| I LOVE excuses to take off my shirt! |
Hey, friends.
Are you tired of the burden of clothes?
Do you wish there was something you could do to help fight breast cancer?
Are you an exhibitionist?
Are you easily influenced by the power of suggestion?
Me too!
Join me as I help raise money for breast cancer research!
See, I would do one of those walk things, but that would conflict with my TV time. Or I guess I could donate large sums of money to the cause, but I don't have any and what I do scrounge up goes to my coffee fund (and to my favorite non-profit, Keep The Homeless Homeless And Steal Most of Their Food).
So obviously, this is my only option if I want to be a do-gooder.
If you peruse the pages of the Boobiethon site (the main page and most links are safe for work) you will see that you have the option of baring it all, or covering up a little bit, or a combo. I have no problem baring it all, but I think I might need to jazz things up a bit (perhaps using some flair?) because I am Small Of Boob and I want to make it worth the money.
So once you send in your boobie photo, people will pay to look at it. (Just so you know, they cut off the heads of the models so it's a relatively anonymous endeavor. I suppose if someone wanted to seek mine out I could describe the mammary accoutrements that I'd chosen.) All of the money will go to the Susan G. Komen Foundation.
They accept man boobies too. Just in case anyone is interested.
Bloggers- take this opportunity to do something vaguely porny for charity. I think it is going to be my most effortless contribution this year. |
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| Do Your Dates Go Like This? |
The scene:
Strolling in the park at dusk. Yours Truly and Handsome Potential Lover are chatting about this and that. After a bit of a conversational lull:
Handsome Potential Lover: You know, I was actually worried that you might be embarrassed to be seen with me tonight.
Me, smiling: Oh, you mean because you're wearing those pleated mom pants?
Silence...
Silence...
Silence...
Handsome Guy Who Used to Maybe Want to Sleep With Me: Um. No. Because I wore tennis shoes to the restaurant.
Me: Ah.
Silence...
Me: That would never bother me.
(simultaneously)
Him: What are pleated mom pants? How are these like a mom's pants? I don't understand.
Me: You're a Republican, aren't you?
Him: My dad has these same pants.
Me: I just remembered. I have to go wash my hair. Bye. Thanks for dinner.
Him: My mom doesn't even wear pants, you know. |
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| Why You Should Meet My Mom |
So I was on the phone with MamaHobo, and I was filling her in on how Ole "Pleasuring Myself To The Point Of Making Others Uncomfortable" Lozo is going to be in People magazine. To give you some background, Lozo hates horsies. Who wouldn't? But he started a blog during all of the Barbaro drama that was a poignant (crude) social commentary concerning this convalescing horse and lots of weird people who obsessed about him. See Lozo's commentary here.
Not that I care to say this often, but I agree with Lozo- far too much fuss was being made over this damn horse. I'm not going to bother looking it up for you, lazypants, but I'm pretty sure there were more legitimate news items that could have been reported at the time. Whatever. It's a fucking horse and not even the talking kind.
In any case, People magazine wanted to talk to Ole "Boy, Wouldn't It Be Great If I Could Masturbate With My Blog" Lozo about his anti-Barbaroismocity, but he was hesitant at first to chat with them because he was worried about reprecussions in the equine circles. I was making fun of his fears, and had this conversation with my Ma.
Me: See, he thinks that he'll get all famous in People and then there might be some crazy racing fans who wish to do him harm.
Ma: Oh, I think Crazy is the only flavor horsey people come in, dear. He might be right about that.
 <---- Horsey people...? |
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| I'm the luckiest girl in the world |
because I woke up to this spam e-mail in my inbox. I was going to bold the good parts, but its so chock full of goodness I wouldn't know where to begin. I implore you to read it. You will not be sorry. It will make the coins in your bead bag jingle. Please, enjoy:
Then she beganagain; Oh Miss La Trobe, I do congratulate you! And once more a huge symbolical figure emerged from thebushes. Well, if the thought gave her comfort, William and Isasmiled across her, let her think it.
It was his voice, husky andrusty, issuing from a thick black cotton-wool beard that gave himaway. On the altar of the rain-soakedearth she laid down her sacrifice. Its a good day, some say, the day we are stripped naked. Always I hear corrupt murmurs; the chink ofgold and metal.
The whole world was filled with dumb yearning. It might be true, perhaps, of theVictorians; but surely not of ourselves?
And the runners, my dear, who followed, all the way fromthe station, if one had a box.
The Chinese, you know, put a dagger on the table and thatsa battle. Sheepishly he came forward, and submitted tothe application of black side whiskers.
The little twist ofsound could have the whole of her. If shed put it all in, we should have been here tillmidnight. That was what the men shouted in the fog. Miss La Trobe leant against the tree,paralyzed. On the altar of the rain-soakedearth she laid down her sacrifice.
