All’s Wet That End’s Wet

I want to talk about the letter P, and I want to talk about the letter P as it pertains to the Pool.

In other words, I want to talk about P being in Pool.

My neighbors graciously offered me the use of their pool while they were away, which turned out to be a good time to do so because we were in the middle of a heat wave at the time. Yes, it’s a strange time to be in the middle of a heat wave, but I do live in Southern California, which is basically where the desert meets the C… or rather, sea.

I was really looking forward to taking a dip in the cool waters of their pool, but then something happened that really messed everything up for me. 

Kids. Screaming, dirty, loud, snot-nosed kids. 

When I got to my neighbor’s house, I saw kids in the pool. I mean, how gross!

Turns out, I wasn’t the only one invited. My neighbor also invited her daughter and grandkids to use it after she invited me… and of course, I got bumped. 

Shortly before I went over there, I had missed a text from my neighbor letting me know her grandkids were on their way over to go swimming, which was essentially her letting me know I was no longer invited to use their pool. It was an unvitation, which is the opposite of invitation. 

She didn’t exactly say that, but it was implied. She was essentially letting me know I shouldn’t be in the backyard because someone else was going to be there: Her grandkids. God forbid there might be a remote possibility I could infect them, which is ludicrous because no other living beings on this planet infects people with diseases more than kids. They’re germ carriers; all they do is infect other people with their sicknesses. 

Well, they annoy the fuck out of people also.

So first she says go ahead and use the pool anytime, but then she immediately takes it back so she can invite somebody else over that she clearly prefers over me. How two-faced can you be? I’m just grateful I was able to sneak over there after they left town to wash my car on their driveway a few days prior to this. Otherwise I would’ve had a dirty car and no use of a pool!

The mom and her kids ended up leaving after a short while, which was such a relief, ‘cause honestly, who isn’t relieved when kids leave? Anyway after they left I was about to walk over there for my swim when a thought entered my pretty little head… 

… the letter P.

You just know those little monsters pissed in their grandmother’s pool. Come to think of it, all pools have P in them. Otherwise they’d be called ools… *snicker snort* 

But seriously, all pools have pee in them because all pools have kids in them. Unless there’s an adult pool out there where kids are banned forever from using it. If there is, I’d love to know how to find it.

Because there should be one. 

There should be an adult pool completely segregated from kids… surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire… electrified… and a moat… with crocodiles in it… and then there should be a kids pool… off in the middle of a field somewhere… or between two freeways so any screaming noises they make is drowned out.

I probably shouldn’t use the word “drowned” in this situation but it just sounded so good.

Wasn’t that a thing at one point in time? A kids pool? Didn’t there used to be a kids pool separate from the adult pool where it was shallow and small and perfect for little pee monsters and when you walked by it, you noticed it wasn’t a pretty blue color like the adult pool, it was more of a green and had a strange odor that wasn’t really chlorine? What ever happened to those?

Anyway, I ended up just spraying myself with the garden hose… and washed my car again.




I was listening to one of those wacky guru guys on YouTube talking about selflessness and kindness, and that if we are of service to others and do something to help another person, it will come back to you tenfold, and I thought to myself, “Hell, my life could use some tenfold right now!” so I made it a priority to find someone to be of service to.

Well, I didn’t make it the number one priority, I just made it A priority by adding it to the bottom of the list of all the other shit I needed to take care of, and lemme tell ya, I had a lot of shit to take care of. I’m a busy gal!

I knew the best way to handle this was not to go out of my way to look for someone to be of service to, but rather, let my Higher Power (whoever the hell that is *snicker snort*) guide me to the right person and/or situation, and you know something? It worked!

Upon coming home from running some of the many errands that were on my list, I happened to notice a bunch of dead leaves underneath my neighbor’s tree that needed to be raked up and I thought that would be a perfect thing to do. They’re out of town, so how nice would it be for them to come home and find a clean front yard. I got to the task immediately. Well, not immediately, I washed my car on their driveway first… boy was my car filthy!

