Happy Halloween! Show us yer witchy tit!

I came across an interesting Halloween-related news story that happens to be local.

Breastfeeding Witch Causes a Stir in Vermont

(CBS4) BRATTLEBORO, VT One Halloween display in Vermont is causing people to look twice, and many can’t believe what they see.

David and Lauren Petrie of Brattleboro decked out their home for Halloween. But it’s not the pumpkins that are attracting attention. It’s “The Witch Lactation Station.”

That’s right. The Petrie’s holiday display features a breastfeeding witch, complete with a gourd breast and a baby witch doll.


Some applaud the promotion of using breasts for purposes other than charming expensive jewelry out of men. Others are offended at the witch's lumpy tit. And the religious nuts are all worked up at the supposed Satanic undertones and are busy dumping holy water all over themselves to ward off the evil Halloween cooties.

The fact that this made news at all gives me a chuckle. It's Halloween, lighten the fuck up. In the true spirit of tricks and treats, I suggest that we find out the addresses of those who complained and light up their houses with a few dozen eggs.

In other local "that's fucked up" news, the Newton, MA elementary schools have banned Halloween due to the complaints of a few parents who claimed that such revelry violates their religious beliefs. Those parents threatened to keep their kids home if such festivities were allowed to continue. Festivities were to include a day of arts & crafts stations and costumed teachers lining the hallways, and now the kids have to lose out because of one or two loser parents who just had to voice their stupid opinion.

All I can say to all of these assholes is
QUIT YER BITCHEN!

Let everyone have their fun and mind your own fucking business. May a hundred hooligans wrap your trees in T.P. for being such dumb asses.

Just tryin' to get a nut...

Ghengis, as I've said before, is a funny bastard. Always pushing the envelope, he is a consistent source of entertainment and always on the hunt for new adventures. If he could spell, he'd be the one with the blog, as his experiences are a plethora of comic material.

A couple of months back, Ghengis was already planning his Halloween costume. True to form, he wasn't going to do the lazy guy thing and hit a Walgreen's for a Scream mask and a plastic knife an hour before the party. Oh no. This was gonna be special.

G: "I've got it all figured out. I'm gonna be a squirrel."
K: "I thought you were gonna be a lobster."
G: "Pffft. That was LAST month. Check it out."

[sends ebay link over instant messenger]


K: "Um, won't it be a bit snug in a 2T? You might wanna go bigger, 4T even"
G: "I called her, silly, she's gonna make it for me custom."
K: "The kiddie costume is $45 bucks, how much for adult size?"
G: "$200."
K: "WHAT???"
G: "K, it's custom made."
K: "Well I KNOW, but it's quite an investment."
G: "It'll be SO much fun."

K: "You're not just buying this for Halloween, are you...you're a PLUSHIE! You're gonna keep it under your bed with the sex toys and the lube, ADMIT IT!!!"
G: "NO!!!"
K: "Hey, it's all good, to each his own. Just don't ask me to scratch behind your ears, pal."

I half didn't believe that he was actually going through with it, but we had dinner tonight with Yvonne and the subject came up.

G: "Hey, I've got the head in my car if you wanna see."
Y: "YES! Go get it!!!"

He came back into the restaurant actually WEARING it.

The whole place busted up laughing. He even made a little scrunchy face so Yvonne could take a picture.

G: "I wanna go into a supermarket, in full costume, just to buy a bag of cashews."
K: "That would be AWESOME. You could open up the bag and fill your cheeks right there in front of the cashier."

I haven't seen him in full rodent regalia yet, but judging from the quality of the head piece, it should be quite a sight. In fact, it was so inviting that I VOLUNTARILY gave his ears a little scratch.

Anyway, when I got home, Oldest Child started whining that we forgot to carve his pumpkin, so I had him choose a stencil and got it over with. End result isn't bad, considering how bad I suck at anything artistic.

Yeah, I know. My tombstones suck. Rub it in!

More fun with Thomas

Every time I watch this show, I find something new to disturb me.

In today's episode, Percy was sent to a dark rail yard to retrieve a freight car for a customer. Now, this particular yard is known to the engines as being haunted by lawn decorations. Percy was reluctant, but Sir Topham Hatt told him to get his boiler over there and Percy isn't one to argue. As he arrived in the yard, he was surrounded...

"Double bouncing buffer!" cried Percy. "It's the naughty gnomes!"

I don't know about you, but to me it looks like these gnomes are getting ready to drop their pants. Prepare for assrape, little Percy!

Another episode was entitled, Little Red Piggy in the Middle.

"I'm NOT a middle engine!!!" cried James, as the freight cars surrounded him.


The freight cars proceeded to have their way with James, all the way back to Sodor. It was just like a prison movie.

I'm seriously rethinking what kind of programming I should be exposing my children to...

Boys are helpless

At the hellhole, there are about 50 supervisors on my shift, and I am one of the four females in this group. If the old boys club had it there way, women would only be in the building for the purposes of cleaning the kitchen and break time blow jobs. Needless to say, I do neither (much to the chagrine of my male counterparts), so they usually try to find other stereotypical gender-specific tasks for me.

Dessert Service

It was my boss's 25th anniversary with the company, so the big boss picked up an ice cream cake at Carvel on his way into work and literally dropped it on the conference room table. No plates, no utensils, no knife.

The boss looked at me helplessly, with that "Us poor dumb guys are gonna have to dig in with our bare hands if you don't do something" look on his face, so I went and scrounged up some supplies. All I had was a plastic knife, so I went to work on the cake.

Being a man, Big Boss had no idea that you have to leave an ice cream cake out for a while before you can cut it. So there I sat, with a brick of ice cream and a plastic knife, and 15 hungry men staring me down. My boss started the staff meeting, and I started hacking away.

"Um, yeah...do you think you could cut this into about 20 pieces?
That would be greeeeeeeeat..."

After 5 solid minutes of sawing, I had one jagged piece of cake. The men snickered. I looked around for tools. Jon had his scanner [small handheld computer used for tracking packages, weighs about a pound], so I snatched that up and started using it as a hammer for my plastic knife chisel. Snickers turned to giggles.

K: "Ok, smart asses...anyone got a better idea?"

[silence]

K: "Christ...is there a microwave in the immediate area?"
B: "Patty has one in her office, but it's a little one."
K: "Be right back."

I took the full-sized ice cream cake to the office next door, only to find a .7 cubic foot mini-microwave. Not to be defeated, I literally stuffed the cake in there and pushed "start". The turntable was jammed, and it started making a funny noise, so I decided the cake was done. It was warm and drippy on the sides, slightly softer in the middle, and as good as it was gonna get. I dripped back down the hall and served the neanderthals their fucking cake.

K: "Guys, here's some wet wipes. PLEASE clean up after yourselves."

[laughter]

Guess who was left to clean up the sticky puddles. Yeah, that's right, THE WOMAN.

Party Planning

One of my co-workers was being promoted and transferred, and it was mentioned early in the week that we should plan a little something for his last day, which was to be Thursday. Wednesday night, my boss flipped $40 bucks of petty cash at me.

B: "Pick him up a cake, will ya?"
K: "Me? Uh, ok...well how big do you want it?"
B: "I don't fuckin' know...big enough to feed 20 guys."
K: "Well, I can get a cake big enough for under $20 bucks."
B: "He needs a card, too."
K: "Card will be about 2 bucks. Seriously, I don't need to take $40."
[Boss thinks for a moment about how to eat up the other $20 bucks.]

B: [in a serious tone] "Get ice cream too."
K: [stares]
B: "Hey, why don't you get an ice cream cake?"
K: "Don't think so, funny man."

I ended up buying an autumn-themed cake with matching cupcakes, a variety of soda, paper products, ice, and a quart of coffee ice cream. The men were impressed with the spread.

M: "Wow, this is pretty fuckin' sweet."
K: "Thanks."
B: "I guess you're the go-to gal from now on."
K: "Fantastic."

And as for the inevitable sticky puddles? Yup, me again. Fucking men, everything is always sticky when they leave. Yet another argument for lesbianism.

