The Married
Honey and I were having a conversation that started with a comment about this news article on Channel 4. He said something about chasing married women around, how it’s not very bright and how he’s never done it. I told him I hadn’t knowingly ever chased a married man, and the conversation (oh, so bright and intelligent at the start) devolved…well, see for yourself:
Honey: Why did you go out with him if he was married?
Me: I didn’t KNOW the silly fuckhead was married–found out when someone else told me, and that was the end of it.
Honey: What?
Me: What the hell would I ever have wanted a man who was married but not to me FOR?
Honey: I dunno…trails off as I start ranting
Me: Seriously–what fucking good would a married man do me? He’d never be around when I actually needed him, he’d be with WifeyPoo…
Honey: What about…
Me: Just busting back since I was on a really good roll and I knew he’d put up with it because I was naked…So he’d do me exactly no fucking good whatsoever.
Honey: How does a married man hit on another woman anyhow?
Me: Usually it’s the “but the sex will be awesome” bullshit that all men try on every woman they want to sleep with.
Honey: Does that work?
Me: Not on me. Shit, I could get spectacular sex with unmarried men. Hell, technology has advanced to the point that if I can’t get great sex with an unmarried man, I can do it my damned self!
Honey: True, true.
Me: Getting it on with a married one would just be annoying. Married men chasing strange tail is like a fucking disease.
Honey: Huh?
Me: Yeah! I used to think about those guys with capital letters in my mind, like “The Married.”
Honey: Whut?
Me: Still nekkid, still on a roll…Yeah, they’re like having a disease. I’d think “I’ve got The Married chasing me,” in the same tone as I’d think “I’ve got The Measles” or “I’ve got the crabs.”
Honey: Being married isn’t like a disease. People tell me it’s nice.
Me: Sure, it’d be nice with a man who was married to ME, but with a man married to someone else, having sex with them would be like having crabs–annoying, irritating, and a real pain in the ass to get rid of.
Honey: Oh.
Me: Dealing with someone else’s husband wanting your body is like having syphillis, only a simple shot isn’t enough to get rid of him.
Honey: So, you’re saying when we get married you’ll still want me?
Me: Sure, about as much as I do right now, Honey.
He didn’t look happy about that for some strange reason that probably has a lot to do with his mother’s penchant for snoopiness and there being a little pervy boy with his bedroom directly across the hall from ours.
It’s afternoons like this that I’m grateful that her hearing is failing and that Garand has to work once in awhile to support his porn site subscriptions.
Suggestions, Please!
As those who know me well know, I hate the dentist. It is not the simple, “ooh, that drill’s really annoying and so is the burny smell,” hatred. It’s the “I once had an assbag dentist who thought shoving a bitewing x-ray pad directly into an abcessed tooth was a brilliant idea. It took everything I had not to mutilate his genitalia,” hatred. Thanks to this guy and a couple others, I now panic anytime I need anything dental done. Like now, when I have an abcessed tooth.
But I’m not going, mostly because I don’t have an assload of spare cash to hand someone to pull the two teeth fucking with me right now. One side has an abcess; the other has a cracked tooth. Around here, that’s likely $500, just enough to pay the shitsmear’s course fees for the month and enough left over to give his mistress a new bustier for him to tear off while whimpering, “Mommy, mommy.”
Meanwhile, I do know a few strategies, a couple of which the FDA Nazis wouldn’t approve of, so am employing those. They’re working, slowly. Meanwhile, I’m living on tomato soup, Instant Breakfast, fake mashed potatoes, chocolate pudding (fat-free, and not by choice–someone fuckered up getting pudding for me), and other low-impact munchies.
I must add here that I’m getting seriously fucking tired of tomato soup, Instant Breakfast, fakeme taters, puddin’ (yes, ESC, it’s possible to get sick of it) and the other low-chew-quotient foods. So, I’m opening this post’s comments up for suggestions. Keep in mind that I’m bitchier than usual, so smartasses may find themselves shitcanned should they choose this point in time to blow me shit.
Yes, Ian, that means you. You’re included too, as are you, you and you.