This whole being kind thing is contagious because shortly after washing my car, my friend called and asked if I wanted one of his laptop computers. I happen to need one, so of course I said yes. But I think he was trying too hard to be nice because it was not something you should be giving away in this day and age of advanced electronics. In other words, it was really old. I didn’t notice how old because when he brought it over, he did a quick drive-by, leaving it on the curb.

This wasn’t being kind so much as it was a way for him to recycle it, which I ended up doing, because I’m trying to be goddamn nice. The laptop was so ancient that when I took it to one of those big box stores that offer free electronic recycling, they said to me “M’am, I’m sorry but we don’t accept luggage.” When I pointed out to the guy, who was a Millennial, that it actually was a laptop, but one that was made before he was born, he took it, but gave me a weird look…

…which I take offense to, because no Millennial has the authority or right to judge someone who’s much smarter than them. Millennials are not the smartest socks in the suitcase, lemme tell ya!

I was at the market the other day and one of them was bagging my groceries and she put the delicate lettuce on the bottom of the bag and proceeded to pack heavy stuff on top of it. When I pointed out to her that she needed to put the heavy stuff on the bottom so as not to crush the lettuce, her response was “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s only my second day.”

Well this was another perfect opportunity to be of service to someone, so I proceeded to enlighten her. I said “I know you have huge student loan debt, but if you ever expect to do well in life, you need to realize that delicate lettuce is infinitely lighter than the potatoes and soy milk you were going to put on top of it. Perhaps you need to go back to college and advance your degree in order to understand physics. Then you’ll be able to bag groceries properly.”

You know another thing that annoys me about Millennials? They have no appreciation for kindness.

After dealing with all this riff-raff, I was way too exhausted to rake up any leaves so I decided to put it off for another day. It’s never too late to be kind because we can be kind at any moment in time by having kind thoughts. That’s what this guru weirdo said anyway, and it made sense to me. Besides, I’m being kind to myself by not overdoing things, so I was of service to someone after all: myself!

You know something, I could get used to this “being kind” thing.

Have a nice day!


You ever heard of a Yahoo?

A Yahoo is a type of person with certain characteristics, and can be described as any one, or combination, of the following: 

  1. Usually loud, enjoys drawing attention to himself.
  2. Beer guzzler (mainly Budweiser) who, when drunk, gets into fisticuffs with the bushes in front of his house.
  3. Drives an extremely large four-wheeler and likes to go mud-whomping (and uses the term “mud-whomping”). 
  4. A 49er who yelled “yahoo!” when he struck gold.
  5. Owns guns. Lots and lots of guns.

This is just a brief list. There are countless other descriptions that could be applied, but you get the idea. 

Then, there’s a Fuckin’ Yahoo. A Fuckin’ Yahoo is a little bit different in that he’s an extreme breed of Yahoos, their main characteristic being the inability to apply reason to any situation. Yahoos are of the male species. I suppose there could be female version, but the Yahoo I’m going to be enthusiastically slamming in this post is of the male, Fuckin’ kind.

I was driving through a quaint old part of town the other day to get home; it’s a shortcut for me to avoid the more frequented main thoroughfares. The houses in this particular neighborhood have been there since the early fifties and they are unique; they don’t have the cookie-cutter quality of the newer suburban boxes. There are no other neighborhoods in town quite like this one, and although a few of the houses on this street have been bought and upgraded by a more modern type of dweller in recent years, one particular type remains. I like to call these holdouts “Old T.O.” T.O. being an acronym of the two word town in which I live, e.g. L.A. 

This part of town is the exact place where one would find a Fuckin’ Yahoo, and although they are a dying breed around here (not dying fast enough, if you ask me), you can still spot them from time to time and be lucky enough to witness the complete ignorance of their behavior. 

Would you like an example? Wonderful! I was just about to offer one!

As I was driving along, I witnessed a man standing in his front yard on the grass, bent way over, and peering vengefully into a gopher hole with… get this… a semi-automatic Glock in his hand. He was waiting for the critter to poke its little head out so he could blast it into smithereens with a semi-automatic pistol.  The gopher, just doing what gophers do (diggings holes), was apparently enough to piss the guy off to the point that he felt he needed to annihilate it.

There were a number of peaceful residents out and about walking on this same street at the exact same time that this FY had his semi-automatic out to vaporize a living creature, and a couple of them were children.

