Mastering the Art of Fan Fiction: Fifty Shades of Grey Edition

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Valentine’s Day countdown, kittens! You know I love this day even if you think it’s just an excuse for the charlatans that run the diamond industry to peddle its lies. Whatevs, me likey shiny things, even the fake shit. I just went through my giant fishing tackle box filled with bling memories, all tarnished and busted up. Why does conventional society insist that earrings have to come in pairs?  Hardly any of mine match and if they do, one of them is missing a rhinestone or an essential dangly bit, that makes me so fucking sad. I found a pristine pair of gold Playboy bunny earrings, I bought them them for myself, ironically style-wise even though I am actually a cheap whore (no, I’m not). But! I can’t shove them in my ears because MY HOLES HAVE CLOSED, is this some sort of natural metaphor that has the gods of fertility laughing at me? I shall show them, later on today I will slam down a bunch of vodka and thrust them into my ears whatever it takes. There will be blood. By the way, you know that the original Valentine’s Day was to honour ancient Christian martyrs but that whole dance got tiresome so that in the High Middle Ages, Chaucer and his poet hos decided to make it all about boning, although they called something else back then, like “bownyng.” These were simpler times, when the one you wanted to betroth your boneage into was the one that had your heart in a romantic way. Now all our modern feelings are repressed by constant communication punctuated by those diabolical emoji emoticons and everyone is so fappingly confused. And afraid. And there’s no boning, not even for the wicked. SIGH.

I like chocolate, too, even if I have to buy my own Toblerone bar. The giant one, the size of a quonset hut. Fuck and ouch.

This Valentine’s Day, my fantasy would be to take some olde tymey ecstasy and go see “Fifty Shades of Grey” with an audience full of bitches also on chemical drugs.  I think it would be epic, let’s make it happen. This has got to be one of those times when you can honestly say the movie is better than the book, but judging by the trailers, that’s not saying much. I’m not sure even that awesome Beyonce song can save this mess. But drugs can!

I’m trying to read the book right now. I am actually charmed by how badly written it is. It reminds me of the sardonic stories based on Harlequins I used to write as a hobby when I was a teenager. I used to give them to my English teacher, who looooved them, but I always wondered if she got the joke or she got swept away by my jacked-up romance bullshit. Anyway, I think even in grade 9, I was a better writer than E.L. James and that’s not saying much. If you made a pie chart out of the content of this book, 75% would be descriptions of breathing. I get so bored, I can only flip through it, trying to find the juicy bits. I can’t fucking find them, SO MUCH BREATHING. And eating, which I am pro.

I don’t think I respond to contrived erotica, it’s kind of like watching professional porn, it’s just too slick to feel real. Even trying to make Barbie and Ken hump (when you were a kid because no, you did not do this as a grown-ass mom when you were cleaning up your daughter’s room while she was in kindergarten) is more titillating cuz Ken doesn’t actually have a weenie much less a boner and Barbie is so rigid, she can’t even starfish. The thrill is in frustration. GRIND DAT PLASTIC! Remember?

Anyway, I personally have never had a fantasy where “my breath hitched” when a man said “Let me make love to you, Anastasia,” while stroking his beautiful cock in one hand and holding a cat o-nine tails in the other. Every word that last sentence closed every hole in my body, even the ones I didn’t now I had. And my eyes bled.

Okay, there’s no way I’m going to read this book but I will write the fan fiction! Isn’t that how it started, as X-rated Twihard prose? Mine goes in another direction, it’s  middle-aged milquetoast erotica, set in where else? The Home Depot, hold on to your moobs, middle pudge,and mudflaps, here goes:

Beverly Shipman walks into the Home Depot, the giant doors automatically opening for her. She is disheveled, her hair, still smooth from her Tuesday blowout is in need of a root touch-up and is in a high ponytail. Underneath her black parka, the one with what looks like a pair of metal scissors on the left upper arm, she is still wearing her flannel pyjamas pants, boldly coloured and emblazoned with cartoon monkey faces. And stuffed into a pair of Uggs. If this wasn’t a sight you see every day, and you came here from a time machine, just by the outfit, you would think this woman was  50 shades of cray. But she barely registers and she slips through the doors like a ghost.

Furnace filters? She wonders where and looks around the big box warehouse. The smell of freshly cut pressurized lumber fills her nostrils and goes straight to her temporal lobe which triggers a memory response that sends a rush of blood straight down to her blowfish. WTF. She tries to ignore this sensation as she looks up at the signage and makes her way down the giant aisle.

Even though the store is cavernous and confusing, the colour orange whets her appetite. There’s a Harvey’s inside this one, beyond the self-serve cash registers. Maybe when she finds her filters, she will pick up an order of fries. Too bad there’s not a Swiss Chalet, she could really go for a quarter chicken with extra gravy, yes, bitches, EXTRA gravy, it turns out it’s all just liquid and cornstarch, not fat, she can drink it if  she wants, fuck the sodium content and fuck her nutritionist. She salivates. Breathes, more lumber smell, blowfish gets bigger, tingles now. Focus! Snap out of it! Find the filters!