No, I didn’t forget you–you’re just too nice to pick on my sorry ass right now, right?
RIGHT?
That’s what I thought.
So–give me ideas on what to eat. I got so desperate for something else to eat today that I made the mistake of trying to eat a carrot muffin. Damn, walnuts hurt when you’re not expecting them.
Yeah, there’s another one chapping my ass–what else is new?
Lesson #3: If it has four legs, YOU are higher on the food chain than it is.
This is a dog:
This is a cat:
While I’m completely convinced that they’re the smartest and cutest pets in the world and have the sweetest, softest fur, I am under no illusions. I know that the Beagle is stubborn, chubby, a chowhound and a master con artist. I am fully aware that Miss CottonFurFuzzyPants the cat is haughty, ill-mannered, demanding, cranky, and a walking Van de Graaf generator. The humongous critter not shown is a love machine on four legs, sheds more than a dog really ought to, and will be the first dog headlining the newspaper for licking a burglar to death. These creatures have done their level best to convince me that they are Gods and Goddesses and should be treated as such. I have identified this concept as the pure bovine excrement that it is and quit falling for it shortly after the first time I had to clean up their bodily outputs.
Certain other members of my household, however, think they should be waited on hand and foot, fed whenever they demand it, cosseted, coddled, and generally worshipped. While all the four-legged things in the house do require certain types of handling, that handling isn’t always pleasing to them. Here’s a list of what they’ll demand and what the reaction should be:
1. Feed me. Now.
The only time this should net a response other than, “Nice try. Go play,” is when the grey thing’s dish is dead empty and, in the case of the barking variety of critter, just after their morning walk. The dogs get fed once a day. That’s it. Does that Beagle truly look starved? No–she’s about 25% over what she should weigh in spite of a tight diet and long exercise daily. The big boy’s not starving either. While he’s not overweight, we don’t call him Lummox for nothing.
Since you won’t allow me the pleasure of actually feeding my own fucking dogs, you get to have me telling you how to (and how NOT to) do it. Once the creatures have been fed, there is no need to tell them how hard their life is that I don’t let you give them table scraps 24/7. You don’t get to whine with them when you have food and they don’t. All the “Oh, poor puppies! But your Mommy (gagging a I type this) won’t let me give you treats from my plate. Isn’t she mean?”
You truly need to shut the fuck up about how hard their life is before I barf on your shoes. Truly.
2. Take us out. NOW.
The cat does not go out. EVER. Should you decide again that she does, YOU get to pay the vet bill when she makes the kitties with some lucky feral cat from the neighborhood. YOU also get the extreme joy of watching her birth them, and I sincerely hope it’s on your fucking down pillows. YOU also get the gag-producing pleasure derived from watching a mama cat eat its offsprings’ placentas. And, need I mention the long, desperate process of finding all these fuzzyassed bundles of delight new homes when they’re weaned? Hells no, I’m not doing that–YOU get to go beg everyone you know to take one of them.
The dogs go out on a schedule. Your interfering bullshit has already decided that schedule, so more whining that the poor puppies don’t go every hour on the fucking hour will produce the results detailed in #1, and I’m certain you’ll run out of shoes in short order. If you think I’m going to put up with THAT smell while you spend a week figuring out how to salvage them and then just throw them into a corner, you’re out of your elderly mind, because if you don’t clean them within two hours I’m tossing the fuckers.
3. What’s that on your plate? Give it to me. NOW.
This applies to the dogs mostly, not the cat. She only begs from me, and only ice cream and yogurt. The dogs, on the other hand, will smell a sucker a mile away, and they have GPS on your old butt. If you even look like you’re about to reach for food, they’re on you. Why is that? It’s because of #1 and your actions when you have food. Instead of playing the “Serra’s a meanie” card, instruct them in a firm voice not to beg food and make them go elsewhere. Honey and I have trained them to respond. We spent a long time training them to do this so they won’t act like little Olivers with empty bowls in the orphanage. I do not thank you for fucking (yet again) with things you really should not.