Besides, very likely there would be aGrand Ensemble, round the Union Jack, to end with.
The words rose and pointed a finger of scorn athim. This is death, death, death, she noted in themargin of her mind; when illusion fails.
I call upon one of the young ladies for a song. How long was she going to keep them waiting? Another interval, Dodge read out, looking at the programme. It was the primeval voice sounding loud in the ear of the presentmoment. Cobbet of Cobbs Corner; the Major; old Bartholomew;Mrs. That was what the men shouted in the fog. Darts of red and green light flashed from the rings on Mrs. Rather prettily, real swallows dartedacross the sheet. Giles supposed it was: Where theres a Willtheres a Way.
Of course, of course, she murmured, deprecating his \nseverity, andthe coins in her bead bag jingled. |
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| It's been long enough. |
This is a story all about how
my life got flipped turned upside down,
I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there,
I'll tell you about the time my roommate's girlfriend got cum in her hair.
Once upon a time, I had a living situation that was not so harmonious as the one I am blessed with currently. I shared an apartment with a rather strange and bombastic gentleman who had somehow managed to trick a very sweet young lady into being his bedfellow. Most of the time, we were able to co-exist peacefully, by which I mean I tried not to be outside of my room when he was home because he didn't blink nearly often enough and it was freaky and I was convinced he touched people inappropriately. But every now and again, our paths would cross and it was inevitably uncomfortable.
What follows is an account of undoubtedly the MOST awkward encounter we ever had. He moved out shortly after this happened.
I had to get up fairly early one day and I was trying desperately to be quiet during my morning ablutions (because I'm SUPER considerate) so I was tiptoeing around as carefully as possible. All of a sudden, I hear some unmistakable sex noises coming from P---'s room (we shared a wall). It was just a lot of sighing, creaking, and a little moaning. At first I thought someone was sick, but I quickly realized my mistake.
Morning nookie. Whatever. I can't really point fingers there. Good for them, I tried to say to myself. But I didn't believe me.
Here's the thing: So, you live with roommates, and you sometimes hear people having sex. That's fine. Just turn up your music and mind your own damn business. Not a big deal. However, it was four thirty in the morning and I couldn't play music, so I was kind of trying to bang around a bit and make noise, turn the bathroom fan on, whatever would distract me from the sounds and hopefully encourage the amorous duo to realize there was another person not very far away. I even threw stuff on the floor and said merrily "Uh oh! Dropped it!", and similar shenanigans. No good. They couldn't be silenced. I resigned myself to getting ready as fast as I could so that I could bolt. But I didn't make it. Because, no lie, this is what I hear:
Her: Fuck me with your foot.
Excuse me? Did I hear that correctly? I couldn't have. That makes no sense. P--- must have agreed, because he said:
Him: My foot?
Her: Yeah. Fuck me with your foot.
Him: Okay.
OKAY?? Holy buckets. I don't even know what this means. How does that work?
Next I heard lots of bed creaking and maneuvering. I imagine it takes a minute or two to get oneself situated for that kind of thing.
Then I heard lots of sex noises.
Then lots of appreciative noises.
And then:
Her: Dip your hand in it.
DIP YOUR HAND IN IT??? WHAT THE FUCK DO THEY HAVE GOING ON IN THERE?
In response to that, I hear:
Him: Okay, hold on.
Silence.
I assume "dipping" is going on, whatever that entails.
And just for the record, this conversation has stopped me in my tracks. I can hear everything (thin walls) and I'm blatantly, unabashedly eavesdropping. And good thing I was, because otherwise I may have missed:
Her: Now put it in my mouth. PUT YOUR HAND IN MY MOUTH.
Help! Oh help!
So at this point, theoretically, she has both his foot and his hand taking up space in some of her major orifices. One was a foot. I'd had enough. I decided to run for it.
I was trying so hard to dress quickly that it shocked me later that I'd donned matching shoes, or that I'd put my pants on correctly- or at all, to be honest. I was almost in the clear, having grabbed my bag and my coat and I was standing at the front door, zipping up, when his door opens.
I froze.
He walked out, all smiles, came over to me, put his hands of nefarious activity DIRECTLY ON TO MY SHOULDERS and says "Good morning, roomie!"
VOM. IT.
I booked it to the subway. I simply couldn't believe what had happened. I called all of my best friends on the way to the train, and e-mailed everyone else the moment I got to work. I wanted to take it to the press. I even wished that I'd had a one-night stand the night before so that I wouldn't be the only one who had witnessed this.
...
Shortly after this happened, P--- moved out. He took his lady friend with him.
I haven't seen either of them since.
