtrack a little here because if I dive down deep and reflect honestly on the past, it wasn’t me at all, it was the men in my life, they’re the ones who fucked up everything. I was just trying to show a little humility by taking some responsibility because I didn’t want to come off as perfect, but it’s not working for me. It’s like asking me to squeeze into a neoprene wetsuit that’s two sizes too small while still damp. Have you ever tried that? It’s not easy. It’s like stuffing sausage casings with explosives.

And why take blame where you don’t have to (or when no one’s around)? It’s enough that I’ve had to navigate life being a woman; I had to bleed and everything! Plus, do you know how many times I’ve had to pretend to live up to my hair color just so I don’t come off smarter than men? 

If you wanna make a relationship work, you gotta play the man’s game and that means looking beyond the lies and deceit. 

Like the one we’ve all heard before: when the guy says he loves it when a woman has that “just out of bed” look. They try to tell you they don’t really like a woman who is all dolled up, they prefer when she’s natural looking and wearing sweats with very little makeup. 

I say go ahead, try it out. Approach your man after you just get out of bed, no makeup on, no hair or teeth brushed, and wearing pajamas, but not the sexy kind of pajamas. He’ll give a look alright, but not the one you want.  

The one you’ll get is the “Jesus Christ, you scared the crap outta me!” look. This is where you need to point out to him how men are always saying they prefer women looking like this over the dolled up look, and he’ll immediately point to a Victoria’s Secret catalog, and when you express to him how you’ll never look like that because it’s not realistic, he’ll say that’s the whole point. 

It’s not that men are bad for feeling this way, it just goes to show how they’re easily swayed by false titties… I mean, falsities. You know, the kind the media is always putting onto women to be, look and act as anything but themselves. Anything that’s real is out of the question, so start slapping that makeup on your faces, ladies. Make yourself as unreal looking as possible. 

We have to be extra vigilant, especially now with the onset of female robots and all… the fembots. Have you heard about these? Female robots are being ordered and manufactured to the exact specifications of a man’s deepest desires. They can be created to look, sound and act exactly how the man wants, and that only means one thing: no talking.

Okay, they’ll probably talk, but only in monosyllabic sentences because that’s the best way to talk to a man. Men don’t like all the confusion of a string of well spoken sentences. Admittedly, we women can drone on and on… and on… and on… just ask any man, or the customer service representative you were complaining to earlier.

These robots are supposed to be programmed to perform any and all tasks; talk about our jobs being taken over by automation! I mean, really, I don’t care if they take over the blow jobs, but every other job, well, we can’t let that happen. 

Hmm, maybe we can let it happen. 

Because, you know, after some thought, there may be benefits to having a sex robot take care of your man. For one, it’d be a lot less work, and she can deal with all the crap we normally do, like, you know, the Greek stuff. Show me one woman who enjoys doing that

Not that I ever… you know, because if my dad were reading this, I wouldn’t want him to know I might have tried Greek… because he was Italian and we don’t even like Greeks! How many holes does one guy have to use anyway? Is it the same amount as the drills? because if so, we’re in big trouble.

Let’s just let automation take over, ’cause it’s only a matter of time before they make male sex robots. Oooh, just think how long they’ll last. Ladies, prepare to sell your Viagra stock, Daddy’s comin’ to town!

Screw This!

I bought a drill.

I can’t understand why it took me so long to get one, the thing is amazing! 

I went on Craigslist to find a used one and lo and behold, a man was selling a bunch of ’em. He had at least eight drills, which begs the question: Why does a man need more than one drill? Well once I got that thing in my hand and I felt its intoxicating power, I totally understood.

Holding that drill down low around the crotch area, pointing it at things, feeling its rotating vibration in my hand… well I imagine that’s what it must feel like when a man holds his own drill. 

I wouldn’t truly be living in a man’s world if I just bought the drill outright without haggling with the guy, so on my drive over there, I started plotting his demise. Huh, demise… that’s an interesting choice of word… kinda out of character for me. I would never purposely plot someone’s demise. 

Really, I was only thinking of the best way to use my feminine wiles in order to manipulate this guy down in price, and considering how many drills he had, it probably wouldn’t be that difficult. But when I got there, I found he was an older gentleman, so I knew I had a formidable adversary. Old dudes have been around the cinder block a few times, so I knew I had to come up with something good.