Laundry Management

Management ordered new polo shirts for us in recognition of...shit, I don't remember, who cares...and they finally came in last night. My boss sent me all over the building, taking everyone's shirt sizes so I could go to the manager's office and snag the shirts for my department before the other departments got wind and took them all for themselves.

I walked into the office, and it was empty, so I opened up the box to start digging around for the proper sizes only to have my eyes assaulted by the ugliest shirt I've ever seen.

It's some sandy-colored crap that blends in almost perfectly with my carpet, with the company logo and embroidery on the sleeve in recognition of whatever stupid production milestone we achieved. All of the embroidery is in mustard yellow. You can imagine the horror. And this is our reward.

This is the end result of the boys trying to think for themselves.



Anyway, back to the story. As I was digging, the manager walked in.

K: "My boss sent me for the shirts. Ok if I take them now?"
M: "Sure, no problem." [goofy helpless look comes over him]
K: "What's wrong?"
M: "I'll love you forever if you fold them nice and put them into neat piles on my desk."

[pause]

K: "O...kay. No problem."
M: "Hey thanks K, you're the best." [pats my head]

Apparently, owning a vagina makes me uniquely qualified to fold shirts. Whatever.

As I was folding, the resident metrosexual of the shift, Ramon, came sashaying through the door. Ramon likes his shirt snug, and prefers mediums to the larges that actually fit him.

R: [thick accent] "Where are all zee mediums?"
K: "There were only two, and I took them for the girls."
R: "WHAT? I ordered da medium."
K: "Well so did they. They're swimming in the shirts they have, and need them smaller."
R: "I need MINE smaller, too!" [whining now]
K: "Look, you're a GUY, too fucking bad. Take a large and get over it."
R: [takes shirt, sashays out the door in a huff]


One can only wonder what they'll find for me to do next. Mandatory ass wiping can't be far behind.

$75! I want my $75 dollars!

I posted a nursery trampoline on craigslist the other day. It's practically brand new, you can't get it for less than $150 locally, and I posted it for $75 just to see what kind of interest I would get. I just got this email from "Pam".

~~~
Hi there,

If in good condition/clean, I'll give you 50$ for it!
I'm in [town that is half an hour away] and would be glad to meet you 1/2 way!

Pam
~~~

Well golly fuckin' gee...you're not only going to give me a third LESS than my asking price, but you would be happy to have me partially DELIVER it as well? It's one thing to negotiate...it's quite another to ask me to bend over for anal rape so cheerfully.

Go fuck yourself sideways with a knotty pine stump, Pammykins...I'd rather take a shit on said trampoline than sell it to you.

Got Blue Cross?

An impressionable lad gives his #1 reason for a good health insurance plan. Click here to play the commercial at GorillaMask.


Snagged this one from The Loveboat Captain...it's just too good not to share.

Star Trek Shocker!

Breaking News: Sulu Prefers Pickle

Now...who could have guessed that THIS man was gay?

Why is this news? Who the fuck cares...everyone is gay these days. And ya know what? I don't buy it anymore. Sheryl Swoopes comes out as "gay", and rounds up a multi-million dollar endorsement deal for Carpet Muncher Cruise Lines. Seeing as the original Star Trek cast has finally been put out to pasture, Sulu is probably just trying to round up a bit of publicity. I'm not convinced.

In fact, I demand proof.

I wanna see Sulu take it up the ass. On film. With another guy, and a REAL ONE, not some tranny or a chick with a strap-on. Only then will I believe that Sulu is a flamer.

ONLY THEN should he be granted endorsement deals and the cover of "Big Gay Trekkie" magazine. We can't just let any old Tom, Dick or Scottie claim to play for the other team. It's a downright disgrace to the genuinely gay folks who DESERVE such lucrative gigs.

There needs to be a verification process here, people! Somebody better produce Sulu porn for MY inspection tout de suite!

Craft Fair MANIA!!!

Yvonne called me three weeks ago, out of breath and frantic.

Y: "K!!! Mark October 22nd on your calendar."
K: "Why? Is Journey coming to town?" [reference to me giving her endless shit for seeing Journey about 5 years ago]
Y: "Fuck you. Craft fair! You're coming with me this year, woman."
K: "I dunno...the husband might have something going..."
Y: "Tell the husband you're MY bitch that day. You're going."

Who was I to argue? I informed my husband that I'd be hanging with the geriatrics the morning of 10/22. He rolled his eyes and gave his standard "Don't spend too much money" speech. It was decided. Visions of personalized Christmas ornaments and hand-knit scarves (with love in EVERY STITCH!) danced in my head as the day drew nearer. Friday night, I called Yvonne to finalize the arrangements.

K: "So what time are we meeting up?"
Y: "We should be there at 8am sharp."
K: "WHAT? WHY? It doesn't start until 9."
Y: "K...there's gonna be a line."
K: "Are you kidding?
Y: "The line is usually wrapped around the corner by 9."
K: "Well so what...it's not like they're gonna sell out. There's 200 tables."
Y: [annoyance in her voice] "We have to get to Snowman Lady's table! She sells out every year."

I was immediately embarrassed by my ignorance. Snowman Lady is famous throughout the region for her hand-made snowmen. Snowmen in sweaters. Snowmen in sleds. Snowmen with various awareness ribbons embroidered on their bulbous bottoms. Snowmen that hang on doors. All for rock-bottom prices that make the middle-aged women swoon.

As it turned out, parking was also a hugely competitive situation, so I begrudgingly agreed to drag myself out of bed on 4 hours sleep and meet up with Yvonne at the crack of dawn. Dunkin Donuts coffee in hand, and a large canvas bag over my shoulder to hold my inevitable purchases, I stumbled up to the front door of the high school to join the already-growing crowd of snowman-crazed bitties.

Even though we were there so early, there were still about 20 people ahead of us. One boasted that she'd been there since 7, and as Yvonne predicted, she was there for one reason; Snowman Lady. Just the mention of it got the line buzzing; there were recaps what they got last year, predictions of what she might have this year...it was like the Beanie Baby craze all over again. As 9am approached, the bitties got antsy.

Old Lady: "It's 9am. Open up already!"
Man at door: "It's actually 8:59."

So the bitties started a countdown. I shit you not, they counted down from sixty and let out a Fenway-esque roar as the doors were flung open. I've never seen women in their 70's move so fast. They were on a mission: WE MUST FIND SNOWMAN LADY!

Yvonne and I elbowed our way through and followed the stampede downstairs. Apparently, Snowman Lady occupies the same spot each year. between the boys and girls rooms on the lower level - no guesswork in the hunt for snowmen. By the time we got there, 15 people were in line, and 20 more were pushing their way in toward her displays, snatching what they could.

I went into the situation refusing to be taken by Snowman Lady's wiles. They're snowmen, big whoop, I was there to support Yvonne's efforts, not to be a mindless sheep. I perused the quickly diminishing selection with nonchalance. Then, I saw it.




A snowman head that coordinated perfectly with my front door. Sweet Jesus, it sang to me.


How much, you ask?

$7.95.


Out of my way, bitches...that snowman's mine





I reached over the heads of the 5 foot tall barracudas who had their arms loaded up with booty and snatched the head for myself. Daggers shot from their eyes, but I didn't give a fuck. Snowman Head was ALL MINE.

BAAAAAAAAAAAAA.....

Yvonne smirked at me. I was now one of them.

As I stood in line, I chatted with my counterparts...we ooh'd and aah'd over each other's finds. This one lady held a snowman in a sweater that coordinated perfectly with my Snowman Head...I lamented that we should have been in line at 8am. Yvonne smirked again.

The rest of the fair was nice, and I picked up a few items for family and friends, but nothing topped the high that we got from Snowman Lady. How could I have been so blind? ALL THE WASTED YEARS...

Next year...7:30. And a bigger bag.

More uselessness

Caller ID for email?