There are many other items in this list, but it can all be summed up thus:
These are not your animals. They are not your animals. You don’t own these furry things. Since you do not own either Zeke, Dani or Desdemona, Honey and I are the law on rules for them.
Not you. Not on a bet.
Start acting like you’re the human and they’re the animals, because that’s the way it really is in the really real world that we live in. I don’t care what world your inner mind lives in, so long as it doesn’t raise my blood pressure. When it comes to my dogs, however, it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee.
Farking funny
The only thing I like better than stupid Michigan cops is stupid Michigan crooks…
Quick response by Owosso police nabs break-in suspects
By ART BUKOWSKI, Argus-Press Staff Writer
Freshly fallen snow ruined the plans of two men who robbed Harrand’s, Inc. in Owosso early Friday.
QUICK action by Owosso police led to the arrest of two men suspected of robbing Harrand’s party store, 620 E. Oliver St., early Friday morning. The men will be charged in Shiawassee County 66th District Court.
Both men were arrested at a house on North Park Street after police followed the tracks of a shopping cart they filled with beer and cigarettes and pushed away from the party store.
Owosso Deputy Police Chief Mike Rau said officers responded to an alarm at Harrand’s around 4:10 a.m. Friday. The shop’s glass door had been shattered, but no one was in sight – then officers noticed a strange set of tracks in the snow.
“The (officers) didn’t even really know what they were following at first, it looked like a sled,” Rau said.
Officers followed the tracks to a house on the 500 block of North Park Street, where they arrested a 19-year-old Owosso resident who confessed to the robbery. After obtaining a search warrant, officers entered the house and arrested the second suspect, a 20-year-old Battle Creek resident.
I can just hear the conversation:
“Lookit all the beer! Ooooh, and smokes too!”
“Too bad we can’t carry more.”
“Hey, here’s a cart. No one will miss it.”
Dumbasses.
Housekeeping
It's been a quiet week here at Chez Ptomaine as once again my lack of dental coverage comes back to bite me in the ass. One tooth's cracked; the other is abcessed. Between the two I'm having no trouble avoiding my future mother-in-law's cooking, since the cracked tooth is on one side and the abcess is on the other. I feasted this morning on a very soft scrambled egg with sharp cheddar cheese, with strawberry yogurt for dessert. Bleh–wanted pancakes but I'm sure it's a bad idea right now.
Enough of my whining–on to housekeeping.
I have a new renter this week. 3T (for Third Time's a Charm) from Stumbling Through Life With Grace has agreed to be associated with us here at Whiplash Smile. She seems like a nice, quiet, thoughtful lady until you realize that she's sucked you in with her tongue-in-cheeck sense of humor and the ability to keep a straight face while spinning some incredible stories (I'm referring to the guest blogging she did last week–link's on her site and they're funny as hell). Go check her out by clicking the link up there or over on the sidebar.
I've put five more new bloggers up in the Hot Bloggers list:
Southern Circle of Hell–I ran into this one after seeing a comment by the author, who uses the screen name Big Pissy. I just HAD to go see what the hell that was all about, and in the process found a wonderful new blog. Enjoy–I do!
DetroitWonk–Excellent Detroit area group blog. Resources, events, auto industry news.
Defective Yeti–More fun than a barrel of sock monkeys making Peep porn.
Mental Furball–Because I'm a bad blog buddy again. I thought I'd linked to this Amber; I hadn't. I'm doing it now. You may administer my thirty lashes with a wet noodle when I'm better.
Lip Schtick–See "Mental Furball"
There! All swept up and neat and tidy for this time around. If you have a great blog that belongs on the sidebar, prove it by commenting.
I sincerely do not want to know why this was in the bathroom after Garand's shower this morning. I just don't want to think about it. You don't either.
Short Note to H’sMa
Dear H'sMa,
I'm as helpful as the next girl, and I'm more helpful than a son of yours I could name *coughgarandcough* so it's not a problem for me to do an extra thing or two when I've borrowed your car and am going to bug Honey at work. However, a few issues did present themselves yesterday.
1. Just because I called you on Honey's cell to tell you I was bringing home fish, that wasn't me trolling for you to pay for same, or to pay for anything else that happened to get listed. I only called so you wouldn't put something out to thaw, then promptly leave it out for a week or two once you realized I had supper covered.