He showed me two different drills, one that came with just a battery and a bigger one with more power, but heavier. That one had several batteries, plus a flashlight; it was a tempting choice. If I were a dude, I would’ve chosen the one with the extras, since that’s what men do; they always go with “extra”. But I’m not… I’m smarter, so I chose the lighter drill with just the one battery because I know that it’s not how big your drill is, but rather what you can do with it. 

In the course of our conversation, he asked who the drill was for, and when I told him it was for me, he shot me a dubious look, which I could have taken as an insult, but considering the circumstances, I let it slide right off me like water off a ducks ass. I went on to say I was a single mom and if I had any trouble with it, my son could help me. 

Son… *snicker *snort  

I don’t have any kids.

When he shot me this look of compassion, I knew I had him right by the ball bearings. I offered him half of what he was asking for and he said “Well, since you’re a single mom, I’ll let you have it.” 

Hello, Daddy! 

I took a man down in a man’s world with a man’s own tool… talk about power! I didn’t even have to resort to showing him my panty hamster!

I hopped into my man-made vehicle and hit the man-made road, and as I sped down the highway at 40 miles per hour, I belted out Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love” along with David Lee Roth, a man that’s as manly a man as man could get.

Then I noticed this guy trying to get in front of me so he could make a turn at the upcoming intersection, but I said screw that! No way I was gonna let a man overtake me, so I pulled alongside his car to taunt him, and as he looked over to see what kind of man would do that to another man, I winked and gave him the finger.

I was starting to feel my biceps bulging through my blouse and when I looked down at my crotch area, I could’ve sworn I saw a bulge, but then I remembered I had dropped a banana down there earlier.

When I got home, I took out that baby and started drilling and screwing everything in sight, even in places that didn’t need screwing, just like men do. Every time I take out that drill and hold it in my hands, I feel powerful. It’s like a gun, but one that makes sense. 

Chew On This

People tend to associate you with something they remember you doing once before. It’s like you do one wrong little thing and that’s it, that’s all they remember you by, and it’s associated with you for the rest of your life.

For instance, my neighbor always referring to me as the crazy naked lady he found in his pool that one night. Look, it was hot, I thought he was out of town… I mean, Jeez, let it go already! There’s so much more to me than that anyway, like for instance, knowing how to pick fruit from other neighbors’ trees without getting caught.

I used to cocktail waitress a long time ago but does that still make me a cocktail waitress? No. So I accidentally spilled a shit load of beers on a group of off-duty cops during happy hour one night, does that make me forever a klutz? No, it makes me a friggin’ genius, I hate cops.

The other day, I got an unsolicited email offering me a job as a dishwasher. A dishwasher, are you serious? Like I don’t do enough dishes as it is, being a woman and all. What’s really ironic is it came from a company called Compass Group Talent Acquisition… apparently it takes talent to do the dishes now. I nearly spit out my coffee when I read it.

That’s just an expression by the way, I don’t drink coffee, it doesn’t agree with me. Neither does chocolate, which is truly, truly awful. I’ve had to eliminate two of the best tasting things on this planet out of my diet. I can still eat dick though, so there’s that. I don’t, but I can. Actually, I wouldn’t characterize dick as best tasting… or even good tasting, for that matter. I’d rather have a chocolate bar, put it that way.

When I realized I could no longer eat chocolate, but I could still eat dick, I contemplated my existence on this earth; what’s the point of living if you can’t eat chocolate?! Well, I can eat chocolate, but I’ll pay for it later with a very upset stomach. Like, even worse than after eating dick.

I must have the weakest digestive system in the world: I can’t eat dairy or chocolate, I can’t drink caffeine or alcohol, and I don’t eat meat. Being vegetarian is by choice though. Sort of. I live near Los Angeles and it’s mandatory if you really want to be somebody, and also, I truly believe it elevates me as a human being. You know, there are a lot of guys out there who think their beards and hair buns elevate them as more evolved, but that’s just appearance; I truly am more evolved.

A man bun is slightly repulsive.

Anyway, if I want to be associated with anything I’ve done previously, it’s that I’ve eaten dick when I really, really hadn’t wanted to, but I took one for the team. That to me is admirable. Especially considering how men reciprocate. They don’t know what they’re doing. At least, that’s been my experience. Oh sure, there have been one or two that may have done a fairly decent job but the rest of them… well, all I can say is, go take a class or something. Learn. Better yet, listen to direction.

