How You Doin’ Blondie?


Allow Me To Say, With All Sincerity:
May 14, 2008, 9:58 pm
Filed under: Ads, Cinderella, Dry Humor, Life, thoughts, Walt Disney | Tags: , , , ,

Mother FUCK you, Walt Disney.

They do not all come true. Mouse-eared mother fucker.



Just Drifting Through
May 11, 2008, 8:55 pm
Filed under: dirty, Life, Life Experiences, lust, Media, Music, Quotes, Random, random musings, sex, thoughts, Volvo | Tags: ,

“Where do all the porn stars go
When the lights go down?
I wonder where all the porn stars go
‘Cause when you need one, they are never aroundI think they moved out to the suburbs
And now they’re blonde, bland, middle-class Republican wives
They all have blonde, bland, middle-class Republican children
Blonde, bland, middle-class Republican lives

Where do all the porn stars go
When the lights go down?
I think I know where all the porn stars go
They all become Volvo-driving soccer moms”

 

Sometimes, though, there are such things as Volvo-driving porn stars. I substantiate this claim with the red Volvo S40 currently parked in my driveway.



Uncle Sam Needs Somebody, Anybody Else
April 15, 2008, 4:33 pm
Filed under: Current Affairs, Family, fear, Life, love, thoughts | Tags: , , ,

Just got a phone call; my youngest brother, Matthew, he’s expressed his desire to attend the Virginia Military Institute, post-high school. Presumably with the intent of a career with the US Armed Forces.

I couldn’t be prouder, or more afraid.

But honestly, both of them? Really? What is this, a conspiracy?



A Rose By Any Other Name…
April 14, 2008, 12:19 am
Filed under: Life, Men, Reflections, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , ,

Went to a strip club with my friend the other day, and when I stepped outside for some fresh air, I noticed some prick had parked his Dodge Viper right in front, in the fire lane. He wasn’t anywhere in sight, and obviously thought his car was too precious to park in the spaces reserved for us mere mortals. So I just kind of stood there and stared at the car, fuming silently. My friend was standing next to me, having a cigarette, and is apparently clairvoyant because he reached over and rubbed my shoulder while saying, “Calm down baby, just relax, don’t say anything,” (obviously his wife has made him sit through Steel Magnolias, he knows how Southern girls are). I quelled the urge to point out that the Viper parked by the curb wasn’t worth as much as any of my automobiles, and I turned to walk back inside. My path was immediately blocked, however, by a man striding brusquely through the doors wearing an outfit he purposely bought a size too small so as to showcase his physique. I took one look at the guy, and his tribal arm band tattoo, and I leaned in and whispered in my friend’s ear, “All the tea in China, that’s his Viper.” My friend rolled his eyes, kissed my mouth gently, and then shushed me; but we both turned to watch where this guy went. Sure as shootin’, Slab Bulkhead swaggered right on down to that Viper and threw a pack of cigarettes through the open sunroof. I groaned loudly and my friend pinched my ass and said “Shhh baby, watch this.” As Butch Deadlift is making his way back into the club, my friend does one of those cool, aloof, guy-nods in the direction of the Viper and says “That your ride, man?” (A  question which elicited the mother of  all eye-rolls from me, which went largely unnoticed as Splint Chesthair had obviously already made the incorrect assumption that I was one of the dancers and thus unworthy of legitimate conversation). Stump Beefknob then stopped, and without any hesitation or trepidation at all, of any kind whatsoever, replied, “Nah man, that’s my mom’s. I drive an XJ-8.”

Then he went back inside.

I waited for my friend to finish his cigarette and then we followed suit. Later in the evening, we got to talking about Dirk Hardpeck and I realized my initial irritation had been replaced with a sort of reluctant respect. The guy might have been a douche-bag, but he had the stones to admit his was driving his mother’s car. I don’t know many guys whose precious ego could sustain that kind of blow – and Gristle McThornbody made the omission in such a nonchalant, almost dismissive manner.

As obnoxious to the core as I’m sure he is; big ups to Blast Thickneck for being a momma’s boy and owning it. You go on now and do your thing, Brick Steelflex.



The Proverbial Question
April 11, 2008, 2:10 pm
Filed under: Life, love, Questions, Reality, Reflections, thoughts

How do you throw in the towel in a battle with yourself? This isn’t a rhetorical question, I’m not waxing poetic – I genuinely do not know the answer to this question.

Do you sell all your possessions? Do you give the green light to that over-zealous Realtor whose been circling overhead ever since you had that property appraisal done?

Do you give your brother perhaps the greatest gift he’ll ever receive, the black 2007 Chevrolet Corvette Z06 some guy you vaguely remember bequeathed to you in his will? Do you lie when he asks where you got it from? Do you have it garaged until he comes back from Iraq?

Do you sell your G-Class to that hip-hop star down the street who really has no apparent source of income aside from polishing his neck jewelry, but has been lavishing praise upon your monstrosity of an SUV ever since you got it?

