Two heads of long, brown, flowing feathered locks passed by me… rock ‘n roll hair, bouncing with every stride, they almost looked like twins… 

… and they were in a hurry.

I was around twenty years old, with my friend Ann, and we were walking around the mall.

That’s what our generation did: walked around the mall, met friends, hung out. We were called mall rats, like in the movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

This is how the conversation always went:

“Let’s get together.”

“Okay, what do you wanna do?”

“Let’s go hang out at the mall.”

“Awesome, let’s go!”

It was the Eighties. Yeah, the one young people of today try to replicate with their 80’s themed parties. When I first heard about these parties it was a blow to the gut. “How could people be throwing Eighties themed parties? I’m not old, it wasn’t that long ago! That was my generation, my entire world, and now it’s being turned into some type of joke theme for people’s entertainment?! 

But, I get it. I used to go to 50’s and 60’s themed parties when I was young; that’s what young people do, they love dressing up and trying to capture the essence of those times, so now I look at it as an homage rather than a parody. 

I loved the Eighties… everything about it, especially the music. I would hole up in my bedroom and play rock ‘n roll albums for hours. And I mean play them, not just press a button on a smartphone and listen to some digital version. I played records; pure sound recorded and magnetized onto a jet black vinyl disc and spun on a turntable.

I would carefully slide the vinyl record out from its sleeve, mindful not to mar the surface with fingerprints, lightly blow off any dust, place it onto the turntable, and carefully set the needle down on the first track without scratching it. The familiar sound of crunchy static right before the first song always gave me delight as I anticipated my favorite music coming through the speakers.

Foreigner, The Cars, Madonna, Loverboy, Run DMC, Supertramp, Motley Crüe, Donna Summer, The GoGo’s, Guns ‘n Roses, Prince, Metallica… musicians and bands that defined the era and shattered top forty lists. I could go on and on… but I don’t want to lose you. But there were only two bands that really smashed it for me, ones I absolutely adore and will never tire of: Rush and Van Halen. 

Those two bands defined my youth. 

Listening to their music was like falling in love; it stirred inside me an excitement and a euphoria of the sort only the arts can do. Some people are moved by writing or poetry, some by paintings from the masters, some with sculpture. For many though, it’s music. People talk about music saving their lives, giving them hope. For me, it was galvanizing.

When I got the news the other day that Eddie Van Halen died, I was completely devastated. “Are you fucking kidding me? Eddie Van Halen is dead?!” The news took my breath away, then I cried. He was too young, too magnificent, to die. Just like earlier in the year when Neil Peart’s death devastated me, this one will take a long time to get over also. 

It’s like a huge chunk of my youth was redacted in a single swipe of a black marker. I feel like we’re all being cheated somehow. How could such talent be taken away so soon? How could the soundtrack of our lives slowly be removed from the charts, one by one?

The first time I heard Van Halen, their first album, I was blown away by what was coming at me through the speakers. David Lee Roth’s powerful vocals layered over Eddie’s screaming, melodic licks was pure magic; I was in heaven! I listened to it over and over and over again and I couldn’t wait for each consecutive album’s release. Van Halen rocked me through the decade and beyond. I still listen to them when I need energy and want to be uplifted. 

I have stories. So many stories of amazing and unbelievable events that took place in my life, and I was trying to think back: Did I have any Eddie Van Halen stories? I definitely had a David Lee Roth story, which I’ll save for another time, but Eddie Van Halen? 

Huh, couldn’t think of one. 

Until, in the middle of the night last night, when I woke up because I remembered my Eddie Van Halen story: the time I saw him, in, of all places, the mall in my small suburban town outside of Los Angeles. 

It was the late Eighties and I was walking around the mall with my friend Ann, who talked an awful lot and never seemed to pay much attention to anything I had to say when I tried to get a word in edgewise, when suddenly I noticed two people with long brown flowing feathered locks and looking like twins walking towards us. It was Eddie Van Halen and Valerie Bertinelli. They were in a hurry… trying to get the hell out of there before a mob surrounded them. Understandable since Eddie was a rock God and Valerie, a sitcom princess. 