I guess these guys didn’t realized they’d forever be associated as someone who couldn’t gild the lily.

Snake Eyes

You know what’s pretty weird? Trying to catch a rattlesnake. 

This is not a metaphor people, this is something I actually witnessed with my own two eyes, and if I wore an eyepatch because one of my eyes was missing, I’d say I actually witnessed it with my own one eye. 

I was hiking on the trail the other evening and encountered a man standing in the tall grasses way off the trail. Now anyone who hikes knows (hopefully) that it’s best to stay on the trail during the summer because of rattlesnakes. Well not this guy. 

He was smack dab in the middle of rattlesnake territory and he had what looked like a long, hefty stick in his hands, and he was holding it right in front of his crotch area and swinging it back and forth, side to side, as I would imagine a man would do when holding something like that in his hands.

My first thought was “What a dick!” and my second thought was “I’d better say something in case this guy gets hurt”, but I didn’t… I just stood there for a moment, watching. I mean, how often does one get to witness somebody getting bitten by a rattlesnake in real life? Never! Not that I’d want this person to die or anything… I’d just want to know how painful it was by association.

Not wanting to deflate this guy’s ego too much, because clearly he associated himself with Rambo, that stick in his hands and all,  I asked “Aren’t you afraid of rattlesnakes?” and he responded “That’s exactly what I’m looking for. They’re really delicious barbecued”. 

Okay, I don’t understand why someone would want to try to attempt to capture a rattlesnake, I really don’t. It’d be easy to think something like “Here’s a perfect example of evolution at work”, but I wouldn’t want to dismiss this guy with such a flippant remark because his stupidity deserves so much more than that.

Let me just say, there are plenty of companies out there who sell exotic meats, stuff like alligator, buffalo, snakes, and they ship to people all over the United States, so why not just order it? 

Just as an aside, I imagine most of these companies are based in Florida because we all know how fucking weird Florida is. It’s so weird, the rest of the United States doesn’t even want it.  Have you ever noticed how the entire state hangs off the rest of the continent away from all the other states? I imagine the state of Georgia swinging it back and forth and side to side if it could. It’s like we don’t really want to be associated with Florida, but we’ll allow it just as long as it doesn’t get too close. 

People from Florida, do not email me. 

Anyway, what I’m saying is, you can easily order snake meat online if you really wanted it, so why would you want to try to hunt one on your own with a stick… Rambo?

When he replied they were really delicious, I had to put my hand to my mouth to stop myself from snickering. You can’t be serious? You want to hunt your own rattlesnake, skin the thing, deal with the venom, and then barbecue it? 

Look, I try not to knock anyone for their eating choices, even if it is a rattlesnake, but seriously, there are so many other creatures you could eat, why a venomous snake? It sounds just awful.

It tast…

Don’t say it.



tastes li…


…tastes like chicken!

Damn it.

Then eat a fucking chicken, why risk getting bitten by a rattlesnake, for crying out loud?!

Rambo, that’s why.

Pfft, stupid.

You know something? A lot of weird shit goes down on hiking trails, that’s not the only time I encountered something weird while hiking. There was the time I encountered a guy completely naked. My friend and I were hiking along, minding our own business when this guy comes around the bend and he’s wearing absolutely nothing, nothing but a pair of shoes, and frankly, I’m surprised I even noticed his shoes. Let’s face it,  if you see a guy totally naked walking towards you, your eyes are going straight to Florida, and yep, there it was, hanging out for everyone to see, swinging back and forth and side to side each step he took!

So now maybe you’re all considering taking up hiking because you want to experience the weirdness for yourselves, and I totally get it. I recommend it, just don’t forget to bring a really big stick. 

Blood Sport

I feel… dirty.

It’s not even my fault, I had no control over it. 

If I tell you why, I’m doing so at the risk of having you view me in a different light, but I have to tell you because I don’t have anything else to write about this week. This has literally been taking up every single minute of my life!

I know, that sounds dramatic, but it’s true, every single waking moment of my life has been dealing with this, this… crisis I was thrown into.

I’ve been bitten repeatedly.

By insects.