Fin |
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| Another Story From My Life That Should Probably Stay Private But F It, That Hasn't Stopped Me Thus Far |
So once upon a time, I was in bed with a male companion. He was someone I'd been seeing for a while (keep in mind that "a while" for me is not the same as "a while" for others) so I suppose we were fairly comfortable with one another. This particular night, we'd chatted for a bit and then both started to fall asleep.
His house was kind of dusty, and I got the ole itchy eye. I started rubbing it and that made it itch more. So I rubbed it even harder. You know how when your eye itches and you rub it, it's just one of the most satisfying things ever? And sometimes it's hard to stop, even if you think about how you could just rub your eye too hard and be known as "Old Sink Eye" for the rest of your days? I was experiencing that euphoria.
My companion had been kind of dozing, but he turned to me suddenly. "What are you doing?" he asked accusatorily.
I said "Oh, sorry. Did I wake you up?"
He said "I should hope so. Really. What are you doing?"
I was getting annoyed with his weird attitude, so replied "I'm rubbing my eye. It itches. Is that okay with you?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said "Your eye?"
"Yes."
Awkward silence.
I said "It really itched a lot."
Silence.
"Um. Did you get a cat or something?"
He said "No. You really were only rubbing your eye?"
"What does that even mean?" I responded.
"Nothing. Never mind. I'm sorry. Good night!"
"Wait just a damn minute. Why did you freak out about that?"
"Well. I could hear...nothing. I don't know. Sorry."
"No, tell me. You could hear me rubbing my eye? That's kind of gross. I apologize. I guess nobody wants to hear that juicy eye noise. But I don't understand why you overrea...OH. OH! I know what you thought!"
"No you don't. Go back to sleep."
"Yes. I. DO! You thought I was masturbating, didn't you??"
"I don't know."
"You DID. You thought I waited until you fell asleep to pleasure myself. And then you got worked up over it. Awww, poor guy. I would never do that."
"I TOTALLY didn't think that."
"Liar."
"Well, whatever."
"I promise I was only touching my eye. Which is not an erogenous zone for me. Going forward, if I decide to get myself off in your bed while you are asleep next to me, I promise I will wake you up. Okay? Pinkie swear." (Ha.)
And we lived by that agreement for the rest of our union, which really only lasted a few more weeks because that's how I roll.
The EndLabels: potty humor, sex, silly |
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| What's keeping us apart? |
Dear Handsome Resident I See Coming In To Work Two and Sometimes As Often As Four Days A Week,
Hi! How are you? Can we talk about "us?"
Here's the thing. You're handsome! I likee. Why aren't we together yet? Please don't try and tell me that you're still put off about that time I tripped going up the stairs when I was behind you, and I consequently spilled coffee all over myself but NOT ON YOU- I was SO good about that. I mean, I thought that whole thing was going to be just a funny anecdote that we could tell our great-grandchildren, you know?
Now wait just a darn minute. Surely you're not still resentful about the time I was so flustered by your mere presence behind me that I pulled really hard on the "push" door and refused to acknowledge my mistake because I didn't want to look stupid in front of you so instead I just PUUUUUUUUUULLLLLLEDDDDD even harder and nearly took the door off before I decided I'd held up everyone behind us for long enough and pushed it, scooting inside and into the freight elevator as fast as I could. That can't be it.
Maybe, are you maybe denying your true feelings for me because of the time that I saw someone trip as we were both walking past security and I laughed, prettily, just a wee bit, and then playfully got coffee down the wrong pipe and choked for a minute, as you resisted the urge to stare into my eyes and instead you darted up the stairs as opposed to taking the elevator with me?
Tell me, my love. Tell me what is keeping you from adoring me out loud. I know we're just moments away from true happinesss...
Love always,
Me |
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| Smile. You're on Sick and Twisted Camera. |
Let me give you another example of why I'm convinced my life is televised for all to see, Truman Show-style. I was on the N train, headed towards Queens, when I smelled something crazy. The best way to describe it would be to say that it smelled like hot canned cat food. I am not one to ignore smells, so I started looking around to see what kitty was on the train with its to go container of piping hot Whiskas.
I craned my neck and twisted behind me, and realized that the man sitting one seat back was eating some sort of upsetting chickeny dish. I turned back around and tried to tell myself that it didn't smell like hot cat food, it just smelled like institutiony fried chicken or something. That didn't work. I was still grossed out. I considered moving seats, but there weren't that many available. I chose to stay put.
But the guy with the Friskies fetish had seen me checking out his food. I could feel him looking at me, and I hoped against hope that he wouldn't strike up a conversation. However, I shouldn't have been so foolish. They ALWAYS strike up a conversation.