Do you finally buy that Ducati Supersport 1000DS you’ve been lusting after for years but never quite had the balls to buy? Do you buy a sidecar for your 80lb best friend/dog? Does the sidecar detract from the coolness of the Ducati? Do you even care at this point?

Do you sell, sell, sell, like it’s a fucking swap meet because the sight of all these THINGS just makes you fucking sick?

What do you do with all the money? Do you buy a Kevlar blanket and new body armor for every single last fucking soldier in your brother’s unit? Do you throw money hand over fist at the non-profit organization, Soldiers’ Angels, you’ve been a member of ever since that fucking horrible day your brother came home with that jar head haircut? Do cry at night because you miss your brother so, so much, and you love him so, so much and you feel like the most selfish, spoiled whore in the world for sleeping on silk sheets while he’s picking sand out of his teeth and dodging mortar attacks?

Do you toy with the idea of enlisting yourself? What would you do with Cody? Who would take care of him? What about those neighbors of yours, the elderly couple who bake things for him? You think they’d keep him while you’re gone?

What if you die? Will it be worth it? Will it mean you’ve at least done something, stood for something, been something other then a fucking wealthy, pretty, waste of space?

Are all these questions things that you’ve very seriously considered? Very, very seriously considered? Are you just about ready to throw in the towel?

Yes, yes you are.



I Really Don’t Like The Fit Of This Shoe…

Harken back, if ye will, to the days of old when I was kind of half-assed chasing my single neighbor, S…it turns out, things might not have been as dead as I thought they were. I was at the local dive bar with another guy, and we were canoodling (does that word sounds as stupid as I think it does?), and who should walk in and sit on the other side of the bar, but S. himself. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, so I turned to wave or something, but he wouldn’t look up or acknowledge me. So I figured ok, cool, guess I “didn’t see him”. So my guy and I carry on, but I can feel S. just boring holes into me with his stare. Eventually we left, and for some inexplicable reason, I felt like I’d done something really underhanded to S…I dismissed the feeling, until today. Saw S. three times today, in the span of about an hour. I waved and tried to make eye contact all 3 times, he ignored me. The second time I saw him, he was driving past my house while I was sitting on the porch. He waved at the neighbor walking past on the sidewalk, but he didn’t wave at me. He didn’t even turn his head in my direction. The third time I saw him, he was less then 20 yards away from me, watching his dog urinate on a tree. I waved, but he “didn’t see me”. He ignored me. Completely.

Fuck. I’m being taught a lesson.

I feel like an asshole.



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? 



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.



The Irony Abounds

Sometimes I find the search engine queries that return my blog to be entertaining; “it’s only gay if balls touch”, “fuck you like I’m never going to see you again”, “you got a body like a devil”, “I’m untamed, I need a leash”, and one of my personal favorites “define whore.”

Today, a new winner: “liking and having sex with guys”. 

The two are not mutually exclusive, oh ponderous pilgrim. 



Prince Charming In Repose

picdec19-006.jpg            me_and_cody.jpg

There he is, ladies and gentlemen, the only man who has ever loved me unconditionally.



Once Upon A Time, There Lived A Princess
March 16, 2008, 10:56 pm
Filed under: Life, love, Men, random musings, Reflections, relationships, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , , ,

I’m sorry, what I meant to say is: a minor drawback to having sex for a living is that you develop (in a startling brief amount of time) a powerful resentment towards men. You lose your whimsical giggle to a harsh snarl. You lose your fucking soul to the brand new Mercedes you just bought yourself. Bitter? Oh, just a little.

 Where’s Prince Charming? I waited for him, I did. I sat in my tower, braiding my hair, dreaming of a better life. Every so often I’d think I saw him, riding by on his noble steed, and I’d tell myself that he just winked at me, just sent me the silent message that he’ll be back for me later. But he never came, and I got fucking tired of waiting.

And you know what? My Mercedes SL55 AMG with 400 horsepower fucks Prince Charming’s one noble steed in the ass.

But even the hardest, most jaded girls wish they had someone to hold them at night.



A Minor Drawback To Having Sex For A Living…
March 16, 2008, 10:32 pm
Filed under: dating, Life, love, lust, Men, Reflections, relationships, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , , , , ,

If I answer a call from an unfamiliar number one more time to hear a breathy male voice say “Hi Suzie, how are YOU doing?” I just might scream. Or become a lesbian. Men are pigs, every last one of them. Nice guys? Fuck that. I used to be a nice girl, and you know what happened to me? Nice guys. Nice guys with soft voices and big hearts who said all the right things.

Fuck Men.



Child’s Play

Sometimes I make up these little stories, these mundane little stories about boring little couples, and I’ll pretend they’re about me. I pretend that I’m one half of one of those little couples, and I pepper all my conversations with “we” or “my boyfriend and I”. If it’s a stranger or someone new that I’m talking to, I really go for the gusto. I make up a whole pretend-life for my companion, complete with two middle names and irksome but adorable personality quirks.

Pretending doesn’t hurt.