Are we really that lazy that we NEED this? Open the fucking email, see who it's from, and trash it. And as far as the spoof emails that fishing for information...if you're stupid enough to follow a link and input all of your personal information, YOU DON'T DESERVE PROTECTION. If you're that dumb, I sincerely hope that the Crown Princes of Nigeria drain your bank accounts and send the fleas of a thousand camels to invade your underwear for good measure.

I WON! I WON!

The husband and I were invited to a housewarming Friday night. Two female friends of ours moved in together (sorry, pervs, they're straight), and being the smart and savvy city-livin' types that they are, they knew that inviting their friends over for drinks and Sam's Club hors d'ouevres was the only proper thing to do. We didn't wanna miss out on the fun (like we usually do), so we sold our souls for a babysitter and drove a half hour south to hang with our enviably single friends.

The apartment was really beautiful. Polished hard wood floors, Ikea as far as the eye could see...classy, very classy...and BREAKABLES! Shit, I haven't seen a good knick-knack in years, all of mine are broken, glued, or packed safely away, so I was thoroughly impressed. I got myself a drink and sank into the overstuffed suede couch.

One of our hostesses, Evelyn, ran feverishly around the apartment serving up trays and filling up drinks.

K: "Where's Melissa?"
E: "She's at a scavenger hunt, it's a work thing."
K: "Really?"
E: "Yeah, she's been drinking since 1pm, I'm kinda worried about her." [it was 8 at that point]

About 2 hours after we arrived, Melissa finally called. Apparently, her team had won, and she'd had to stay for the awards ceremony. She was screaming like a nutcase about her prize, and Evelyn couldn't make out what the hell it was that she won, but from her hysteria we figured it had to be something really great. We waited with anticipation for her to come through the door and share her adventures with us.

Melissa stumbled through the door close to 11pm, completely fucking LIT.

M: [slurring] "whaasssuup you guyss???"
E: "Hey Melissa. Where ya been?"
M: "E-Mama... [this is what everyone calls Evelyn. Why, I have no idea]...are you maaaaad at me? Pleeeeeease don'be maaaaaad..."
E: "It's all good."
M: "Don' worry, E-Mama...I gon' clean allllll thissup...you never hafta clean AGAIN. EVER."

We all wanted to know what the hell it was that she won, but of course she had to tell the story of her drunken adventures first. They had to go to bars...lots of bars...to get clues. They had to canoe in the Charles River [we all kinda gagged a bit], go to random places like butcher shops...8 FUCKING HOURS. And her team WON! So the prize must be substantial, right?

So what do you win, Melissa?

M: "OHMYGOD YOU GUYSSSSSS...YOU WON' BELIEVE IT!!!"

Try us.

M: "I won...a voucher that can be used on innnernaaashnul [translation: international][ flight! And I'm going to Europe next year, so it's PERFECT!"

A whole flight? Wow, fucking sweet!

M: "It's a $25 voucher. I'm PSYCHED!"

[silence]

$25 bucks?

[silence]

[We all look at each other. Snickering starts.]

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

M: "Fuck you guys! You are NOT bringing me down, this is fucking STELLAR."

My brother-in-law had to be laughing the hardest. "Melissa, we all coulda chipped in $3 bucks, had you here on time AND saved you a dip in the Charles."

M: "YOU'RE NOT GONNA RUIN THIS FOR ME! I NEVER WIN ANYTHING YOU FUCKERS!"

[more laughter]

M: "You guys suuuuuck. I'm gettininother drink, you priiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicks."

Friends are meant to be supportive, but TRUE friends will point and laugh at you when you TRULY deserve it.

Mao Zedong? 'Zat YOU?

Well it's been a full two days since I last updated, and I sincerely apologize to the 100 or so people who still loyally checked up on my progress, only to be cyber-slapped in the face by my laziness. I had good reason to be absent this weekend, I swear:

Friday Night:
Went into the city for a housewarming, which will get a story all it's own, probably tomorrow.

Saturday:
Craft fair mania! Yvonne had me up at the ass-crack of dawn to get in line for the largest annual craft fair in our area. This will likely get a post as well.

Today:
The husband and I moved everyone in the house to new sleeping quarters. We've been meaning to do this since Youngest Child was born, and seeing as he just started school, we decided we'd procrastinated long enough.

Oldest Child went from sharing a room with Middle Child to having a room all his own, which is our old bedroom. We moved into Youngest Child's room, and moved Youngest Child into bunk beds with Middle Child. I've spent 12 hours straight sneezing from all the dust mite poo we kicked up by moving everything (curse you, Kirby Man), but all the heavy stuff is finally done.

The husband had to move his armoire, which is a solid 200 pounds, and he really didn't wanna strain his back, so he started looking around the house for something to slide it on. This is what he came up with:

I straight up laughed in his face, and asked if I could get the video camera to record his folly. He smirked at me as he lifted one side and easily wheeled it into the next room. "Moving Men my ASS!" he snickered. The cars weren't even damaged.

Well I'll be goddamned, I'm married to a genius.


Anyway, I'm taking my Benadryl and heading off to bed. Hopefully I'll have something somewhat entertaining to contribute tomorrow night. Until then, have a chuckle reading about a dead dictator's new career...

Mao Zedong look-alike a big hit as a wedding MC in China

Hey Chairman!
Can we get The Chicken Dance

up in this hizzy?

Zeig HEIL!

Today was the Kindergarten field trip to a local apple/pumpkin-picking type place. Being the sucker that I am, I agreed to chaperone. Middle Child is my kindergartener, and is mildly autistic, therefore he hangs with the "special" kids most of the day. Field trips with the special kids are always guaranteed to be an adventure, so I dragged my ass out of bed on 2 hours sleep and headed out for some fun in the autumn sun.

We got first dibs on bus seating, and it was a BIG bus to boot. The special kids were in awe; none of them had ever even been on anything but the short version, so this was quite a treat. The normals piled in and we were off, but one of the teachers had a nagging feeling that we'd forgotten something...

"OH MY GOD! Where's Mrs. Dowling's class???"

[bus screeches to a halt, takes the next turn, returns to the school]

We returned to find Mrs. Dowling's students crying at the dismissal door. Some bravely chanted through their tears..."We want PUMPKINS! We want PUMPKINS!" It was quite a scene, and it was all I could do to keep a straight face. They saw the bus come around the corner, wiped their snot on their sleeves and boarded up. Again, we were off.

We pulled up to the farm and had to wait for one of the employees to come onto the bus to lay down the ground rules for the visit. This was when we met our arch-nemesis for the day, Duck Nazi.


Duck Nazi was a cranky old lady who wielded a yellow duck on a stick, presumably as a sign of her dominance. She asked for everyone's attention, and of course the special kids in the front were paying absolutely none. Duck Nazi was incensed.

DN: "EXCUSE me! It's my turn to talk now."

[Jimmy laughs hysterically, throws his shoe.]

DN: "Now boys and girls, I need everyone's eyes on me!"

[Oswald starts screaming "EYES ON ME! EYES ON ME!"]

Duck Nazi glared at us and continued with the spiel. She even went so far as to walk to the 5th row of seats in order to drown out the sped ruckus. After about 10 minutes, she was satisfied that the Kindergarteners respected her authority, and we were allowed off the bus.

"RESPECT MY AUTHORI-TAY!"

The kids gathered around their teachers, and waited for further instructions from Duck Nazi. All the kids were pretty antsy (shit, they're FIVE), but of course the specials were a little over the top. Again, we incurred the wrath of Duck Nazi.

DN: "I hope THAT group is paying attention over there!!!"

[Middle Child kicks rocks and mulch, showering Duck Nazi's Keds with dirt]

She glared at us again, and we glared right back. I was on two hours sleep, and ready to tell her to shove her duck stick up her ass, but I restrained myself so as not to make Mrs. Dowling's class cry again. They'd been through enough. Duck Nazi was boss, and I kept my mouth shut.

DN: "Ok boys and girls, follow the yellow duck!"

[Boys and girls can't seem to get their shit together. Let's remember, they're FIVE]

DN: [gets pissy] "I HAVE A HAYRIDE WAITING FOR YOU PEOPLE, NOW LET'S GET A MOVE ON. FOLLOW THE DUCK!!!"