2. By the time I picked up the mega-list you socked me with on the phone, I felt like someone had beaten my lumbar spine with a baseball bat. This isn't your fault–people at Meijer's were absolute assbags yesterday. However, when you're fully aware that I'd kill for a Vicodin and no jury would convict me, it's wise to find out who's cooking LONG before 8:00 pm. If I'd known a couple of hours before that, I might have actually been able to EAT that meal I spent $20 to pick up for us. As it stood, however, I got very little potato-crusted cod goodness, because by the time I got done cooking it, I hurt so bad I couldn't sit there and hold the fucking plate.
3. Bitching about the cost of fish you were never asked to pay for after you ate it and sang hosannas about how good it was is horrible form. Again, no one said you were paying for it, you're the one who OFFERED to do so, and I don't think you have a fuck of a lot of room to bitch about it in hindsight.
4. It is especially bad form to do so when I'm upstairs, unable to go back down due to aformentioned pain. Doing so loudly enough for me to hear you in the bathroom over three TVs and a flushing toilet is just plain shitty manners.
5. Have the grace to at least:
a. Have this conversation with me.
b. Put your brain in gear before you open your mouth. Then, when I pimpslap your clueless ass, you'll know how you earned such an honor.
Once more, since you seem to keep forgetting, Honey is not my keeper or my mommy. If you don't like the way I act, there isn't shit he can do about it. For further notes, see January 7th's blog entry, subtitled "Telling your Mommy on me doesn't change anything."
6. Most importantly, if you're just dead-assed set on giving me a list that subjects me to an extra half hour of running around the mosh pit known as Meijer's, give me the whole damned list. There's nothing more frustrating than wishing for a crane to pull your ass from a car because moving feels like a ten-year-old is sitting on your back and kicking your kidneys, only to find you saying, "Oh, good, you're back. I have some groceries to get at Hel*Mouth."
When you say that, I think, "Ah! How wonderful to know that fucking myself out of sex tonight was all worth it! I'm giving Honey a Valentine's Day present that will make him worship the snootch I sit on and I won't be able to let him thank me because you couldn't be arsed to make this eternal pain worthwhile by telling me to get Snacky Cakes and Cheezy Poofs for Garand's lunch! I just love thinking I've saved you a trip out in the cold only to find out I'm not good enough to score Little Debbies for a guy who should have got off his dead ass during the last three days off he had and gotten his own shit."
Perhaps I sound harsh. Perhaps you're feeling wounded by reading this letter. Let me tell you, "wounded" doesn't begin to describe walking out of the bathroom to the sound of you bitching behind my back over things no one asked you to do in the first place, after waiting until after I was in near-unbearable pain to decide to let me know that I was also cooking that food I bought. It sucked. It sucked syphilitic donkey penis.
I don't want it to happen again, so here's what I'm going to do. The next time you start getting bright ideas on the fly, I'm out of it. I won't be shopping, I won't be buying, and I sure as fuck will not be cooking. If you want something like this to happen, it's your baby.
Oh, and one more thing. Fuck you and your offers to pay for the food. I would have appreciated the offers to pay had there been no whining afterwards. You have easily ten times the income I do, and I think your offer to help with it was great. However, the backbiting whining bullshit earns you a hearty FUCK YOU and a sincere wish that you keep your money. Take it in your hands, fold it until it is all sharp corners, and shove it up your candy ass.
Sincerely (oh, you have NO idea how sincerely),
Serra
This Week’s Renter: I want to be Donna Reed
This week's renter over there under Desi's picture is Amber from I Want to be Donna Reed. Amber's a mother of adorables, a wife, and about to start her own Montessori school.
I'm not one for Mommy blogging or Mommy bloggers, but I like Amber. She sets her standards high. She reaches for those stars up there in the sky. She doesn't ask anything of anyone she's not willing to do herself, and she's her own worst critic. I think she's awfully hard on herself at times, but I don't think she'd be happy any other way, and reading what she chooses to share is a privilege I hope to keep in the future.