Dirty, disgusting, blood-sucking insects

I haven’t had to deal with something sucking so much blood outta me since my second husband. I think I’ve lost more blood the past couple weeks than after that one abortion I had. Okay no, I didn’t have one. Who only has one abortion?

They were in my bedroom, my private chamber, my pleasure dome!

Ugh. Yuck. Yeesh. Blegh.

I have bites all over my body, they’re everywhere! And when I say everywhere, I mean, everywhere. I found one on my filet… my filet! You know that part of the buttocks that’s right next to the crack and attaches to the back of the thigh which is not so much muscle as it is a tender piece of flesh? That’s the filet. Go ahead shove your hand down your pants right now and give it a squeeze, you’ll know what I’m talking about. They even got me on one of my shirt potatoes… I mean, my God, these fuckers know quality when they find it! I can’t remember the last time my nipple got sucked on like that!

My first thought was “Oh crap, they’re bedbugs!” but how did I get them? It’s not like I go around sleeping with the homeless. Although there was that one guy… his skin-tight leather pants looked as if they’d been plastered on him since 1986, and there was a slight,  hmm… how shall I say it, musk scent to his nether regions… but no, couldn’t have been him, he had a first and last name, a full profile on OneNightFriend.com, and a place to live. It’s not like he invited me over to his tent on Hollywood Blvd! 

Then I remembered that trip I took last month where I stayed in a cabin, and realized that must be where I had gotten ‘em, so I emailed the owner about it and she called me the next day. I said she was a dirty, dirty bird and how could she have done this to me and did she not realize how terrible and difficult it is to deal with those nasty things?! She was very apologetic and told me she got so upset after reading my email, she had nightmares, and all I could think was Lady, you may have had nightmares but I’m living one! 

No, I did not ask for monetary compensation because I’m not that type of person, I only wanted to bring it to her attention so she could prevent any of her other customers from getting them. And anyway my lawyer said there’d be no way to prove it…


so I let sleeping dogs lay… lie… and that’s when it struck me: dogs. Dogs get fleas. I don’t have dogs, I have cats, but the saying isn’t: Let sleeping cats lay… lie… and it was then I concluded they might be fleas, so I decided I’d better consult with a professional exterminator.

I was hoping the exterminator guy was gonna be hot because who doesn’t want a really hot guy inspecting your private chamber *snort *snicker

“Hey baby, want a piece of my filet?” *snicker *snort 

Unfortunately he wasn’t hot, but he was really good at his job because he determined right away they were fleas, and he didn’t try to “fleas” me by charging me for bedbugs. Get it? Fleece/fleas? Anyway, finding that out was kinda like saying: I got good news, and I got bad news. But I’d much rather have fleas than bedbugs, and I know that sounds just awful. I sound like a dirty bird and I’m not. 

I’m a fleabag. 

I have red, puffy dots all over my body and it looks like I have smallpox. I mean, who’d wanna sleep with someone that looks like they have smallpox?!…


Hello? Anybody out there? I’m waiting for one of you dicks to raise your hand already, don’t leave me standing here like a dumbass.

I Wanna New Drug

*This was originally posted on Jan. 17, 2018

I had to make a trip to the post office, so I prepared myself for the inevitable long wait by getting some delicious cookies. 

The post office is the wrong place to be jacked up on sugar

I don’t know why I thought it was a good choice at the time, but I’m not even in control when it comes to sugar anyway. When I think about eating sugar, a signal is sent to my brain that something delightful is coming, and it reminds me of the anticipation I felt knowing I would be snorting some fat lines of coke on Saturday nights in the Eighties.

Yes, every Saturday night

Go ahead judge me, I don’t care. It’s not like I do it anymore… mainly because I have no idea where to get it, but also because sugar’s a lot cheaper.

Cheaper than sex too, turns out

Anyway, studies have connected eating excessive sugar to reduced performance in parts of the brain that deals with memory, so I really try to limit my consumption. However, these experts said the same thing about cocaine and that had zero negative impact on me …that I can remember.

A couple weeks ago, someone gave me a gift of white chocolate peppermint dipped Oreo cookies, and normally, I never eat those things. I know, they sound delicious, but I prefer really good quality cookies, something imported or gourmet. If someone handed me a bag of Oreos, I would say no thanks, but I decided to try one of these because there were dipped in peppermint white chocolate and who can resist that? It was ridiculously addictive. After one bite, I shoved the entire thing in my mouth then followed it up with a few more.