K: [under breath] "Zieg Heil, Duck Nazi. Christ."

[Teachers laugh; Duck Nazi is not amused. We continue to the hayride.]

The kids piled in and DuckBitch literally threw the pumpkin bags into the wagon. We took the long way around the orchard and ended up parking in front of the biggest joke of a pumpkin patch I've ever seen. This place basically took the SMALLEST pumpkins, piled them up, and told the kids to have at it. These things were literally gourd size, like the little mini ones that people get to decorate their desks at offices. We separated the bags and ended up being one short...when we asked Duck Nazi for another, she actually ARGUED with us, like we were trying to pilfer her shitty 1/2 pound pumpkins. The teachers were visibly intimidated by the duck-on-a-stick, so I briefly took over negotiations.

DN: "I GAVE you people 50 bags."
K: "We've got a kid without a bag. We need another."
DN: "I GAVE YOU ENOUGH."
K: "Listen, I've got 7 autistic kids standing behind me, and one needs a bag. Do you WANT Jimmy to start throwing his shoes again? GIVE ME THE BAG!"
DN: [shoves a bag at me and stalks off]

The kids each picked a pumpkin and were told to "go sit on that pipe over there." and wait for further instruction. Apparently, they were re-working their irrigation system, and had some pipes laying around with fittings and screws and all kinds of shit sticking out of them. THAT is where the Kindergarteners were instructed to sit. The teachers weren't about to argue with Duck Nazi, so to the pipes we went.

Notice all the shit in the background, under the gazebo. Pipes, concrete blocks, wood with rusty nails...good, clean, New England fun, yessiree.

To my absolute horror, the bitch actually looked in EACH KID'S BAG to make sure that nobody had lifted any extra pumpkins. One of Mrs. Dowling's kids actually started CRYING because she thought that the crazy lady with the duck stick was gonna take her pumpkin away. I made a mental note to come back later and let the air out of her tires.

Finally it was time to feed the animals, and each teacher was given a WHOLE handful of grain to dole out to her 25 students. Mrs. Dowling's class started crying again, leaving the teachers scrambling for quarters to buy more grain out of the vending machines. One of the goats managed to stick his head out of a hole in the wire and bit a little girl. Jimmy started taking his shoe off to defend little Jennifer, but Miss Ana managed to tackle him before he made it over to the goat. It was quickly decided that it was time to go.

We got them back to the school and all they did was chatter about HOW MUCH FUN THAT WAS! Teachers and parents alike looked at each other warily; I made a silent vow to get drunk tonight.

Pumpkin picking sucks.

The AIDS virus is so CUDDLY!

Giant Microbes Plush Toys

I came across this link while perusing Kara's blog and simply couldn't resist some comments of my own.

Apparently, this company produces 7" tall plush versions of common viruses, bacteria, and other ailments. Here are a few of the more interesting examples.



Meet treponema pallidum, nickname "Syphylis". Syph's turn-ons include rotting flesh and warm, moist places. She lists condoms, penicillin and abstinence among her turn-offs. This old-fashioned bacteria gal just wants to find some vulnerable genitalia to settle down and grow old with.





Next up is Dermatophagoides, code name Common Dust Mite. This plucky little bastard is up to any challenge, and will infiltrate all porous surfaces in your home with his own special blend of dust mite poo. Common Dust Mite's only natural predator is the Kirby Vacuum man.




Finally, our star microbe, HIV.

HIV comes with his own fact sheet and framed 8x10 of him in action, attacking the human immune system like nobody's business! Even though he has a reputation for sucking the life out of his victims, he is socially conscious and sports his red ribbon wherever he goes. HIV likes to have a good time, just like any other swingin' microbe, but don't offer him a triple cocktail! Yikes!

~~~

All joking aside, I think I wanna have these hanging in my classroom if I ever do get a real teaching job. How fucking cool would it be to have The Clap hanging in front of my chalk board?

Where the bitches at?

Each week, I get a fresh batch of new hires to break in at work. I've had some pretty interesting characters; one guy, for example, was schizophrenic, and would literally have conversations with himself in the middle of class. I start each class week thinking I've seen it all, but without fail, some nut will prove me wrong.

My group this week consists of 7 guys. Each week, I show the class videos covering hazardous materials compliance, safety regulations, and job methods. It is also my duty to give them a shake when they pass out and start drooling on the table. One employee normally sticks out as the resident freak, and this week that freak is Charles.

Charles is originally from Texas with the slow drawl to prove it. The first hint that he was a bit off was when he was filling out his paperwork and couldn't remember his zip code. This wasn't much of a red flag, however, because as I walked around the room, I disovered that another guy couldn't even spell his own name. He wrote "Big Willi" on his W-4, then went back and added a y, making him known to the IRS as "Big Williy".

It was clear that Big Williy was really gunning for "Least Likely to Succeed" honors. His new employee questionnaire was an absolute disaster, showcasing the fruits of his second grade education:

Because = Becous
Loader = Loudr
Unloader = Inloudr
People = Peoull
Hours = Howrs
Shift = Cshiffed

I will try to snag a copy of his questionnaire and post it later, it's really bad.

Normally, I am not one to make fun of the illiterate, but this guy listed his hobbies as "street racing in [K's hometown]" and "hangin owt on tha corna wif my homeboys", which tells me that he not only illegally drag races past MY house, but that he probably sells drugs to the kids at the bus stop as well. Fuck this guy, he's fair game.

Unfortunately, Big Williy didn't come back for a second day of punishment, leaving the "Freak of the Week" title wide open for Charles, who seemed up to the task. Charles started out day two by wiping his nose on his sleeve an average of 30 times per hour (even when I put a tissue box in front of him, he didn't take the hint) and using a ladies' sweater as a blankie to keep warm. At break time, he stood up and addressed the class.

C: "I was just a-wonderin'...how many of y'all are church goin' folk?"
Class: [silence]
K: "Weddings and funerals, man, that's about it"
C: "Well I've recently rediscovered Jesus Christ, and..."
K: "Is that BREAK? I think I just heard the buzzer go off for break. 10 minutes people!"
Class: [hauls ass out the door]

When the class came back from break, he decided to make the married guy in the class his next victim.

C: "So how long you been married?"
M: "5 years."
C: "When I get married, it'll be to a lady from my church. Someday."
M: "Sounds like a plan."
C: "Nobody seems to have any morals these days...livin' in sin, drugs and al-kee-hall..."
M: [excuses himself to the bathroom]


Charles then turned his attention to one of the single guys in the class.

C: "So...where are the good clubs 'round these here parts?"
S: "I dunno...what are you into?"
C: "Well, you know...where the bitches at?"
K: [excuses herself so she can laugh hysterically outside the door]

One minute, he's found Jesus...the next, it's "Where the bitches at?" Classic.

Anyway, I took him and another gentleman into the room next door so that they could watch a job methods video. An hour later, I poked my head in and asked them to come back to the classroom so we could wrap up. As I walked into my class, I noticed that Charles hadn't followed, so I went back next door to see what was keeping him.

He was trying to leave the room via the closet door.

The only requirement for employment at the hellhole these days is a pulse, and I'm starting to think that the recruiters have it in for me. How dare they send me such shit, don't they know I'm supervisor of the month???

My existence is fulfilled

Last night I was named "Supervisor of the Month" at the hellhole.


Such an achievement should be an honor, right? Well, maybe it would be if the training coordinator didn't pick one every single month. There's only 12 of us on the training team, so "Supervisor of the Month" is the equivilant of "Hey kid, it's your turn in the rotation".

I get $40 to spend in the corporate catalog on polo shirts, cheap pens, and whatever other shit trinkets my little heart desires. W00T!!!! Who wants a mousepad, I got money to BURN, people!!!

Fun With Thomas the Tank Engine

My children have always been big into Thomas the Tank. It's a boy thing, apparently, and they worship the little blue engine as though he were the Almighty himself. Every time they watch one of the DVD's, or the TV show, I happen to catch some pretty interesting little snippets coming from the characters of Shining Time Station.

"You’ve banged the coaches enough to make a leak out of anything!"

Now, maybe I'm just a dirty girl, but I was drinking a soda when I heard this and shot it right out of my nose.

"Wanna play Lucky Dip in the Tramper's Hold?"

What the FUCK is that all about? What could a game with a name like that possibly consist of? Lucky dips involving tramps can NEVER end well. Good clean fun, I think not!

"Do you smell a smell?"

Stay away from the tramps and maybe you won't have this issue.

"I'm Terrence. I like plowing!"

Too easy.

"It was wrong of Percy to tease you like that, Thomas."

Percy has always been a cock-tease, Thomas, just move on. Why don't you give Terrence a call?

"Mind your backs!"

Watch your asses, Terrence is coming!

Santa: "Ho ho ho! Oh little girl, how can I help you? Oh, so you'd like a doll that makes your bed, brushes your teeth and eats your vegetables? Hey, so do I. Ho ho ho!"

Ummm....back slowly away from Santa, little girl. He's a BAD Santa.

"Make the most of tonight, Twinkle Toes, because you won't like tomorrow!"

Yeah, because your ass is gonna be hurtin' in the morning.

"Stoke up the magic in the mountain, and the lady will smile..."

Sage advice! Teach 'em young.