Amber's got her own linkylink in the blogroll, but click the thumbnail or this link, no, not that link, this link, so she gets every since bit of your clicky goodness counted.
Housekeeping and general update
Hi, all. Time for some housekeeping (I refuse to say "blogkeeping" because it sounds annoying to think it, let alone type it out). Strap in–there's a bit of material to cover and I don't want this to be a huge post. I have bitching to do tonight after this.
1. This week's renter–I don't have one right this second. The "rent this inch" is up over at BE; hit the thumbnail to go get it. If you're really highly interested in renting space here, scream in the comments so I know to look for your ass in the avalanche of bids.
2. New blogs in the blogroll–Vince at Ramblings and Musings gets an apology. I thought I'd added him eons ago, but no, so he's in this week's update. Anything Goes is Inana's home on the Net, excellent reading and very smart lady. No, I will not fix your computer is Beagle heaven today–go look at the most recent post–awww, FACES! Purty little Beagle FACES! I'm not going to explain Fruit Loops and Porn to you–that title alone should make you want to click yer butts over there and find out for yourself.
Angela's Updates is the blog of a soaper I know, started after the fire that turned her home into a total loss. This lady's had crap to deal with that'd make the Pope say "fuck" and I really admire her grace in handling everything shooting down the shit sluice at her right now. She could use an unusual sort of hand right now, so do check this post especially, since we're at massively low resources right now and I can't even help her with her one request. The best I can do is bring it to the attention of those who may be able to help, and this I do right now. Go look and help if you can.
Ask Your Psychic Fiend is going to become a less regular feature here at Whiplash Smile. I love it, you love it, but once a week is just a huge job. You're feeling the strain of coming up with the questions; I'm feeling the drain of coming up with new ways to punish the bitch that lives inside my head. Currently she's tied up and being forced to watch Garand do whatever he does in his room. All I'm hearing is muffled screams, so he hasn't thought about the fact that something with a snootch is tied up in his room and is at his total mercy. I'll keep you posted on further developments.
I think that's it for now–I just noticed Blogger's about to have a "scheduled outage" so I'll bitch tomorrow.
Forks in the Road
It’s the weekend, and I have a couple of things on my mind.
First–Scott over at Scooter’s 9th Green is still my renter, and well worth the click on his thumbnail over on the sidebar. I picked him because his tastes in music and media are much different than mine, and I’m not under the illusion that you all 100% agree with a woman who has bought only one album recorded after 1990. He’s good reading so go check him out.
The other matter on my mind today is Ask Your Psychic Fiend. Mostly, I’m wondering if you’re all getting bored with this one. I’m finding myself running out of ideas, honestly, but I seem to find new ones when I need them, so it’s only a secondary issue as far as I’m concerned. I’ll dig out what I need to if I keep writing Ask YPF; the real question is “Do you really want me to?”
I refuse to start a survey–it just reminds me too much of skank-assed soapers who have to keep checking their personal popularity by setting up polls like, “Should I ever wash my stank ass? Yes/No/Why–you smell perfectly like roses no matter how many years it’s been since you’ve actually used soap” Please, just put your opinions in the comments for this post. I’m going to stick it to the top of the blog for 24 hours, so everyone gets a chance to see it.
Oh, come on, it’s a good one
Quit sniveling–I very seldom post quizzes anymore.
Your results:
You are Malcolm Reynolds (Captain)
| Honest and a defender of the innocent. You sometimes make mistakes in judgment but you are generally good and would protect your crew from harm.  |
Ask YPF: The “Is This the End?” Version
Howdy Howdy all, and welcome to this week’s edition of Ask Your Psychic Fiend. I think Serra’s asleep (she woke up far too early when Honey’s alarm clock went off) so let’s get the asswaiver out of the way and get to the fun.
As you begin your journey with Your Psychic Fiend, please keep in mind:
1. It’s Psychic FIEND, not Psychic FRIEND. With friends like YPF, who needs enemas?
2. All answers are for entertainment only. If you don’t want to be entertained by Your Psychic Fiend’s wiseassed interpretations of coffee grounds thrown at the wall, don’t ask serious questions. Hell, don’t ask questions at all—anyone expecting serious answers on Ask Your Psychic Fiend Day will just piss themselves off.