Uh huh… a Fuckin’ Yahoo…

…with a semi-automatic, like it was the apocalypse and he was preparing to fight off zombies. Or in his case, any brown person, feminist, or vegan. Sorry Vegans, vegetarianism just isn’t extreme enough for guys like these.

You know what I believe we should do with this type? Oh God, I’m so glad you do!

I believe we should capture this rare breed and immediately put him in a cage at the zoo, in a habitat similar to his natural one, so we can all study how he lives; it must be fascinating! I would get endless entertainment watching such a… such a… mammalian species as he, in a safe and enclosed environment (and I emphasize safe and enclosed)

I did some research to see if I could find a breed of ancient ape that this FY evolved from, and do you know what I discovered? There isn’t one. There is no other mammal walking on two legs, currently, or in the past two million years, that matches this man’s intelligence. No ape is that stupid! I apologize to the apes for the comparison.

I seriously considered calling the police for a brief moment, but then quickly came to my senses and remembered the police that, um… police, in this town are similar in genetic makeup, so it would be futile. They’d come out on the call, take one look at his gun, and proceed to engage in an appreciative dialogue of said gun, in the weird language that only other Fuckin’ Yahoos understand. 

Language such as:

“Yep, she’s a slicer alright!” or, “I usedta’ have me one of those beauties. Cried when I sold ‘er.” or,  “Did you git the sumbitch hole-digger yet?”

I’m certain you see my predicament.

These semi-automatic, gun-totin’ FYs completely believe wholeheartedly that the Second Amendment is there to protect them from “Evil-doers” like gophers. And really, who the hell am I to try to take that away from them?… the poor idiots. 

I’m going to find a t-shirt with a gopher on it wearing the American flag and give it to him. It’ll soften the guy, because when you wrap an American flag around anything and give it to a Fuckin’ Yahoo… they fall in love with it because you are now on “their side”.

God Bless AmeriKKKa!




Decisions, decisions…

As a species, we are supposed to be continually evolving, and I think we are. At least, some of us are. So if we are, that means we must be continually self-evaluating to see where we are in the evolutionary process, and if we’re not, we should be. Otherwise, how would we know whether we’re not continuing to behave like idiots… and when I say “we”, I mean everybody else.

See? I’m self-evaluating. 

What sparked this one-sided conversation we’re having (which is the best kind of conversation to have) is a posting I saw about being on the autism spectrum; it referred to a list of emotions and behaviors that people who are on the spectrum display. So I read it out of curiosity, and it turns out, I have quite a few of the emotions and behaviors on the list, which begs the question: 

Who the hell made this goddamn list?! 

Well it turns out, it’s from a woman who’s on the spectrum herself; not a doctor, not a health professional… a woman who has autism, and I have a problem with that because she’s calling me out on behaviors that should not necessarily be associated with autism, but also because she’s not a doctor or health professional, even though I don’t put a lot of weight on either of those two.

What the heck, is this woman trying to accuse normal people of being on the spectrum? I am not on the spectrum, even though there’s nothing wrong with that. At least, that’s what people keep saying. 

I have nothing but admiration for people who are autistic or on the spectrum. I’ll have you know, my best friend happens to be on the spectrum. Well, he’s not my best friend, he’s a friend. I mean, I don’t hang out with him that often… but I know him. Okay, I know him in the sense that I know his first and last name and that he’s on the spectrum… ahem, but I’ll have you know, I have quite a few friends who are on the spectrum. How do I know this? Well because they display some of the emotions and behaviors that are on that list, and…


This list contained acronyms like, OCD, ADHD and ODD, to which I would like to add WTF, IBS, and LOL. Plus it mentioned this doozy of a phrase: Executive Dysfunction, or ED, which is also the acronym used to describe a totally different kind of dysfunction. One I personally have had a lot of experience with because the men I try to have sex with have it, unless they pop that little blue pill.

Do you need a minute to figure that one out? I’ll wait…

Anyway, supposedly when you have Executive Dysfunction, it means (in a nutshell) you get distracted easily, take on too much at once, get overwhelmed, then you can’t make a decision… or get a hard on apparently, which is not surprising because that’s the same process men go through when they have a naked woman in front of them and they’re about to have sex.