Sort of like shoving a line up my nose and immediately following up with more

As it happens, I was at this gourmet market and they had almost the exact same cookie. They were right near the checkout counter, conveniently packaged in a mini pack of two cookies, so I bought some before I left for the post office.

These particular ones were called unicorn cookies because they had multicolored sprinkles all over them, which I don’t care about because it’s really just a marketing ploy. I don’t believe in unicorns, and even if I did, in my world they certainly wouldn’t be colored, they’d be pure white, like in fairy tales.

Hmm, does that sound racist?

I couldn’t get just one packet either, I had to get two… and eat all four of them at once. So there I was, sitting in my car in the parking lot, shoving these goddamn unicorn cookies into my face. I mean, I must’ve looked like some crazed drug addict. Then, once I got inside the post office, I couldn’t help but notice how bland everything seemed compared to my unicorn cookies.

The postal worker who assisted me, was really bland too, and he was talking me through the checkout process like I was a friggin’ moron and had never done it before. He instructed me each step of the way in this annoying monotone voice: “Okay, now you can put it in. Okay, now you can take it out.” (referring to my debit card of course), and it sounded just as perfunctory him saying it, as it does you reading it. If I ever questioned whether the rumor about postmen being really boring in bed were true or not, he put that to rest immediately.

Thankfully the entire process was over in about fifteen minutes, which I imagine is about the length of time this postal worker has sex…

…and the average time it takes for sugar to kick in…

…and the average time it takes to find the nearest coke dealer through my new coke app. You know, just if I ever decide to get off the sugar.

Nutballs vs. Cheeseballs

I really like Nutballs. 

Sometimes called Nutters, for short (Nutter being the British term for Nutball).

I don’t know what it is about them, but if someone is a Nutball, there’s a good chance I want to have them in my circle of friends. They’re slightly off, a bit nutty… but not as nutty as a Whack job. Okay yes, there’s a fine line between the two, but Nutball is the way to go; I always choose Nutballs over Whack jobs because Whack jobs are too extreme. Always eliminate Whack jobs out of your life, otherwise you’ll be miserable. 

Nutballs are fun, unpredictable and most importantly, hilarious. 

Not to say I love hanging out with Nutballs who take the nuttiness too far… again, there’s a fine line… and I have standards! Eh, they’re more like thresholds, but you know what I mean. Of course I have plenty of friends who are middle-of-the-road, but to be honest, it’s kinda boring, and I get bored quickly, hence the Nutballs.

What can I say, I like spiciness. Spiciness is the spice of life! I especially like spiciness in the three Fs: Friends, Food and Fu…n! You thought I was going to say fucking didn’t you? Nope, too obvious. Besides, the only spice I like in fucking, is vanilla. A girl can only take too much spice in the bedroom before she yells: Get off me you fucking freak!


Besides being a stupendous writer, I’m a really good conversationalist, which happens to be a dying art form. Yes, it’s an art form to engage in a conversation with another person, and part of the problem with people being unable to be good conversationalists is because they’re not aware it’s an art form. 

That, and they don’t know when to shut the hell up. 

Having a conversation is much like throwing a nutball back and forth between you and the other person. Sorry… not a nutball, a ball, a regular ball. You throw the ball to the person, they have it for a little while, and then they throw it back to you and you have it for a little while. And let’s put the emphasis on “a little while”… not thirty minutes, not an hour, capeesh? And there’s a rhythm to it; it should flow. Most importantly, when you’re a good conversationalist, you have a clear understanding that you cannot be the only person handling the ball.

Unfortunately, there are too many people out there handling their balls for way too long.

See, if you keep tossing the ball up and down into the air without passing it to the person you’re with, you’re not playing the right game. What you’re essentially doing is masturbating, and like I said, there are plenty of people out in the world masturbating, despite what the Catholic Church would have you believe.  

The point is, I like how Nutballs communicate; we speak the same language. 

I like the element of risk and uncertainty; you never know what to expect from a Nutball. You could be hanging out with a Nutball doing something mundane, like shopping in the grocery store, when out of nowhere they approach the cute, young checkout guy, slip him your telephone number while gesturing he could expect a blowjob if he calls you, then coyly asks where the bananas are located. 