~~~

Tons of fun with double entendre when you're watching Thomas the Tank. Or maybe I'm just a huge fucking pervert. Thoughts?

Potheads Rejoice!

Marijuana May Stir New Brain Cells

Excerpt:

WASHINGTON, Oct. 13 (UPI) -- Scientists said Thursday that marijuana appears to promote the development of new brain cells in rats and have anti-anxiety and anti-depressant effects, a finding that could have an impact on the national debate over medical uses of the drug.

Other illegal and legal drugs, including opiates, alcohol, nicotine and cocaine, have been shown to suppress the formation of new brain cells when used chronically, but marijuana's effect on that process was uncertain.

Now, a team led by Xia Zhang of the department of psychiatry at the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon may have found evidence the drug spurs new brain cells to form in a region of the brain called the hippocampus, and this in turn reduces anxiety and depression.

~~~

I think I wanna be a pothead now. I mean, shit, lower anxiety, less depression, increased intelligence...what's the fucking down side???

I'm calling my Dad, he'd be so proud to share his one-hitter with me.

Mustangs are J-U-N-K

My husband's truck is in the shop, so we borrowed my father-in-law's extra vehicle for the week. Unfortunately, I've ended up with the extra vehicle because the husband needs my wagon to deliver some large items to a few of his customers this week.

I used to drive a dark blue Jetta, but had to sell it in favor of the more family-friendly vehicle. God, how I miss my Jetta. Metallic blue paint, black leather interior, sunroof, fully loaded with all the options and the 6 cylinder motor, ...ah, but I digress. Back to reality, sister, you drive a forest green Volvo. Suck it up, beeyatch.

Now, I've complained bitterly about being forced to drive a Volvo wagon ever since it started darkening my driveway 6 months ago. It's ugly, it's big, it is the headstone on the grave of my 20's...blah blah blah. I will never again speak ill of the faithful Volvo after driving the piece of SHIT I drove today.


Meet my father-in-law's Mustang Convertible, the "extra vehicle".

I got into it this morning, and literally dropped a full 12 inches as I tried to sit. This fucker is lower to the ground than a riced-out Honda Civic. As I tried to adjust myself on the cheap tweed seats, I discovered that I had ripped my pants on a piece of metal sticking out of the cushion. Christ. Small rip, I was late and frankly didn't have time to change, whatever. I finally got myself settled and took stock of my surroundings.

Clean, not overly offensive. Instrument cluster is plain, easy to read. Piece of shit Clarion head unit in the dash. Oh well, could be worse. I started her up.

The loudest, most offensive exhaust sound came abruptly from the ass end of this car. I looked in the rear view and saw a cloud of gray smoke rising. Small children waiting at the bus stop covered their ears. I put it in reverse and attempted to back out.

The shift in this thing is a complete joke. It's so difficult to differentiate between the gears that you basically shift blindly and pray to Allah that it's the right one. The clutch slips constantly. You can hear the wind whistling through the convertible top. Just awful.

At the end of the day, I picked up my oldest son, who squeezed into the back seat. The huge door on that fucking battleship nearly took took his leg off, as the hinge was unable to support the weight of the door due to the 2 degree incline of the pavement.

Everything rattles. The interior styling is non-existent...I can't even bring myself to use the word "style" in reference to this car. The worst part was when I couldn't get the key out of the ignition because there is a key release a full 2 inches away from the ignition that you have to push FORWARD to get the key out. I wanna know what brainiac at the Ford Motor Company came up with THAT one.

I miss my Volvo. I am demanding her back tomorrow. I will never speak ill or fill her up with cheap gas again. I will wash her, and vacuum her, and I will call her "George"...

Adventures in dive-hopping

I haven't had occasion to go out with the girls in quite some time, due to conflicting schedules and business trips, so when Hazel beckoned for us to get together for her 29th birthday, who was I to say no? We made plans to go to the Cheesecake Factory, which I was actually pretty excited about because I've never been there. Besides, anything with "cheesecake" in the title is an instant friend of mine (evidenced by my ever-expanding ass), thus it was settled.

I paid my dues (i.e. oral) to the husband in order to guarantee my furlough for the evening, and proceeded to get ready to go out. I bought these strappy heels several months ago, and would finally have a chance to wear them, so I coordinated my ensemble around those.

Please try to ignore the
extraordinarily ugly toes.

6 o'clock rolled around and I called Yvonne to finalize the agenda.

K: "I'm running a bit late, I'll meet you there."
Y: "We're not going to the Cheesecake Factory."
K: "WHAT? Why?"
Y: "Martha called and found out that the wait is already over an hour."
K: "So? We knew there would be a wait."
Y: "Well she doesn't wanna wait."
K: "Fine, whatever. Plan B?"
Y: "We're going to meet at my house and head to Margarita's."
K: "Ok. I'll be over in a bit."

[Continues to get ready. Notices toes are way uglier than usual, gives a quick paint job. Phone rings]

Y: "I think we're going to stay local."
K: "WHAT? Why?"
Y: "Martha wants one of us to pick her up, and she's not on the way to Margarita's."
K: "Am I hallucinating here? Is it MARTHA's birthday?" [Martha is consistently high-maintenance and never wants to drive anywhere]
Y: "I know. She asked me if YOU could pick her up."
K: "Fat fucking chance! Tell that whore to hitchhike. With those tits, I'm sure she'll have no problem."
Y: "K, be nice."
K: "Fuck that. So what's the plan now."
Y: "Staying local. Going to [insert local restaurant name here]."
K: "Fine. Fuck. I'll go ahead of you guys and get a table so Princess D Cups doesn't have to wait."

[Finishes getting ready, gets in car and heads downtown. Comes upon huge traffic jam due to an event at the arena, no parking to be found at the restaurant. Calls Yvonne.]

K: "There's something going on at the arena, and no parking. Bad plan."
Y: "Ok, just head to Chili's then and we'll meet you there."
K: "Oooohhh, something new and different for us!"

I arrived at Chili's and went straight to the bar, ordering the strongest thing I could think of; a Long Island Iced Tea. My weakness for this drink is legendary, two of them and you have to peel me off the floor. In a fit of aggravation, I sucked down half of it in about 15 seconds. A hockey game was on, so I nursed my drink and trained my eyes on the big screen, attempting to find my happy place. Three hip checks later, I was calm.

The girls walked in and we got our table. I could clearly see why Martha didn't want to waste time driving, she was too busy pouring her D cups into a see through shirt with push up bra. One of the waiters actually tripped on his way by; cleavage is, indeed, a powerful thing. I veiled my annoyance with her long enough to get through dinner.

The check came and the question was presented again; "So what's the plan now?" This is where things got interesting.

M: "We're gonna crash a Jack 'n Jill."
K: "WHAT? Why?"
Y: "Cheap drinks."
K: "Do we know these people?"
M: "I know the bride's cousin's neighbor."
K: "Fantastic. Where is this happy event taking place?"
M: "The Polish American Club."
K: [stunned silence]
H: "It'll be fun!" [Hazel was three drinks deep, she would have considered a tractor pull fun at that point]
K: [shakes head]

So we were off to party with the Polaks and there wasn't a goddamned thing I could do about it. We walked in to find that it smelled like old men, cigars, and mold. A dodgy leather couch sat in the corner, and several candidates for "What Not To Wear" were gathered around it. There was this one chubby middle-aged chick wearing a short little skirt with knee boots and a cardigan. Every time she crossed her legs, it was like Basic Instinct.


The overall ensemble was far worse from the front, the skirt rode up about 4 inches (due to her gut) and it was fucking scary. Whoever sold her that skirt should be killed.