Like, c’mon, who the hell hasn’t been overwhelmed when faced with a bunch of decisions before?! 

Let me give you an example of the series of events I go through, that this woman is labeling as Executive Dysfunction, and you can decide whether you think it warrants her diagnosis, even though I don’t give a shit what you think:

Let’s say I’m about to sit down to do some writing, but I need to go to the bathroom first. I go to the bathroom. Then I’m ready to start writing, but the laundry basket in the bathroom is overflowing, so I start a load of laundry. Then I have to remember to start the timer so I know when the laundry is finished. So now I’m ready to start writing, but before I do, I realize I’m hungry, so I start to prepare something to eat. But I notice some crumbs on the kitchen floor so I start sweeping. Then I remember my food, so I stop sweeping to eat. As I eat, I look outside and see that it’s a beautiful day, so I sit on my patio for some fresh air and sunshine (because I live in gorgeous California), and by the time I’m finished doing all that, it’s been a couple hours and I haven’t written a goddamn thing

This behavior is referred to as Executive Dysfunction? When I was growing up, we called this procrastination. Now it’s a dysfunction related to autism all of a sudden. 

Do I have to be an executive to have this dysfunction, or is it that I just can’t make decisions an executive would make because I’m not an executive? Does an executive do his/her own laundry and make food or does someone else make that decision for them? Do decisions always have to be “executive”, or can they just be “decisions”?

Peepul Are Wah-king!

What an exciting time we’re living in right now, don’t you think? All kinds of wonderful things are happening! First of all, it’s springtime, which is arguably the best time of the year; the flowers are blooming, the birds are singing, the frost is melting… soon we’ll be able to bury all those dead bodies that are piling up across this great big country of ours.

I’m in Southern California, we don’t have frost.

This whole virus thing is starting to thin out the herd, and I’m personally witnessing Mother Earth breathing a deep sigh of relief. With this virus, coupled with all the deaths from those poor folks who were held in cages by ICE… why, we’ll be down in numbers in no time! We are grossly overpopulated you know, so the more the death toll climbs, the better it’ll be for me… uh, mu…  uh, mankind.

Perhaps you’re thinking I’m absolutely nutballs. No, not because people are dying and I’m feeling tremendous hope, it’s because of my being so infatuated with springtime… but as they say, ’tis the season of love… and I love everything right now! I’m absolutely loving the weather, the lack of traffic, the lack of people out and about… nobody’s around. Well, there are some people around. Hmm… now that I think about it, there are a lot of people… and they’re all walking!

Wait a second, this is all wrong. I live in the suburbs where no one, and I mean absolutely no one, would be caught dead (no pun intended) walking. Walking in the suburbs means you’re a loser because you don’t have a car. Of course, walking in the city means you’re doing your part for the environment by taking the bus, so you’re a winner, but not here… not in utopia! 

It’s really annoying encountering all these people walking because no one used to do it before. I did. I walked all the time! Uh, what I mean is, I like walking… and I’ve almost always had a car… except for those few years scattered here and there… but that was not my fault, it was… it was… well, I’m sure it was someone’s fault, I just can’t think of whose. Let’s just say it was my mother’s, she’s to blame for a lot of shit. Anyway, I would walk even when I did have a car… gas costs a lot of money!


I never ran into others walking before. Who are all these losers walking now? I’m sure they most certainly all have cars, but now, because there’s a killer virus all of a sudden they figured out that getting outside and breathing fresh air makes you feel better? No shit, Sherlock. I mean, I can’t even go two blocks without running into these morons with their masks and germs and dog poop bags! 

Speaking of which… on my walk yesterday, I noticed that some homeowner placed a sign in his front yard that had a doggie on it taking a squat, and it said: “Please do not pee here, it’s disrespectful” and I thought to myself, disrespectful? No dog I know is disrespectful. Why, dogs are more respectful than people, that’s for sure. I’m certain that any dog who walks by his stupid sign would just continue on to the next house and pee there instead, and if that’s not respectful, I don’t know what is!

Anyway, this guy is a complete idiot… doesn’t he know dogs can’t read?