Hahahahaha! That would never happen. No, no… not that he’d never call, of course he’d call… he’d just never get a blowjob. But you get the idea. 

Whereas with the boring person, you always know what you’ll get: Predictability. It’s boring. I want to laugh a lot, I want to have fun, I want a bit of nuttiness, because otherwise, what’s the point?

There is a drawback though. When you’re friends with a Nutball, you have to take the bad with the good, and there’s usually a lot of bad, that’s what makes them so much fun. But sometimes the bad is so bad, you have to sever the relationship for fear it’ll rub off on you. You have to be careful because you start to take on the habits of the people you surround yourself with. That’s why highly driven people hang out with other highly driven people, because if they hung out with people who had no ambitions, they’d be doing the exact same thing: Nothing. 

So I’ve decided I’m going to hang out with the people who lie somewhere in the middle of Nutball and not-so-Nutball: Cheeseballs! They’re not as nutty as Nutballs, but they’re still a hell of a lot of fun. Who’s never had a good experience with a Cheeseball? No one. Have you ever heard someone say “Look, you don’t want to hang out with so-and-so because he’s a Cheeseball and they’re nothing but trouble.”? Of course you haven’t, no one’s ever said it.

I realize Cheeseballs are often covered in nuts, but they’re not nuts through and through like Nutballs. Cheeseballs have that soft, cheesy center, which is what you want when you’re hanging out with a lil’ cray-cray.

Cheeseballs have that right amount of irreverence that makes them fun, without their being over-the-top. Maybe they won’t approach the guy at the checkout and promise him you’ll give him a blowjob, but they’d say: “Wouldn’t it be funny if I did…”  and that’s just the right amount of Nutball for me!

Okay, not really, but they’re a good way to wean me off of the Nutballs.





This post was originally published November 8, 2018. Enjoy!

I have two cats.

Plus, I’m single, every so slightly chubby, over 50, and living with two cats (I think I already mentioned that), so I guess I’m that stereotype people are always talking about – that I’m the weird cat lady, which is bullshit.

Jackson Galaxy is the fuckin’ weird cat lady, not me.

I’ve never been a parent (or apparent… snicker, snort) but I do consider my two cats my babies.  

You can have great affection for your pets and not be weird, okay? I think it’s weird not to have great affection for them. After all, they love you unconditionally. Dogs… dogs love you unconditionally, cats do not. Cats love you because you feed them and they can take advantage of you. You’ll never gain the respect of a cat because of this.

They can turn on the cute when needed and they’ll let you adore them but you have to earn it and once you do, it’s only temporary because then they’ll shun you like yesterday’s breakfast; they play hard to get, which is why they’re called pussy… cat, pussycat. Or just pussy. You fellas know what I’m talking about.

I think it’s normal to love one pet more than the other one too, don’t you think? To all you parents out there, you know you love one child more than the others. Yeah you do, and if you’re denying it, you’re lying. Don’t worry, it’s natural to feel that way. One of your kids will always have something about them that annoys the fuck out of you because it reminds you of a character trait you have that you don’t like about yourself, so just admit it. The sooner you accept the fact that you have something about you that’s disgusting and not easy to like, the easier your life becomes, trust me.

For instance, the girl kitty… she’s adorable! She’s so pretty, with beautiful green eyes and super soft fur, but she’s a bit chubby. Okay, fat. She’s got that flappy-flap thingy on her belly that waddles when she gallops and it’s kinda gross. Plus, she’s always hungry and crying for more food which is really annoying to me. You see, I’m always hungry and can eat with an astounding amount of gusto so that’s probably why I get annoyed. I don’t have the flappy-flap thingy though, although I can’t say other things don’t waddle when I run.

I don’t run.

Oh sure… when babies smear food all over their faces, eat with dirty fingers and lick the plate clean, it’s considered adorable, but when I do it, I’m considered some sort of a pig, is that it? Well that’s a double standard.

Anyway, the boy kitty is my favorite because he knows how to manipulate the heck out of me and I guess I just respond to that more. Not that I would put up with that shit from an actual man. I would never take that baloney! Okay well I have in the past, but that’s history, I’m a much stronger person today, so now I can look manipulation right in the eye and say “Um, okay but only for a moment.”