We got our $3.50 apiece mixed drinks and sat down. We quickly discovered that we'd missed the raffle. Fuck! I seethed with jealousy as the woman who had won the bath basket walked by, holding her prize. I briefly considered beating the bitch down in the parking lot for her seahorse-shaped dollar store soaps and bath poufs, but I resisted the urge.


Martha's tits, as always, were the center of attention. One eloquent young man commented to Hazel, "Wow! Can I meet your friend? She's got an AWESOME rack." Martha was distressed by this, and asked me to critique her ensemble.

Big mistake.

M: "K, is my shirt see-through?"
K: "I'd call it 'sheer', not quite 'see-through'."
M: "Some guy over there said he could see my tits!"
K: "Well, I would probably avoid flash photography if I were you."
M: "YOU HAVE YOUR CAMERA! Take a picture, I wanna see if my shirt is see-through."


Martha promptly put her sweater back on, and there was an audible groan of disappointment from the males in the crowd. Move along people, nothing to see here.

3 rounds later, the dilemma again presented itself; "So what's the plan now?" Off to a local watering hole that we always seem to end up at, no matter how crowded or how smelly it happens to be. The only reason I agreed to go is because this particular dive has a Ms. PacMan game that is DOUBLE FUCKING SPEED. No lie, Ms. PacMan on crack is the only way to describe it. Awesome. We piled into the car and headed downtown.

I immediately headed to the back of the bar, fighting my way past hoochie mamas and metrosexuals in their designer jeans with striped shirts, only to find my beloved Ms. PacMan displaced by "BuckHunter". I stood there with my mouth open.

Y: "K, what's wrong?"
K: [unintelligible muttering, sadly points to BuckHunter]
Y: "Oh honey, I'm sorry."
K: [points again, grief-stricken, unwilling to accept that it's really gone]
Y: "Maybe they rotate the games, it'll probably be back next month!"
K: "False hope is cruel, Yvonne. Cruel."

[Y drags me to the bar. I continue to gaze longingly at the back corner. Motherfuckers. My night is ruined.]

The rest of the night was interesting to say the least. Hazel got plastered and started offering up her tits for autographs and birthday wishes.



The piece de resistance came when a local radio personality decided to do his trademark "Final Countdown" dance at last call, which was particularly funny because he's a short chubby dude with questionable facial hair.


Martha ended up in a dance-off with him, and he got the thrill of his night by having her ample D cups bounced in his face when she busted out her trademark "Running Man" move.

Hazel was this [] close to going home with some random guy when we dragged her out kicking and screaming. "I LIKE HIM! I'LL GET MY OWN RIDE HOME! LET ME GO YOU BITCHES!"

Yvonne got Hazel home around 2:30am, and she immediately had to go throw up. She stumbled into the bathroom and ended up crashing through the shower door, waking up the whole house with her hysterical laughter. She then proceeded to cover the bathroom in vomit. By some miracle, she still managed to drag herself out of bed at 8am to take her boys to church.

Today I'm completely exhausted and peering at my computer screen through tiny, bloodshoot eye slits...I think I need to find married friends to hang out with, I'm having more and more trouble keeping pace.

Harder, faster, MORE!

I came upon this jpeg while perusing a message board. The underlying sentiment wasn't immediately obvious, so I kinda rolled my eyes and moved on. Some fucking pervert of a man who likes it rough, I thought. Then I noticed that it had been posted by a woman. So it made me think a bit.

As young girls, our impressionable notions of sex are shaped by what we are exposed to in the romantic fantasies of romance novels and daytime soap operas. Gazing into each other's eyes, extended lip locks (sans tongue, and saliva), slow and gentle lovemaking that culminates in simultaneous orgasm followed by lying in bed with satin sheets that are always pulled up to the neck...this is what we are led to believe is normal. This is what we expect in our first sexual experiences, and our inevitable disappointment leads us to believe that there is something wrong with US.

Another huge misconception is that orgasm is a given. If you don't come every time, then you're frigid and inhibited. Position shouldn't matter, penis + vagina should equal earth-shattering orgasmic bliss for both partners. They don't tell us that only 29% of women come every time.

I don't know about the rest of you ladies, but tender embraces in the missionary position simply don't do it for me.

Don't get me wrong, it's nice for bonding and comfort, to feel close to one's partner...but it's not gonna get me screaming. I want it hard, dirty, and preferably doggie. And it took me until I was almost a solid 10 years into adulthood to realize that this is completely normal. There is something wrong with that. And I know I'm not the only one.

Which leads me to this conclusion...

I think that I need to tour high schools to share my knowledge so that others do not follow in my footsteps of sheltered ignorance. Young girls everywhere could benefit, and it is my duty as a woman to educate.

K's Sex Tips For The Next Generation

• Sex does not equal love. If some guy wants to get into your pants, go for it, just don't expect undying devotion. Use the experience to explore your own sexuality, and move on.
  

• There's no reason for your first time to leave you walking funny for a week. Lube is your friend, and I strongly suggest Astroglide.

• Have many varied sexual experiences before settling down. Marrying the first man you sleep with is generally NOT a good idea. It works for some, but in this day and age, you're bound to regret not taking that second, third, fourth or tenth trip to the "All You Can Eat" buffet.

• Sleeping around does not make you a whore. It makes you a savvy shopper. If you were in the market for a car, would you buy the first one you saw? Hell no! You kick the tires, you run a Carfax, you Google for recall information and consumer reports...why should we be any less careful in shopping for a man?

• It's ok to double-click your own mouse. Helping things along doesn't mean that your man isn't getting the job done, it just means that you need a little something extra to get you there. If he's threatened by that, keep shopping.

• You are not a deviant if you like it rough. It seems that men are allowed (hell, they're expected) to be huge fucking pigs, and women are expected to lie back and demurely enjoy the ride. FUCK THAT. If you want your hair pulled and your nipples pinched, then more power to you, sister. Find a man who's willing to dole out a little punishment and have a blast.

Finally, and most importantly...

• You are not alone. We're all insecure. We all think we're freaks. And there IS a man out there who will understand and love you for who you are. Don't settle.

This is my calling! I'm sure the PTA will embrace me as their next guest speaker. If only my initiative would qualify for federal funding...God, how I miss the Clinton administration...

My Lazy Ass Friday

This is the first day in quite a while that I've had completely to myself. I really should have done something useful, like clean out the linen closet or mop the floors, but of course I'm not that smart.


5am: I arrive home from work. Scheduled to be at a middle school to substitute teach at 7:20, no point in going to bed.

5:15: Warm bed is too good to pass up. Ok, sleeping for an hour is ok. I momentarily forget my complete and utter lack of ability to hear an alarm clock on 1 hour of sleep and go to bed.

7:20: Husband shakes me awake, and I have no memory of turning the alarm off. Husband informs me that I started flailing my arms wildly to turn it off at 6:45, unable to figure it out in my half-asleep stupor, so he turned it off for me. Apparently he did not realize I had to be up to go to work.

7:22: I call in with a lame "my car broke down" excuse. Back to bed. Husband apologizes; pffft, like I'm so heartbroken at NOT getting attitude from 8th graders today. *snores*

10:01: Husband starts groping me, apparently wanting service before going to work. So I service the husband.

10:45: Husband leaves for work. I masturbate furiously, fall back to sleep.

12:15: I wake up, look at clock, decide that it's not time to get up yet. Masturbate again, pass back out.

1pm: Time to stop being a lazy ass, so I drag myself out of bed.

Natalie Dee: It's like she KNOWS me!

1:15: Shower