Shopping Excursion

You get to the supermarket and your first goal is to find the nearest parking spot. You don’t know why, it’s just something that’s been ingrained in you from an early age… probably from watching your mom do it while calling people “idiots” as she drove around the lot looking for one.

You might have a bloody heart attack if you have to park fifty feet away and walk. Forget that in the time it took you to circle around and around the row of parking spaces so you could nab that spot in front, you could’ve parked further out, gotten a shopping cart, and completed half your task already. Who cares though? Parking in the closest spot possible has prestige; it makes you feel more accomplished, like you’re a winner!

After you get your coveted spot and start making your way toward the entrance, don’t forget to give the person who pulled into the handicap space a once-over to make sure they meet your standard of what constitutes deserving it. If they don’t, oh boy are you gonna give them the stink eye.

“He doesn’t look handicapped to me. If he can walk from here to there, why can’t he walk from there to here?!”

Your next task is having your feats of strength tested: Pulling a shopping cart apart from the rest of the other shopping carts. If you can’t, it means (you’re a loser) you’ll have to go to the next line of carts over to do the pull-apart-cart of shame, just hoping you don’t get the cart with the clubfoot. You know what I’m talking about right? The one with the fucked up wheel that stops spinning every few feet and skids along the floor, making a horrible noise, which in turn, makes everyone in the store turn around and snicker, like you’re a moron.

Oh, and don’t forget to grab a sanitizing hand wipe for the cart either, because for some reason, someone idiot thought the handle of a shopping cart was a lot filthier than the hundreds of doorknobs, computer keyboards, ATMs, public restroom stall handles, and dollar bills you touched previously.

Okay, now that the stress of the parking lot is behind you, you enter the supermarket and face the enemy: The assholes that had the gall to come shopping the same time you did. In an instant, the goddamn cart with the clubfoot that you hate has become your best weapon; you’re prepared to mow down anyone that get in your way while simultaneously blocking any jerk from heading down the same aisle you are…

The cookie aisle.

Thaaat’s right, that’s exactly where you’re going first. You’re gonna get a package of goddamn cookies because you’ve already had a rough day and you deserve them… earned them even, because you worked out for 30 minutes three days ago and you’ve been cooped up for two weeks with a family that you’ve discovered you actually could dislike more than previously thought.

Shit. Someone got there before you did; some woman who is attractive and more slender than you… a lot more slender. In fact, she makes you look like Bigfoot, and on top of it, she’s eyeing the shelf where the best gourmet cookies are; the ones you wanted. But your first thought isn’t how to politely ask if you can reach around her… your first thought is “How the hell does that skinny bitch eat goddamn cookies and look like that?”

Uh oh, she turned around to look at you, so you immediately change that murderous look on your face to one of amiable camaraderie, and you manage to blurt out a friendly “Hi” without sounding like a goddamn psychopath. She beams a beatific smile at you because, why wouldn’t she? She’s skinny, great looking and can eat a goddamn package of cookies without worrying about how her fat stomach is gonna look in a tight dress the next day, because being skinny means your life is perfect compared to everybody else’s.

And she’s never had a fat stomach.

Now’s the time to take a look around you and spot the privileged skinny bitch and admit your life will never be as good as hers.

You decide it’s better to move out of the cookie aisle and come back when there isn’t this giant threat to your self-esteem standing between you and the cookies that are gonna make you feel better. Instead you head over to the bakery department to see if there’s anything there to take the pain away. At this point, you’ll consider cornbread, donuts… even granola.

You spend the next thirty minutes perusing the aisles, looking for food to buy that won’t make you feel guilty because with two packages of butter in your cart, you’ve decided you will bake that giant tray of lemon bars you’ve been meaning to make; fuck the cookies.

Once you’ve completed your shopping…



You’re finally done with your hunting and you spot an open checkout lane… bingo! So you start towards it, when you realize some lady on the other side of the store sees the same checkout and starts to head over. She’s the second biggest threat to your shopping excursion, next to the skinny bitch at the cookies, because she stands between you and your groceries getting the hell out of there and into your car so you can stuff your face with the cookies you decided not to say “fuck the cookies” to!