3. The ONLY offense intended is to those demonic disciples of Pat Robertson who pretend to have psychic gifts in order to make a buck and run up your phone bill. I have the utmost respect for those truly gifted with the sixth sense. I can completely respect folks who accept money for readings of Tarot and other divination arts, as honest, respectful and caring clairvoyants who serve a purpose in the Universe. However, stupid-whore assbags like Miss Cleo and her ilk should have been smashed against a rock at birth.
Our first question is from Mona Buonanotte (does Buonanotte mean “Good ‘n’ Naughty in French?):
Dear YPF,
I’m so sick of politics, I could shit boulders. Can you gaze into your crystal ball and see when this ickiness will end??
Love, Mona
Answer: Good question, Mona. Once the Presidential erection is over, the election will be held, then will be another election (btw when’s Grandholm due to shill for votes again?), then it’ll be yet another wind-filled sleazebag, then another…you get the point. This is America—by the time we’re sick of one set of nutjobs it’s time for another batch of knob-polishers.
The only thing that will end the cycle of vote whoring will be a religious dictatorship, something we’re dangerously close to as things stand now.
Next up is Mike, who seems to have forgotten whose blog he’s tried to give orders on.
What’s the growth rate of an eyebrow?
Don’t ask….I get to ask….but not you….lol
Answer: Fortunately for you, YPF already knows why you’re asking this question, and those of you who don’t know can just go read his post and find out.
Additionally fortunate for you is that YPF actually found a serious answer to this one, over here at Paula’s Choice. Gee, I love Google. To quote:
Hairs on different parts of the body have variable rates of growth. It takes about 64 days for eyebrow hair to grow in after it is plucked. However, the length of time can be longer if the hair or hairs you want to grow back are in their resting phase. At any given time, 90% of the hair on your body is in a resting phase where it has stops growing, falls out, and then starts growing again. If that’s the case (and there is no way to know which hairs are in the resting phase and which aren’t), then the length of time can be far greater, so you need to be patient. There is an exception to this: if you have been tweezing the same area for a long time it may be too late. Eyebrow hair is very sensitive to injury. Repeated plucking can permanently damage the hair root, which will prevent the hair from ever growing back.
If you want to know how long it takes pubic hair to grow back, you’re on your own. Fucked if I’m going to be caught dead searching that one! Who knows when Google’s going to cave to the pressure of surrendering their search results in the interest of letting the Government snoop on what’s none of their business.
Next up, we have another question from Vince:
YPF,
I need you to predict the sucess of my new CD (available via link on my blog and website). Also, will you promote it for me? I’m sure sales would increase dramatically if you endorsed it.
Answer: The success of your CD is something that YPF isn’t allowed to reveal—Jeebus would cry if I ruined the surprise for you, dude, He really would. Since He’s gone thru all the trouble to work out how this is going to go down, He’d not be pleased if I just skipped over the next few months and went for the reveal now.
As for plugging it, I haven’t got speakers on the computer yet, so once I get them on (or kick Honey in the ass hard enough to convince him that he can get off his butt and do it like he promised two years ago) I’ll go check it out and put in a good word. Meanwhile, here’s the best I can do:
Yo—everyone! Vince has a great new CD out, Voice of the Spirit, available on his website! Inspirational music and a good cause combine with talented, dedicated guitarist Vince Franco’s guiding light to bring you an album full of excellent music. Proceeds go to charity and I can’t wait to be able to listen to this myself! Get your butts over and check it out!
Vince, Serra promises she’ll do a full post as soon as she’s able to get her music fixes once again.
Our next victim is LisaB:
Hello YPF! This is what I am wondering…
Is my big client from last winter going to call me again soon?