When the boy kitty comes sauntering in, I immediately shove the girl kitty out of the way so I can pick him up and give him lots of gentle strokes and kisses and he starts purring right away, which is how a pussy is supposed to respond if you know what you’re doing. Most of you don’t know this because if you did, why you’d be absolutely drowning in pussy!

Am I right, Tomcats?



Shhh… They Might Hear You!

I’ve been thinking about how uptight we’ve become as a society, particularly as it pertains to humor, and it’s downright annoying. I would venture to say nowadays most people feel they can’t say anything without worrying about being negatively labeled.

Okay, maybe we don’t worry about everything we say, but we definitely worry about saying something that isn’t deemed “politically correct”, which is an oxymoron by the way. Have you heard the things that come out of politicians’ mouths? Politicians can say the most vile, racist, divisive, ignorant statements I’ve ever heard!  Well that’s not true, I’m a stand-up comedian, I hear vile, racist shit all the time and some of it is friggin’ hilarious.

See? That right there… that last statement. I probably shouldn’t have said that because I’m not even supposed to admit I laugh at those kinds of things, so let me say sorry for admitting I laugh at vile, racist jokes.

I’m not really sorry… sorry.

Let’s take a look at the following:

The reason Mexicans are the best people to work in the fields is because they are generally shorter and don’t have to bend over as far to pick the vegetables.

Maybe you were offended by this. I was offended by how bad it was, but is there some truth to it? Of course, so why is it offensive? Is it because it singled out one type of race – Mexican, or is it because it singled out one type of stature – short? 

It’s not my joke, by the way, and even if it were, I wouldn’t admit to it because it’s so bad. If you’re gonna be racist at least be really funny. Okay, if you laughed I can’t hold it against you because what you find funny, another person won’t, so that’s when tolerance comes into the picture. 

Now let me write it out a different way:

The reason short people are the best people to work in the fields is because they don’t have to bend over as far to pick the vegetables. 

Is this version better because it omits mention of a certain race? It actually takes a bad joke and makes it worse because it tries to soften the obvious. There is no difference to the meaning because the inference that a Latin American is doing the picking remains, and it does so because, when was the last time you saw anybody other than Latin Americans working in the fields picking vegetables? 

What if we took an extremely tall white person and put them in the field picking vegetables alongside a bunch of Latin Americans. Like say, Conan O’Brien, and he’s in a lot of pain because he’s bent over all day. He may have even done it already, I don’t know. But anyway, it’s funny because it takes a truth and turns it on its head. 

Italians aren’t good at politics, that’s why they invented pizza.

The inference is that all Italians make pizza. I’m Italian and I don’t make pizza. I don’t even eat pizza because cheese and I don’t get along. But pizza is, and forever will be, associated with Italians, just like the Mafia, Sophia Loren and cheaters. 

I admit, I’m intolerant and I’m preaching about tolerance, but it’s dairy I’m intolerant of, and if there’s anything one should have intolerance for, it should be food, like those friggin’ vegans. Vegans are just nutty… coconutty; they eat way too many coconuts if you ask me. And they’re really aggressive making their point about the food they eat, too. They’re the PETAs of the food world… snicker* You could say they’re PITAs… snort* snicker* snort*!

The point I’m trying to make is… is… what is my point? Oh yes, my point is there isn’t one person in the entire world who isn’t fully aware of another person’s cultural differences and considers that in their observation of them and perhaps even makes fun of them because of it. Except maybe Jesus, and he’s not alive anymore. If you say you don’t and claim you are not racist in the least and totally non-judgmental, then Jesus really did rise from the ashes.  

I was with a friend the other day and I made a comparison between the black plague killing 25 million people and the Coronavirus killing fewer than a few hundred thousand, and how we could do with losing 25 million people because the planet is overpopulated. I was joking (sort of) but she took it badly. So now I don’t know where I stand with her and it’s all because I think it’s funny that millions of people should be dying right now. 

Well that didn’t come out right.

Okay, I’m not saying we should go out into the world with no filters and just start saying whatever we want, that would be, well, it could actually be really funny (see above statement) but no, it wouldn’t be appropriate. I’m just saying we shouldn’t be so goddamn sensitive all the time. 

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