Question: Tell me what you think about this

After it’s all said and done, I’ve used them as much as they’ve used me.



Life Choices in A Minor…Take It Away, Elton

When I started out on my own, I never experienced that pivotal “fork in the road” moment that so many people talk about. Never really had to make any big do-or-die commitment. There was just an exception here, an aquiescence there, and now here I am. Tricky bastard, indifference.

Goodbye Norma Jean
Though I never knew you at all
You had the grace to hold yourself
While those around you crawled
They crawled out of the woodwork
And they whispered into your brain
They set you on the treadmill
And they made you change your name

And it seems to me you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
Never knowing who to cling to
When the rain set in
And I would have liked to have known you
But I was just a kid
Your candle burned out long before
Your legend ever did

Loneliness was tough
The toughest role you ever played
Hollywood created a superstar
And pain was the price you paid
Even when you died
Oh the press still hounded you
All the papers had to say
Was that Marilyn was found in the nude

Goodbye Norma Jean
From the young man in the 22nd row
Who sees you as something as more than sexual
More than just our Marilyn Monroe
 

 

 



We All Live In A Yellow Submarine

I suspect that unemployment played a significant role in the creation of this music video…BUT, be that as it may;

the music is genuis. Take a bow Paul & John.



Oh, How I Wish He Was Here
December 9, 2007, 1:55 pm
Filed under: Life, love, Music, relationships, thoughts | Tags: , , , , , , , ,

So, so you think you can tell, Heaven from Hell, blue skies from pain?

Can you tell a green field, from a cold steel rail?

A smile from a veil?

Do you think you can tell?

And did they get you to trade, your heroes for ghosts?

Hot ashes for trees?

Hot air for a cool breeze?

Cold comfort for change?

And did you exchange, a walk on part in a war for a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.

We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.

Running over the same old ground.

What have we found?

The same old fears.

Wish you were here.



You Got To Make That Money, Honey.

Another little fun discovery: the phrase  “assholes ‘men relationships’ ” returns my blog.

Why would you enter those words, in that order, into a search engine? What are you hoping to discover? That you’re not alone? That there are other women who think that the men they are engaged in relationships with believe their partners are assholes too?

Honey, that’s a given.

What you should have entered, instead of “assholes ‘men relationships'”, is “assholes ‘gifts he gives'”. Because all men are assholes, and all men know it. So it’s not about whether or not your man is an ass, it’s whether or not you make him pay for it. If he crushes your soul on a weekly basis and you’re not walking away with a minimum of 10,000 a month in un-taxable income, that relationship just isn’t working, sweetheart.



Familiarity Breeds Contempt
November 21, 2007, 12:24 am
Filed under: dating, Life, love, lust, Men, Reflections, relationships, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , , , , , ,

      “And when you were done, you actually felt a little guilty, even you. You looked at her (she looked right back, looked right into your eyes with your cock still inside her, with arms still around your shoulders, looked right into your eyes and shoved her hips forward and when you nearly collapsed because she did that, when your knees nearly gave out because you were so sensitive, she opened her mouth wide and laughed a hard, happy laugh, smiling and snarling all at once, all with her mouth open wide) you looked at her and thought, ‘This girl has a problem. This girl is addicted to sex. This girl likes fucking strange men and if she gets paid for it, so much the better.’ You looked at her and thought, ‘This girl was probably repeatedly molested when she was a child.'”

      “And that time and the last time, after you were done, again the guilt came back, the concern for her. Yes, concern. But then you put your hand on the bone of her hip, saw the curve of her ribs on her side beneath her right breast, saw the back of her knee, and you had to have her again. And every time you reach over to take her again, she laughs that laugh, that cold, hard, satisfied laugh.”

      “When she leaves the next morning, sore, walking carefully, her pussy like a wound, you give her double what you agreed on. You do it because she was good, because she earned it, but also because you wanted to make her life better. Because you do feel sorry for her. But when she takes the money, she is not surprised that you have given her twice what she was supposed to get. She doesn’t even think you’ve made a mistake.”

Kelman, Nic. Girls. 1st ed. Boston: Little Brown, 2003.



Ill-equipped to Act, Indeed
November 19, 2007, 11:26 am
Filed under: Life, Music, Reflections, relationships, thoughts | Tags: , , , , , ,

It’s funny that a free on-line forum has done more for me in the area of introspection than almost a decade of expensive, time-consuming therapy.

Living on a lighted stage
Approaches the unreal
For those who think and feel
In touch with some reality
Beyond the gilded cage

Cast in this unlikely role
Ill-equipped to act
With insufficient tact
One must put up barriers
To keep oneself intact

Living in the limelight
The universal dream
For those who wish to seem
Those who wish to be
Must put aside the alienation
Get on with the fascination
The real relation
The underlying theme

Living in a fish eye lens
Caught in the camera eye
I have no heart to lie
I can’t pretend a stranger
Is a long-awaited friend

All the world’s indeed a stage
And we are merely players
Performers and portrayers
Each another’s audience
Outside the gilded cage.