You have the edge though because you’re just the tiniest bit closer to the open checkout lane than she is, so you start walking faster. You both realize you’re in competition with one another, and it’s ever so subtle, but you see her speed up her pace all while pretending she doesn’t notice you heading in the same direction.

But you’re ahead of the game, baby! You’re coming in fast and there’s no way this Cowgirl is gonna beat you to it, and as you approach your final destination, your chin up, an air of satisfaction on your face because you’ll make it before her…

…some asshole comes out of aisle four, cutting you off at the pass and heading straight into the open lane with the most annoying look of satisfaction on his smug, disgusting face, casually strolling up to the register with a cart stacked full of food.

Folk Hero

A mother and her little boy are in the kitchen having lunch. The boy grabs a paper towel from the dispenser, but as he does, it tears. He turns to his mom and asks:

“Mommy, why don’t paper towels work the right way?”

“What do you mean honey?”

“Every time I pull one off the dispenser, it tears. They’re not very strong.”

“Well, they’re not made to be strong.”

“Why not?”

“The manufacturers make them so they rip easily on purpose. They’re meant to be poorly made so we’ll keep having to use more and more of them.”

“Oh. Where do paper towels come from?”

“They come from trees.”

“Paper towels come from trees?! I love trees! I thought trees were strong Mommy. ”

“Yes, I love trees too, and they are strong. But they’re no match for human consumption. You see, all paper products come from trees, even toilet paper. The idiots that make these products have consciously decided not to use more sustainable resources to manufacture them because of greed and money. They keep chopping down trees so you can wipe your… mouth.”

“Why do they put a picture of a strong man on the outside if the paper towels aren’t strong then?”

“You’re referring to the brand with the log cutter on the packaging? Well, it’s to fool people into unconsciously thinking the paper towels are a lot stronger than they really are. It’s called Marketing.”

“Log cutter? I thought he was called a Lumberjack.”

“Log cutter, Lumberjack… they’re the same Tommy, they’re both idiots.”

“Paul Bunyan is an idiot too? I thought he was a hero like it says in the book.”

“Nope, he’s an evil tree cutter that destroys the planet. Well, not him personally because he doesn’t really exist; he’s not real. It’s the giant corporations who are the evil tree-cutting idiots.”

“Paul Bunyan isn’t real?!”

“Of course not Tommy, he’s something the log cutting corporations made up to make people believe what they want them to believe and to ignore the truth. They take something destructive like cutting down trees for profit, and build a narrative around it, making it seem harmless, like a big, strong folk hero with a blue ox going out into the woods cutting down trees for an heroic purpose. That’s what we call Propaganda.”

“I can’t believe Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe, aren’t real.”

“Well, Mr. Smith next door can’t believe my breasts aren’t real either but that’s just a sign of a great plastic surgeon. Anyway, it’s all about spin, honey. This whole thing with the Coronavirus is a perfect example: Our leaders are causing fear and panic everywhere, and that fear… that paranoia, is especially concentrated in places where people voted for Trump; they’re the ones buying up all the toilet paper from Costco, so if we don’t have any next week, they’re the ones to blame.

“You see, fear incites consumption; when people are afraid, they consume: Products, alcohol, drugs, porn, precious metals, toilet paper, microwave popcorn… anyway, remember that every election year there has been a dangerous virus going around, and that’s not just a coincidence. This is an attempt to make our President look like a hero because he signed an 8.3 billion dollar healthcare package, even though just months earlier, he drastically cut Medicaid, the ACA, and was putting people in cages to die. See the parallels with the Paul Bunyan story? We call that Hypocrisy… and Authoritarianism.”

“Oh okay, well can I go out and play now?”

“Of course you can honey, but don’t forget to put on a mask first.”


Going Viral

Ahhh Chooo!

Excuse me, jeez that was a big one. I think there’s something going around…

What’s that? You’re glad I didn’t sneeze on you? Well, I would never be so idiotic as to do that. I have manners you know. One time, when I was standing in line at the airport (what else would anyone do while at the airport?) this man behind me sneezed and didn’t cover his mouth, and I felt a gush of air on the back of my head. 

I would have confronted him if I wasn’t so busy picking my nose and smearing the contents on the back of his jacket as I allowed him to pass in front of me.