1:30: I see Husband on instant messenger, and decide to guarantee his early return home from work with naughty pics.

1:35: Off to the bedroom. I whip out box of toys, masturbate furiously yet again and take a few snapshots.

1:50: I crop the naughtiest shot and sit down to send it to the husband, only to find that he has logged off. @#$@#$%^#$%

2:00: Laundry, dishes, vacuuming, etc.

2:30: Call to the husband to taunt him with the fact that he missed out on dirty pics. He is unimpressed. And he will not be home early. !$%@%!#!$#

3:10: Masturbate one more time, just for good measure.

3:20: Oldest Child gets off the bus. Bah, party's over. Rest of the day will be uneventful, culminating in me having to work at the hellhole on yet another friday night while my friends get shitfaced at the local watering hole.


On a side note, it seems that I have extraordinarily bad luck with homemade porn. I think God is trying to tell me to stop being such a slut.

The Pussy Has Two Tongues

I've never been so jealous of a feline in my LIFE.

Cat born with 2 tongues

Wait...you thought I meant...

OH MY GOD! You people are fucking SICK! A pox on thee, deviants!

But if anyone would like to re-enact the title of this post
at my house tonight, drop me an email. *grin*

Lesbians have the right idea

I'm really starting to think that the growing segment of women who are saying "No SIR!" to their male counterparts are onto something. So, loyal readers, I give you:

K's Top Ten Reasons to Munch Carpet

• Women smell better. And not just because we are addicted to scented body wash and fancy department store perfumes. It's biological. Cavemen stunk to divert predator attention from their weaker, fairer mates, and a million years of evolution really hasn't done much to change that.

• Women are less hairy. Even the Lady Sasquatch types aren't as hairy and stubbly as the men are. Their hair is coarse, ours is finer. And we're not afraid to snag the hairball that is clogging the shower drain. Men are such pussies about that.

• Female bodies (and hands) are softer. The male physique is intended to be muscular, with less body fat. The female is built to give birth, to nurture and be of comfort. With such responsibility comes a fat ass and a bit of a belly, which can be kinda fun to snuggle up to. And a nicely manicured and moisturized hand on the nether regions can be a nice break from callouses and hangnails. And BOOBS! They are much more fun to play with than a flat, hairy man chest. Shit, these days I can barely keep my hands off my own, imagine the excitment of an entirely new set!
  

"Hey, can I have a turn?"

• We pee sitting down. And we don't "miss", henceforth, LESS CLEANING.
  

• We each own a vagina, therefore, are far more likely to know how to handle one. I don't envy a man's predicament in having to figure out how to turn a woman on. The vagina is a complicated organ, and not everybody knows how to play. Another woman, at least, has got a head start on the task at hand.

• We understand PMS. Yes, we get pissy for a few days a month, and men generally have no idea how to deal with it. You get two women together, and they can share Midol and hold heat pads on each others' bellies.
  

• Penises are completely replaceable. Have you SEEN the Adam & Evecatalog lately? Holy shit, they've got vibrators that could practically fly you around the room if that's what you're into. If you're craving the pickle, there's no need to go to the market anymore. Just reach under the bed, pull out the box full 'o toys and have at it. Hell, there's even artificial insemination these days, we don't even need them to procreate! Maybe you're a bit reluctant to replace flesh with rubber, but think about this: when was the last time you saw a real penis rotate, vibrate, and glow in the dark? Yeah, I didn't think so. Viva la cyberskin!

• No more splooge in your eye. Or in your hair. Or on the bed. Waking up stuck to the sheets is a thing of the past, my friends. Rejoice!

• Double the wardrobe choices. Think about it ladies; TWICE AS MANY PAIRS OF STRAPPY HEELS TO CHOOSE FROM. WOOT!!!

And finally, K's number one reason for becoming a K.D. Lang fan...

• NO MORE MEN. No more Sundays wasted watching ESPN. Constant ball scratching a problem? NOT ANYMORE! Random gropes as you walk by each other in the hallway...NYET! No more "going out with the boys" and coming home at 3am stinking of alcohol. Forgotten anniversaries, birthdays, chores...gone, gone and gone. No more dirty man laundry to do - unballing the socks, fishing boxers out of their jeans, pre-spotting their shirts because they are completely incapable of hitting their mouth...UGH! Going into the bathroom to find that the t.p. roll is completely EMPTY, wet towels on the floor, tripping over their big fucking shoes ...ALL A THING OF THE PAST, ladies. You're a lesbian now!

But snuggling up to a fuzzy man with a bit of a gut can be so comforting...big hands, strong arms, non-rubber genitalia... *sigh*

Ah fuck. There's always the occasional threesome if you need a fix. But on a daily basis, WE DON'T NEED THEM, GODDAMIT! WE DON'T!

I'm telling ya, ladies. The lesbians have it right. I wish I were smart enough to give up the cock.

Another reason to hate my job

My husband ordered a laptop from Dell on Friday. It was scheduled to be delivered by "the package delivery company that shall remain nameless" today. I had to leave the house for half an hour to get a few things at the supermarket. I figured, what were the chances that I'd miss the delivery guy by being gone half an hour.

Pretty fucking good, when you're me.

I came home to find the cheerful "sorry we missed you!" sticky note on the door. I cursed silently, and immediately started dialing the number on the slip. I work there. This can't be hard, right?

A bubbly, automated voice asked for my tracking information and informed me that I'd missed the guy by 20 minutes. It started to root me through the inane world of voice prompting...I pushed "0" as my personal "fuck you". I was rewarded with the pissiest customer service rep that I've ever come across.

"Don't you bullshit ME, whore!"

CSR: "How can I help you?"

K: "Yeah, hi, I missed my package by 20 minutes, can you ring the guy up and have him swing back my way?"

CSR: "I can't do that ma'am."

K: "I work there, is there anything you can do?" [very pleasant tone of voice]

CSR: "I have no way to get in contact with the driver, ma'am, he's en route." [standard lie that customers are told so that we don't have to do any extra work]

K: "Lady, maybe you didn't hear me. I WORK there. I know for a fact that's not true."

CSR: "It will be delivered again tomorrow."

K: "I'm going to BE AT THE BUILDING tonight, can't I just hop on over to the appropriate truck and snag it?"

CSR: "You can't do that."

K: "Uh, yeah I can. I WORK THERE, I know for a fact that it's been done."

CSR: "I'll have to take your phone number. Someone will call you back to arrange for the pickup."

K: "You don't need to arrange anything. Just leave it on the damned truck and I'll walk into the truck and get it. This is pretty simple."

CSR: "We'll have to call you back, ma'am."

K: "Thanks for being so helpful!" [sarcasm]

CSR: *click*

Is there ANY advantage to working at this hellhole???

I'm literally going to be about 100 yards from the package, yet it's a huge production for me to put my hands on it and walk out the door. I hate my job.

Smurf Napalm

I think I just saw one of the most fucked up pieces of media that I have ever come across on the internet. Coming from a girl who has visited the likes of Useless Junk, Ogrish, Something Awful, Rotten, and some pretty twisted porn sites without really batting an eye, that's really saying something.

If you can't view, download here, or go to the main page of BareKnucklePolitics.com

Apparently, UNICEF and the Belgians think that their anti-war sentiments are best expressed by bombing the shit out of the Smurfs.

"Run for your lives, bitches! UNICEF's in town!"

This is unbelievably twisted. I bet if it were a precious waffle house that were being annhilated, the Belgians wouldn't have been so eager to get on board. And UNICEF! What the fuck!!! They want little kids to carry those collection boxes around at Halloween when they're murdering beloved cartoon characters?

"Trick or Treat!
Care to support Smurf genocide?"

Little kids in Belgium will be seeing innocent, blue-skinned cartoon characters getting their asses blown off by warplanes on network television, and this is somehow okay?