Answer: Yeah, but make sure and ask double for that client’s session—you remember how awful his request for you to pour honey in his hair and lick it off was, don’t you? And make him fucking SHOWER before he makes you give him oral this time too! Personally, I’d tell someone this disgusting to make a date with another call girl before I’d take his…
YPF! You horrible little BITCH! How DARE you pick on LisaB! You know Se7en’s gonna kick MY ass while you’re not in possession of the body for this! Do you need another time-out in Garand’s room? DO YOU?
Aw, blow it out yer ass, you lazy dipshit! You know he said I wasn’t any fun cuz I wouldn’t help him whack…
SHUT UP! NO one needs to picture THAT shit! I will put you back in his room, and this time it’ll be overnight! And I WON’T come get you when he figures out that you have a snootch!
Sighs…Fine, fine, I take it back.
I’m sorry, LisaB. That client is considering a call, but it might be awhile before he makes up his mind.
There, Serra—are you FUCKING happy now?
Maybe. You just behave yourself and we’ll think about that trip to Hades you’ve earned.
Fine, slime. We’ll go talk to MoeThatsMe then:
YPF -
Will there be one month in the next 18 that there will NOT be an issue with the M/E processes?Thanks, MTM
Answer: Nope. You haven’t made the proper sacrifices to Shiva and Kali to have that much fucking luck yet. YPF recommends animal sacrifice–a chicken will do if you can’t find a homeless person…
YPF…you’re pushing it!
If we ignore Serra, will she go away?
Nope.
All righty then! Next up we have a question from Julie:
YPF~
Will George Bush ever see Brokeback Mountain?
Answer: Yeah, but even being forced to watch it bent over a sawhorse with a ballgag in his mouth while rednecks sodomize him won’t make him admit that he likes it. However, Laura’s going to really wonder about his new, private DVD collection consisting of Buck Angel videos…
Next up we have Ian, who’s under 30 days away from being taken off the market! Those of you who lust after him best hurry up!
dear YPF
Will I ever stop watching Brokeback Mountain?????
Answer: Who can possibly stop watching anything with Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal? Besides, Ang Lee can do no wrong—he makes awesome pictures and I wish there was a theater closer that’s showing Brokeback Mountain because I haven’t seen it yet.
There, Serra! I was nice to everyone else—now, let’s talk about that
THUD! MMFFFF!!
Serra here again, folks. I just shoved YPF into the butt can while I decide how long she’ll be a guest of Garand’s House of Filth and Pr0n. I wonder if Honey’s got a d100 lying around anywhere?
Thanks once again and next week we’re going to talk about Ask YPF and whether or not it should continue, so get your opinions sharpened up and stay tuned!
Comment Me Now!
Good evening everyone! It’s time once again for Ask Your Psychic Fiend, the meme that asks the question, “How long will it be before YPF just can’t act decently anymore?” Questions are posed in the comments for this post; answers are posted Friday when YPF is allowed to use the computer. I have to limit her time on the blog because she’s just too obnoxious for words and the one day a week she’s allowed to blog is all my nerves can take.
I’m warning you all right now–I have no idea how YPF will behave this week. Last week’s good behavior has to be considered a fluke until I get a look at her tomorrow.
Here’s the rules:
Note that the “Ask Your Psychic Fiend” feature is for entertainment purposes only. “Ask Your Psychic Fiend” is explosive when combined with MD 20-20, non-non-toxic, and classified as a Schedule I drug. Do not ask questions which might expose any confidential issues, identities, relationships or other sensitive topics you’re not willing to take shit about–I don’t actively seek to embarass people, but there’s trolls out on the Net. If you’re easily offended, don’t post a question, because you’re likely to really fucking hate the answer. Do not microwave Your Psychic Fiend. Psychic Fiend is a trademark-pending product of Knightdreams, Inc. All rights and copyrights are reserved to D. J. Lovely no matter which of her multiple personalities claim responsibility for the creative work. All answers are meant in good fun–in other words, if you can’t take a joke then don’t Ask Your Psychic Fiend anything because you won’t like the answers.
Oh, and fuck you if you can’t take a joke.
This post is stuck to the top of the blog until Friday at 6 am, so you’ll find other posts underneath it until I let YPF have her time.
Boobs and Menthol?