Like I said… manners.

Oooooh, I get it… the Coronavirus… that’s why you don’t want me sneezing on you. Well you don’t have to worry; I don’t have it, just so you know. Honestly, I think people are getting a little too paranoid about this whole thing. 

I think the Coronavirus could be a positive thing. I mean, not the fact that thousands of people have died… although the world is grossly overpopulated… but for once people are actually washing their hands, the goddamn monkeys.

Let me take that back, that’s an insult to monkeys.

I know, I know… I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s the same ‘ol, same ‘ol: Every time I use the washroom, there’s always some idiot who leaves the stall and walks straight out the door without washing their hands… the disgusting little sluts… and I mean that in the nicest way.

Nothing wrong with being a slut, I want to be one someday

There’s something seriously wrong with going to the bathroom and walking out without washing your hands, with total impunity, like you didn’t just do what we all know you just did!

Where did these people come from? I shudder to think about what other personal hygiene habits they lack. Can you imagine having an intimate sexual interaction with a person like that? If you like to suck on fingers, you’d be in big trouble. Maybe just stick to the toes. Maybe don’t suck anything on anybody’s body, that’s my credo. I never do!


So there’s lots and lots of information being spread (no pun intended) on places like social media about the virus and how to avoid contamination, one of which is hand-washing; the most effective way of greatly reducing the spread of infectious disease… next to placing someone who’s infected inside a bubble. You know, like in that T.V. movie, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble, with John Travolta, remember?

I think that’s a great idea!

Anyway, all this week at work, I’d be in the washroom and would hear people leave the stall and turn on the faucet… *gasp* they were washing their grubby little hands! Not only that, they would go out of their way just to wash their hands because they’re fucking paranoid, and I gotta say, it couldn’t be more heartwarming… how considerate of them!

No, of course I’m not serious, they’re just watching out for themselves. I’m in no way fooled by this behavior. They’ll wash their hands if their health is at risk, but screw everybody else if they spread viruses around.

Once this Coronavirus thing blows over they’ll go back to being the dirty things they’ve always been, contaminating everything they touch with their filthy fingers, making lots of people sick in the process, including me!

You know something? Maybe there’s nothing wrong with a little paranoia, at least it creates manners.








Putting the Squeeze On

I refuse to allow myself to be tortured any longer!

Do you realize I’ve been tortured since I was a budding teenager? Well, of course you wouldn’t. 

I’ve been subjected to one torture contraption or another most of my life, and that’s saying a lot because that’s been a really, really, really long tim… 

No it hasn’t.

I’m talking about undergarments, people. You know, bras. Well, other things too, but let’s start with the bra; that horrible, uncomfortable, unnatural, unnecessary thing I’ve been putting on every single day of my life. 

Those awful things are solely designed to torture woman for the benefit of man. Supposedly. I mean, I can’t be absolutely sure the bra has benefitted man, I can only guess. But my guess is an educated one: If a man gets a hard on looking at a woman wearing a bra, I would consider that a benefit. 

Come to think of it, that would be a benefit for both men and women… which is not helping my argument of how awful it is to wear a bra! I would probably wear a bra in order to have a man get a hard on that would lead to get sex, I’m not stupid. But that’s different because then I’d get something out of it, and besides, what the hell am I supposed to do with all these lacy bras, just throw them out?! That would be silly, I…

Where was I going with this? 

Anyway, when I was a pre-teen, I naively couldn’t wait to wear a bra; it was what I looked forward to most heading into my girlhood. Well, that and sticking my tongue down the throat of the neighbor boy who lived down the street.


Now that I’m looking back on it, how silly was it of me to look forward to binding my breasts with that awful contraption at such an early age, because bras are very uncomfortable. Pfsst… that’s an understatement. Saying bras are uncomfortable is like saying the Pope is Catholic… or is it Jewish? Oh God, I can’t remember. Whatever, let me put it to you this way: saying bras are uncomfortable is like saying the sun is yellow.  

I’ve had to wear a bra every single day of my life, can you imagine? Not you women, I know you can imagine, I’m talking to the men here. No, you can’t imagine because you don’t have breasts that you’ve had to stuff inside a metal-framed piece of fabric that unnaturally pushes your boobs up towards your chin… because you don’t have boobs. 

