How You Doin’ Blondie?


To Catch A Pseudo-Predator

I overheard this man remark that Bob Saget’s HBO special was deplorable and tasteless, that he crossed far too many boundaries.

Please, Bob Saget wishes he was that opprobrious.

Saget’s special was sad; if you squinted your eyes and cocked your head to one angle, you could just barely make out the superimposed image of a man bailing water out of a rapidly sinking dingy.

I mean, talking about wanting to fuck your daughter’s underage friends? Really Bob? Admitting you lust after minors is so passe; do you not watch Dateline? 

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Whore Redux

Today; “Search Engine Terms: define whore”.

Really?

It was vaguely amusing, now it’s just mildly insulting.

…Oh and honey? If you’re concerned enough to research the formal definition, you’ve probably already been immortalized by Joe Francis.



Somewhere Otis Redding and Lou Rawls are Weeping Quietly

I’m telling you, this urban demographic and their music industry, it’s a Grammy  goldmine! It’s a regular chart-topping factory! Especially with this character I’ve been hearing about lately, this “Fat Joe,” my he is quite the wordsmith. I stumbled upon another gem of his, this one entitled “Still Not A Player,” featuring Monsieur “Big Pun.”

Does this gentleman have a fan club? How might I gain membership?

 

 

And yes folks, he really did just say “I’m not a player, I just fuck a lot.”



Everybody Here

If I’m reading Michael Stipe correctly, I think the idea is that everybody has a burden they feel they have to carry, the trick is getting the fuck over it.

“No one remembers and nobody cares”

Preach it, brother Stipe

 



Ladies and Gentlemen, Poet Laureate Robert Sylvester Kelly:

    I heard a song the other day, and the lyrics in the opening chorus gave me pause. The name of the song [and I use the term very, very loosely] is “Make it Rain”; penned by Messrs. “Lil’ Wayne” and “Fat Joe,” featuring a guest appearance by R.Kelly. As a woman, I should be offended by the chauvinistic and frankly degrading lyrics Mr. Kelly is crooning; but as someone who considers themselves a novice at the game the big boys play, I was highly entertained by the song’s stark materialistic and animalistic overtures:

“I be drilling these chicks like Major Payne
When I make it rain, they be like ‘Kell… do it again’
From the club to the coupe, inside my gates
Up in my bedroom screaming each other’s name
They was perty perty, and I was flirty flirty
Lil’ dro, lil’ bub now they gettin’ dirty dirty
Don’t ask me what my name is, stupid bitch I’m famous
You gon’ make me aim this, leave your ass brainless
I’m tryin’ to stay R&B but these streets is a part of me
So don’t get it twisted
You see I order one bottle, then I talk with one model
Then I order more bottles, now I got more models
I’m from that city where them niggas don’t play me
I take a chick to my room like cave man
So ask your girlfriend my name, I bet she go
‘Skeet Skeet Skeet Skeet, Weatherman ’bout to make it rain!’”

 

I particularly enjoy the line wherein Robert raps incredulously, “Don’t ask me what my name is, stupid bitch I’m famous.” I simply must find an opportunity to use that line…perhaps during my tete-a-tete with Diane Sawyer when I’m identified as [insert powerful man’s name of your choice here]’s proverbial “side dish”…



Running Errands Is Depressing

I was walking out of the grocery store parking lot today, and this woman with a thick Scandinavian accent and an SUV full of family stopped and asked me for directions to a store on Rt. 70. I knew exactly where she wanted to go, and I knew exactly how to get her there, but I was concerned that she’d get turned around in this murderous Yankee traffic. I didn’t have anywhere to be, so I told her that I was going by where she wanted to go, and she could just follow me if she wanted to.

As we were pulling up to her destination, she pulled up along the right side of my car and thanked me profusely for my kindness. I told her she was very welcome and as she pulled away everyone was waving and smiling, sincerely grateful for my help. It made me feel genuinely happy that I was able to help someone, even if it was with something small like directions to a shopping center.  In that fleeting instant, as the woman pulled away to make her turn while I remained stopped at the light, I felt like maybe everything isn’t as dire as I make it out to be. Maybe I’m capable of leading a normal life, maybe I could start over somewhere as Suzie Homemaker who bakes cookies for the neighbors and gives good directions to out-of-towners.

So I’m stopped at the red-light, and I’m thinking all of these things and watching the woman’s tail lights disappear through my lowered passenger side window, and I’m in an almost happy place. Then a shiny, big, Ford F-150 pulls up beside me carrying a cab-full of construction workers. I usually avoid eye contact in these types of situations, but I wasn’t on guard, and I accidentally locked eyes with the driver.

In an instant, every little daydream I’d been having about cute pink aprons and two car garages, his and her sinks and a loving, lasting marriage; evaporated. Every last one. Gone.

I looked into the eyes of that driver, and the eyes of his passengers, and I saw lust, greed, and hunger. And then I remembered who I am, what I do, and how lonely I am. I remembered that men don’t see me as mother, or someone that they could introduce to their mother, but as an object. An object of lust, greed, and hunger. Those 3 things have given me so, so much, but they’ve taken even more away.

It’s a bitch, grocery shopping.



Malibu Barbie is One Tough Fucking Hombre

Picture what the foreign gas station attendant saw: blonde woman in a shiny red luxury car, asking him slowly and loudly if he could break a hundred dollar bill…Guy is probably thinking “she’s probably the daughter or wife of someone wealthy, takes everything she’s got for granted, probably hasn’t worked hard for a damn thing a day in her life.” Where I him, I probably would’ve tried pulling the same slick little maneuver…

I asked him to put $20 worth of gas in my tank, and when he was finished I gave him a hundred dollar bill. He pulled out a dirty roll of cash and started counting twenties off the roll. When he was finished, he hesitated a little and gave me a strange look as he passed me my change. I thought nothing of it as he walked away to service another vehicle, until I counted my change to put it back in my wallet and counted $60. In the most demure voice imaginable, I called after his retreating form, “Hey! You owe me 20 bucks man.” He turned around and came back to my car wearing an expression that to a lesser person would have appeared to be communicating “Yes ma’am? Oh my, there isn’t a problem, is there? Not a problem for my most esteemed and highly valued customer?” So I said again, still in the most measured, ladylike tone, “You owe me 20 bucks. I bought 20 dollars worth of gas and handed you a 100 dollar bill, 100 minus 20 is 80. You gave me 60 bucks, you owe me another twenty.” At this point he hesitates and his English magically deteriorates before he looks at me with big, doe eyes, and says “20? What is 20 I do not-.” At this point he is interrupted as I look him dead in the eye with a stare that can make children cry, and say “Look, you owe me 80 bucks. Give me another 20 right now. DON’T fuck with me.” There was a brief pause, and his eyes widened slightly as he realized he’d made a pretty serious misjudgement. He looked at me again and issued a barely audible “Uhhh” before his fingers started moving like greased lightning as he counted out 20 dollars and said “Ok, ok, here, 5, 10, that’s 70; 5, 10, that’s, 80, ok? I’m sorry.”

Poor guy…rule number one – you can’t work a worker.