I watched speechless as they walked past us, not having the heart to turn around and ask them for their autographs because clearly, they did not want to be there. It was as if they tried to have a normal moment, just two regular people out shopping somewhere, enjoying their time together in a normal setting, but then realizing that was not a possibility for them, they were too famous. 

Ann, babbling on and on, didn’t even notice. I stopped her shortly after they passed us, grabbing her by the arm and saying “Ann, shut up. Did you just see Eddie Van Halen and Valerie Bertinelli walk by? They just walked past us!” She turned around but they were already gone, lost amongst the mall rats. Then she looked at me like I was crazy, she didn’t believe me, thinking I most likely saw people who looked similar to them. 

But then we heard it: the screaming, wailing sounds of Eddie’s guitar playing echoing and bouncing off the walls. Coming towards us was a young rocker guy with long hair carrying a huge boombox that was blaring Van Halen’s “Eruption”. The guy approached us and asked in earnest “Did you see him?” and I replied with a breathless “Yeah, I did.” We both smiled. 

And that was all that needed to be said. 

Hard Sell

I finally cleaned out my storage unit and decluttered my house. Then I had a yard sale because nothing’s more American than spreading a bunch of junk across your front yard and selling what you never needed to someone else who won’t need it either. 

I’ve never had a yard sale before. Boy, was I in for a surprise… apparently there are legions of people who go to yard sales every weekend, and they wake up really early.

You know how they came up with the premise for that t.v. show, The Walking Dead? They went to a yard sale. As soon as people arrived they started coming at me like zombies, if zombies smoked crack. I hadn’t even finished setting everything up when they charged towards me with that hungry look in their eyes. I thought, if I’m gonna die, I don’t want it to be while this is happening… that’s not the reputation I wanna go out with! 

They lie to you about why they need your crap too, which is ridiculous because I just want to get rid of the stuff, I don’t need a story to go along with it. This one guy who wanted my record albums from the 80s, told me he was a collector. Sure you are buddy. If he really was a collector, he would’ve already had all the albums I had. Clearly he was gonna resell them at a higher price. Good luck with that. 

A lot of people do that; buy your crap and try to resell it at a higher price. I say, go ahead, you can do all the extra work involved, it’s not worth my time. I sat down and did the math, which surprised no one more than me, but anyway, when I worked out the numbers, they were probably making around two bucks an hour for all their effort. 

This one lady bought a bunch of my items and surprisingly, I was really nice to her. Maybe it was because she was giving me a lot of money, but still, I didn’t have to go out of my way. Anyhow, a few days later, I received a letter addressed to: Garage Sale Lady. When I opened the envelope, it contained a note card with an apology, a quote from the bible, and ten bucks. Apparently this lady had forgotten she put two items in her purse and didn’t pay me for them, so she mailed the money to me when she realized her error.  

Okay, first of all, what the hell is she doing sending cash in the mail? It could’ve gotten stolen and I never would have received what was owed to me, and second of all, someone quoting the bible is indicative of a person harboring a lot of guilt, sexual repression, and Amway products. Now I’m left wondering if she really forgot she had put the items in her purse or if the guilt she was feeling for stealing them outweighed the benefit of getting away with it. 

If it were me, I’d seriously have to consider those two options. After all, I’m half Italian; we quote from the bible all the time!


In spite of all my wholesome efforts, there were some items I just couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard I tried. I figured whatever I didn’t sell at the yard sale, I could donate. Well that wasn’t gonna happen because it turns out everyone’s getting rid of their crap right now. 

I have some cool retro luggage from the 70s. The kind they don’t make anymore, not the cheap, throwaway junk you buy nowadays where it falls apart after one flight; this is quality. Well who wants luggage during a pandemic? No one’s going anywhere. 

I went to donate it to a charity organization for foster kids, thinking these kids would probably need a suitcase when being shuffled from house to house, but they had a glut of luggage donations the past few months. Turns out, there aren’t enough foster kids to meet the demands of the luggage donations, which is really disappointing. 

I ended up driving all the way to skid row and unloading it onto a homeless person. I handed it to him and he looked confused, so I said “Why don’t you pack up and get away from all this?” 

I felt really good about it afterwards knowing he would be moving soon with a really nice set of suitcases in tow.


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.

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

Ugh. Yuck. Yeesh. Blegh.

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?

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, 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.




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