Maybe you have moobs, which is not the same thing. No shame in having moobs by the way, I’m just trying to make a point, one of which is men shouldn’t have nipples!

Well uhh, what I mean to say is… let me describe what it’s like for you: imagine having to wear a metal-framed codpiece around your balls which pushes them up towards your belly button, and you have to wear it every day of your life because society deems it proper and/or sexy. Plus, who wants a pair of saggy balls, am I right?! I suggest you men get a codpiece and wear it every day, before it’s too late.

You know what else sucks? Girdles. They suck in your gut *snort *snicker 

No, I do not wear a girdle. Yes, I have worn a girdle before, but only once or twice. No really, I couldn’t stand it. It was like wearing a bra over your entire midsection. They don’t call them girdles anymore either because it doesn’t sound good. They call them “shapewear” now. What a crock.

I’m sure some of you have seen the ads of women putting on shapewear (girdles) and it’s the darndest thing. All of a sudden, there are no more bumps and rolls, it’s all smooth, like a sausage. I hate to use that terminology towards women because I don’t believe women should be referred to as sausages (only men), but let’s call a spade a spade… or a polska kielbasa.

Their purpose (besides to torture women) is to redistribute fat and flab to other places on your body so it’s not just hanging around your middle section, so when you pull a pair of them on, whatever it can’t suck in, it redistributes to other places on your body… mainly towards your face. Talk about shoving your boobs up! I don’t understand how someone can talk or eat with one of those things on.

Ooohh, I get it… that’s the whole fucking point!

Oh Bob!

I’ve been going to bed with a man every night for the past two weeks. 

I know, I know… I really surprised myself too. I never thought I’d be attracted to a man with his physical appearance and character but when I saw how he moved and heard the way he spoke, I couldn’t help myself, it was instant attraction. 

We haven’t missed a single night together once in the two weeks we’ve been at it, and I gotta say, it feels amazing! He’s got this demeanor about him that is very relaxing to be around.  He has a soothing voice and likes to speak in subdued tones; it drives me crazy! To be honest, it’s really surprising because he’s a total hick from Florida… and we all know how fucking weird Florida is. 

Florida is the armpit of the United States, and I say that with the utmost respect. Listen, I lived there for a year, so I know.  I lived in south Florida though, big difference. It’s much easier to admit.

The entire state is a collection of the worst part of the United States and the Caribbean. It’s overflowing with drug dealers, prostitutes, thieves, scam artists, corrupt cops, gamblers, runaways, nefarious athletes and porn stars… with a sprinkling of the famous and the elite. At the same time, it has the most beautiful white, sandy beaches, turquoise waters and balmy temperatures. Like I said, weird. 

But I’m not here to discuss Florida, I’m here to wax poetic about the man I go to bed with every night.

His name is Bob. I realize that name is not very poetic, especially when screamed out loud (go ahead, try it). Bob is a good name for some guy who’s probably a window washer out of Kentucky or sells insurance. 

People from Kentucky and Florida, do not email me.

He’s got wild hair too; it’s a ‘fro. To and fro, get it? snicker* snort* 


I’m serious, his hair is styled in a ‘fro: a bro-fro. He dresses pretty groovy in tight jeans, a long sleeve button down dress shirt and sometimes wears a gold chain. He’s very artistic. God, I can’t believe I’d be attracted to a goofball throw-back like him, but I am. He’s got a hick accent too, which is perplexing because normally I have to plug my ears and scream when I hear that shit.

I’m willing to overlook his yakkety-yak because he’s very talented with his hands… mmmm yeah… he has the best strokes! 

Did I mention he’s dead? Oh sorry, yeah, he’s dead… died in the 90s.

I watch him on YouTube. It’s Bob Ross, the painter guy who had a show on the public broadcasting stations back in the Eighties, remember him? He had the most successful show in public television history and he became legendary. Now he has this huge following online. I love to watch him paint and listen to his soothing voice so I bring him to bed with me. Watching him relaxes me and puts me to sleep.

Wait, what the hell did you guys think I was talking about?

Anyway, you should try him out sometime.

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