I'm trying to lose myself in my book when I feel hot cat food breath on my neck. I hear my new friend say to me "I got potatoes. Want I should rub them on your neck a little bit?" I took a second to reply because I had to seriously consider the possibility that he was retarded. Because my lord. Who says such a thing? And I certainly wasn't going to yell at someone who was retarded, because maybe he was just making a legitimate offer to share his meal. Then I heard, "Want me to rub chicken in your hair?" and I decided that UpSyndrome or no, I was not having this.
I stood up and said firmly (if not rather squeakily)"No, THANK YOU." I switched cars even though we are not supposed to do that anymore.
So thank you, producers. Thank you, editors. Your artistic integrity and solid commitment to making my life weird are inspiring. I can't even imagine what next week's episode will bring. |
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| An Open Letter To Lindsay Lohan's Vagina |
Dear Lindsay Lohan's Vagina,
Hi! How are you? I am fine. I just thought I should drop you a quick note to say thank you SO MUCH for all the work you are doing for my blog. I really appreciate it!
You see (like you didn't know!), lots of people use the Internet to find pictures of you. You are SO popular! Eeek! I'm jealous. I bet I could learn a lot from you.
A few weeks ago, I decided that I needed more traffic for this lowly little blog. So I went ahead and listed some words that I thought people would use when conducting searches. You, Lindsay Lohan's Vagina, are fortunate enough to serve as the figurehead (figurevag?) for many of those terms! So I hitched my wagon to your star, and allowed you to pull me into infamy. And I've never looked back.
What's this? You don't believe me? Enough with this MODESTY, Lindsay Lohan's Vagina! Here are just a few of the searches involving you that have garnered me some visitors recently:
Lindsay Lohan (but come on, we know who they're REALLY after, don't we, LL's V?)
Lindsay Lohan Pussy (there we go!)
Lindsay Lohan New Pictures
Caffeine Withdrawal Eye Twitch (oh, that one may be my own doing)
And last but not least,
Lindsay Lohan Pussy Picture.
See, Lindsay Lohan's Vag? Or can I call you pussy? Or is there another name you prefer? A guy I went to college with liked to call vaginas Janets. Lindsay Lohan's Janet.
In any case, I guess this is just me saying that I really appreciate all that you've done for me. I know you have a really busy schedule and lots of public appearances to make plus you have all that activity and clean up. You're one booked-up gal!
You touch so many lives, LL'sJ. I know I'm but one person in a sea of grateful people, but I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Thank you.
Love,
Meg
PS- I didn't know that a vagina could get a callous like that. Can't you use a pumice stone or something? |
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| My apartment at Haloween time |
This year's HALOween (which is an all-wholesome, god-fearing alternative to the pagan holiday of traditional repute) will feature my roommates and me in costumes that have been scientifically chosen for us by a website with lots of typos. Based on an exhausting series of 7 questions
Here is Ashley:
| Your Haloween Costume Should Be | 
A Bumble Bee |
Of course, I'll be sporting this look:
| Your Haloween Costume Should Be | 
Elvis |
And Jarrod-baby:
| Your Haloween Costume Should Be | 
A Martini |
Forgive me in indulging in such things. It was simply too divine to abstain. |
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| My family reunion |
So this past weekend I flew to Ohio to see some family and do some reuniting. It was a grand old time. Let me list the highlights for you. I will go backwards for dramatic effect.
10)Someone tried to break into my aunt's house while she was sleeping in it. She did a lot of yelling and throwing of objects and the guy ran away. Then the police wouldn't come because they said "Well, if he's not there NOW, there isn't much we can do..."
9) Cinnamon ice cream from Graeter's. Holy Mother.
8) My brother dropped my great aunt Mary (she's ancient and small) when he was supposed to be putting her in the car, and she went "Wheeeeee!" (She's fine, by the way.)
7) My brother also made the entire 8 hour drive from Missouri to Dayton with an expired license...which he left at home.
6) He made the return trip in 4.5 hours. Door to door.
5) I was sneaking food to my dog, Mike, when my grandmother asked "You're not feeding him leftovers, are you?" and I said no even though I blatantly was and then Mike ruined everything when he threw up on my grandmother's shoes and the leftovers were plainly visible. Good work, Mike. (PS- I don't care if that grossed you out.)
4) My grandparents have an unlimited supply of gumdrops. It's magical.
3) My grandmother asked me "You live in New York, so you'd know- what's the name for a lady gay lesbian?"
2) We had a family portrait taken with everyone in my clan who is currently alive and in this country. The staff at Sears Portrait Studio was REMARKABLY patient.
And, my favorite thing that happened ALL WEEKEND:
1) Grandpa got mad and threw a taco. The whole scene looked something like this, only inside:
See, Grandpa is the bear, and I am the one lounging on the beach. The taco is portraying itself. |
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Name: A Lover and a Fighter
Home: New York, NY
About Me: "It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information."
-Oscar Wilde
See my profile...
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