Sure, it's on after 9pm. Sure, it's bringing attention to an important issue. But can we not slaughter the SMURFS to do it? Just one child seeing this by accident and being traumatized is NOT acceptable, but UNICEF seems to have no problem taking that risk.

I say FUCK UNICEF right in the ear. There are other ways to get a point across. This just smacks of the same kind of shock tactics that have put PETA on the map, and I think it sucks.

Hey Kirby Man...you forgot something!

I just walked into my son's room and found Kirby Man's sales binder (full of tips on how to suck people like me into buying his outrageously priced product) and the dirt pads from my son's bed (which actually had clean sheets, just changed it yesterday). HAHAHAHAHA

Notice how the pads say "Kirby" after they've
been filled up with junk. How cute!

Just look at those dirt pads. LOOK AT THAT DUST MITE POO. How can I, in good conscience, let my son sleep in such squallor??? I might as well just pour that dust mite shit right down his fucking gullet. I didn't spend 1700 bucks on a vacuum, therefore, I AM A BAD MOTHER.

"C'mon boys, on toward the K household...
I hear that they shot down the Kirby salesman,
so it's safe to invade their mattresses.
SUCKERS!!!
THEY WILL EAT ALL OF OUR SHIT AND NOT
EVEN KNOW IT! MUAHAHAHAHA!!!"

Ding Dong! It's the Kirby Vacuum Man!

Today I was called upon by a clean cut young man who shoved a bottle of free hand soap in my face and offered up a carpet cleaning. Now I know why he was there; to sell me something, not to scrub my carpets out of the goodness of his heart, so I immediately started to say no. He said he needed to do one more cleaning before he could call it a day, and that if I let him in, he'd get credit toward some trip to New York. Not wanting to deprive him of seeing the Rockettes, and seeing as my living room carpet is in extraordinarily sad shape, I caved. Mistake #1.

He went back to his truck and got a large box. Oh man, this is where I should have slammed the door and drawn the blinds. I thought this guy was from a carpet cleaning service or something that I maybe could actually have afforded saying yes to; turns out he was a Kirby salesman. Shit. The guy is already lugging the box in, so I felt bad saying no at that point. Mistake #2.

"oooohhh...aaaahhhhh...."

He came in, started taking all the shiny parts out of the box, going on and on about how all the parts are metal and that "this baby is built to last a lifetime". Uh oh, built to last a lifetime = I can't afford it.

I pointed him to the room in question, and he asked if it had been vacuumed recently. Well, not today, would it be easier if I did that? He indicated that it would be, so I whipped out my Eureka and did a quick once-over. Then he put this little dirt pad in the chamber, vacuumed for about 5 seconds, and stopped. He took the dirt pad out and it was COVERED in crap. "Wow, you must have missed a spot!" he said gaily. Well I guess so, smart ass.

He proceeded to do this 40 more times over the course of the next hour. 40 FUCKING TIMES. I know because I counted the pads after he'd left. He'd vacuum for 5-10 seconds, stop, change the pad, keep going, apparently trying to make the point that I live in dirty, filthy squallor and that only his vacuum could save me. Point taken, dude, nothing I didn't already know.

S: "A Kirby picks up more than 90% of the dirt in your carpet. A Dyson only picks up about 55%. And that's a $600 vacuum!"
K: "Yeah, that's a lot of money."
S: "It sure is!" [gives me the impression that his machine MUST be less. I was impressed at this point, and $600 seemed pretty reasonable]

After his hour of vacuuming (and an hour of me PLEADING with him to use the vacuum bag instead of constantly stopping with his dirty pads, I GET IT, MAN...I GET IT!), he sat down and showed me the price. $1795. WHAT THE FUCK! I should have told him to get out right then. Mistake #3.

K: "I can't possibly afford this. I don't want to waste your time."
S: "Hey, you're entitled to the shampoo I promised you. I'll just do that and be on my way."

Half an hour of him ooh-ing and aah-ing about how clean my carpet was getting, and he finally stopped. He then showed me the easy payment plan. I told him again I couldn't possibly afford it. He called his boss for the better price..."Just to see what I thought of it." He managed to go from $1795 to $1295. I realized at this point that it was a script, the old "I'll call my boss, and I'll stick my neck out to help you out," routine. I told him I couldn't possibly and that he should probably go. He THEN took the vacuum and ran to the back of the house. I should have kicked him out at this point, but I didn't want to be rude. Mistake #4.

"Hang on...let me get my boss on the phone
so he can have HIS turn at anally raping you!

I chased after him and found him in my son's room, vacuuming his BED. He showed me the dirt pad, and promptly informed me that all the crap on the pad was DUST MITE SHIT and DEAD SKIN.

S: "Isn't that DISGUSTING?"
K: "Yeah, that's pretty bad."
S: "Do you want your son sleeping in THAT?"
K: "Well, if you finish the rest of the mattress, he won't be anymore!" [attempting a joke]

Salesman was NOT amused. I figured out at that point that he was past the point of being nice and it was time for him to go.

S: "Do you really want to risk your son's health by NOTbuying this vacuum today?" [condescending "you're a bad mother" tone of voice]
K: "EXCUSE ME???"
S: "He's breathing all of this junk in EVERY SINGLE NIGHT. You want that on your conscience?" [getting heated, realizing he's really not going to talk me into this]
K: "I'm going to have your broken nose on my conscience if you don't get out of my house right now."

Salesman got nasty at that point.

S: "I've spent all this time and you're really going to do this to me?"
K: "Wait, let me think about it...YEAH."
S: "I can't believe this."
K: "Believe it. Get out."

He called his boss again. Apparently, his boss was in the truck outside the whole time, circling the neighborhood for other victims. He silently packed up and stormed out of the house.

I shook my head in disbelief, and sat down to pen the story. About half an hour later, I had another knock on the door...ANOTHER FUCKING KIRBY SALESMAN, HOLDING ANOTHER FUCKING BOTTLE OF HANDSOAP, READY TO WORK ME OVER AGAIN.

I told salesman #2 that he should leave immediately, because his buddy was just here and he wasn't too happy that I wasted 2 hours of his time.

S2: "Haha, wow, I'm sorry, I guess I have my street assignment mixed up."
K: "I guess so, Alan already got a hold of me."
S2: "Oh, you got Alan? He can be kind of pushy."
K: "That's the understatement of the year. He couldn't stop talking about dust mite poo."
S2: "But isn't it a great vacuum? Lemme tell ya, my wife loves hers! Maybe I can come in and get up some of the stains that Alan missed!"

[slams the door, screams "NO THANK YOU!", draws the blinds]

I peeked through the blinds just now and saw ANOTHER ONE skulking around across the street.

My God, it's the Attack of the Kirby Salesmen, descending on the neighborhood like locusts. I don't think it'll be safe to leave the house for at least a week.

Columbus Day

Today is Columbus Day. Columbus is often (and mistakenly) credited with discovering America. In fact, he landed nowhere near North America, but ended up in Haiti. So instead of being the celebrated first European to set foot on North American soil, he was actually the first European to land in Haiti. He was also the first European to enslave and kill the natives in Haiti.

What a guy, that Columbus. Leave it to The Man to establish a holiday in honor of the genocide of indigenous people.

My husband had a conversation about this dubious holiday with one of his clients a couple of weeks back. He was in L.A., and apparently this holiday doesn't exist in Cali.

H: "Columbus Day is coming up, but I don't get it off or anything. Damned fake holidays."
C: "Oh right, that guy, who landed on that rock."
H: "Uh, no, that was the Mayflower, and Plymouth Rock."
C: "Oh yeah. Where the hell did he land then?"
H: "I dunno, further south, like Puerto Rico or something."
C: "Well that's stupid. Why is it a holiday then?"

Damned if I know, buddy. It's no wonder that the rest of the world regularly points and laughs at us, we do such stupid things sometimes.

I propose that we drop Columbus and celebrate Leif Erikson day. I mean, at least he came close to North America, and he did it almost 500 years before that buttfucker Columbus.