As some of you know, I do claim to be a soapmaker. I haven't got a space to work in right now (and progress on that front is painfully slow), but once I do I have many nice things plotted and will share them as I get them done. I do nice work, and for that nice work to be affordable to me and those who drool over it, I must score primo ingredients when I can.
As part of said ingredient-scoring, I recently acquired a pound of menthol crystals. They're 100% pure menthol, extracted probably from cornmint essential oil. They smell heavenly if you're into the Hall's Vapor Action school of yumminess. These puppies were so strong I could smell them thru the Priority Mail packing Marti used to send them to me! Sheesh–I could mentholate anything I want–hell, I could mentholate the unwashed masses yearning to be free. It's just a matter of finding room to make anything out of my new hoard of minty-freshness.
For a couple days, they sat next to my printer, making the air redolent with a slightly biting sting. Since I decided I wanted to smell Pink Grapefruit EO instead of minty freshness, I stuck the Ziploc-type bag on a bin sitting under my computer desk, which currently serves to hold my scale, various types of crap, my leave-the-house brassiere, a box of washcloths I need to send to a friend west of me for hurricane refugees (that has been packed for two months–shut it, I can't stand the smell of my printer ink thanks to my stoopid head), a couple of plastic bags, and various assorted shit that gets bumped out of the way when I need to put my feet up.
Monday, circumstances beyond my control dictated a trip to Hel*Mouth (aforementioned head behaving much better when I eat copious amounts of NyQuil-ish shit). Since I never leave the house without a bra, I groped for the one I stash downstairs–it's the best one I own and the one that makes the breasteses look their besteses.
With Honey bellering in the background, I duck into the bathroom (you know, that room with a door that everyone on the planet but my housemates fucking SHUTS when they're shitting?) and hurry into the 18-hour bondage device, then duck back into my shirt and hit the door running to get coat, shoes and…
What?
Sniff.
Henh? What smells so fresh and sinus-clearing…and why do my boobies feel so cool and cheerful and perky-sweet?
SNIFF.
Open neckline of shirt and sniff harder.
I walk into the living room. "Honey? Smell my tits and tell me what you think."
"Oh, I like that–kind of Oriental yet fresh. Who'd you get that scent from?"
"I left my bra too close to that bag of menthol I just got. The Oriental is that Opium dupe I loved so much."
"That's different, Honey."
"Yeah, but do you think anyone will think it's weird, me smelling like this."
"Uh, Serra? We're going to Hel*Mouth. Who gives a shit?"
"True. I can use the smell to keep from whiffing the other customers."
"Yeah, me too."
"No, Honey, you're not sticking your nose in my tits in pubic, I don't care if we see that all the time at Hel*Mouth or not."
Mentholated boobs are an acquired taste, though, much like chocolate covered ants or American Idol–The Shitty Auditions or this blog. You have to like the cooling sensation you'd get by using something like my Peppermint Extra soap–that tingle on your goodies/snootch/junk/family jools/whatever yer pet name favorite is a shock at first, one you either like or scream, "Make it stop! Make it stop!"
I like the Peppermint Extra, but I think mentholating one's tits is just going a little too far, so it's time to get a glass jar for the menthol, and a little cute dish for a couple crystals at a time. After all, a little of this stuff definitely goes a long way.
And Now, For Something Completely Different
This week's renter is completely different than the blogs I usually choose, which is a major reason I've picked Scooter's blog from the pile of rent bids this week. Normally I like writers who stick to either their current lives, their past lives (in whatever sense you need that to be), or other types of funny stuff. Scooter writes Scooter's 9th Green, a look at pop culture thru the eyes of a young guy from Ohio.
This isn't a gossip blog–far from it. It's more an examination of what he sees and what relevance (if any) it has. He's a big fan of a more modern type of music than I am (another reason he's here–y'all know I'm just an old dinosaur) and even though I recognize few of his picks, he's interesting and if I stick with reading him, perhaps I'll find a second album recorded after 1990 to add to the CD collection.
Go here or click the thumbnail under my pussy on the sidebar to go check out Scooter's 9th Green.
oh, and…
FREEBIRDDDDDD!