Finally someone in an orange apron is standing in front her. On his bib, written in a black Sharpie is “Al” which could be short for Albert? Or is he being tongue-in-cheek and he is A-1? He smiles in a kind peepaw way, he has sparkling blue eyes surrounded by crowfeet and liver spots. His generic darkish hair is white at the temples and pulled back in a tiny wispy ponytail.  He must be one of those Freedom 55-type retired baby hippie boomer dudes with nothing to do but hobbies and Home Depot. (ed note: if that’s a type then sign me up) His shoulders are sloped, and some giant ass white hairs are sneaking out like tentacles out over the top of his collared polo shirt, but he has muscly forearms, and this does not go unnoticed. Beverly smiles. Probably for the first time since her husband left her last month for his mistress of 11 years. Who says it doesn’t happen? It happens! They leave and you are left alone!

“Can I help you find something, Miss?” He asks. MISS! Not Ma’am! Like the young hipster clerk at the liquor store who barely even looks at her, calls her Ma’am when she buys her bottle Belvedere and has the audacity to ask her if she’d like a bag. Yes, of course a bag! Jesus Christ, I want a bag! What am I, a hobo? I don’t deserve a bag? Is that what you think of me? Oh, wait, never mind, I can fit it in my Kate Spade tote. Okay.

 Al smiles at her again. A warmth rushes goes through her core and her blowfish blows a sweet, tiny bubble of hope.

“Yes, please, where would your furnace filters be?” She asks, flushing blood all throughout her veins, she feels alive.

“Oh, they’re over in Aisle 8. let me walk with you,” he points in the direction and they move forward. His hand grazes her left arm, the one with the metal moose knuckle on it, and even through the layers of fabric and goose down, she feels an electric charge. Her legs feel light suddenly, although her Uggs are covered in slush and weigh as much as a bag of hammers. And look like two bags of gross medical waste.

Suddenly she has a hot flash. It’s not because it’s hot in the Home Depot in the deep freeze of February. It is precisely two fold, the vodka hangover and hormones. This is the basic schedule of what happens to old bitches all the live long day: Hangover, hot flash, drink, lather, rinse, repeat. She unzips her parka, but of course that ridiculous decorative ball of fox fur gets caught in the spokes and she lets it go halfway. She forgot that she was wearing only her pyjamas bottoms as most of the time she sleeps naked because of the motherfucking hot flashes so there’s actually nothing else on underneath. Hungover, menopausal bitches are that absent minded. So her zipper is stuck and her boobs are basically flying out of her parka in the middle of the Home Depot on a Tuesday morning. She holds her coat shut but in doing so, her Kate Spade tote swings and hits Al, or A-1, upside the head, and he turns around. Like a magpie, older men have the sharp shooting instincts down pat, his eyes go straight to her tittage before she has a chance to cover them up.

There are two of them, one slightly bigger than the other and therefore droopier, the vein configuration resembles a muddled map toward two erect cherry cola coloured nipples, approximately 2.75 centimetres in diameter…holy shit, one of them has a piercing, so he thinks, but it’s not actually, it’s part of the inside zipper tab grazing the nipple as she clutches her coat shut. Wow, he thinks, and that’s basically all he thinks for a moment that seems to stretch out longer than the beginning of time. Al, and that is his name, short for Alonso, hasn’t seen real life flesh boobs since Christ was a cowboy. His wife has long since abandoned him, not physically, but spiritually and sexually, and yes, they still share a bungalow where they raised their two children, who are now grown. but he sleeps in his man cave, in the basement. The humming of the furnace soothes him to sleep after his nightly fap, to reruns of “Hot in Cleveland.” Valerie Bertinelli. Nothing wrong with that.

When he finally finds his words, he says, “I know all about furnaces, can I help you?”

“Yes, I have a mid-efficency furnace and it’s so cold in my house these days, ” she bites her lower lip coquettishly, “I was googling on the internet and maybe I need to change my furnace filter? The pilot light is still on, so I know the furnace is okay…” Her voice trails off, a look of barely anything goes over her face, or at least that is his perception, he’s still staring at her tits with that part of his eyes that aren’t his actual pupils which are still looking at her in the eyes, but is the tip of his dick, it’s one of the mysteries of science, yo. Dicks have eyes. I.t says so in a Chaucer poem, trust.

“Oh, well if you have a mid-efficency furnace, you should actually be using the cheaper furnace filters, let’s the air go through easier,’ he pulls out a pack of filters, 3 for $5.99, seemingly made of popsicle stick wood and blue plastic silly string.

“What?” She is incredulous, “I have been buying the $35 furnace filters for over twenty years! Are you sure? Also I have a pet dog. With fur, not hypo-allegenic breeds with “poo” at the end of it name. Do those filters work for my dander situation?”

“Yes,” he says with manly manliness and actual real-life know-how, not the fake kind that you can spot a mile away from someone who is full of fucking shit that he mis-read in a manual,”The looseness in the cheap shitty plastic not only lets the air go through, the dander and fur that you speak of will get caught in the nettle, the only caveat is that you have to change the filters every 3 months instead of once a year. Still cheaper and your heating bills will go down expediently.”

“Oh!I wish I had known this sooner!” She exclaims. Her breath hitches. Her parka swings open, her tits fall out, one by one. Kind of, one gets caught in the zipper again, the floppier one, but that’s okay. He leans over and hands her the filters, 3 for $5.99.

“Is there anything else, I can help you with?” He asks, his apron is now a tent, kind of pointed south, but still.

Her blowfish explodes.

Fin.

Okay, Happy Valentine’s Day all, spread the love cuz that’s all we have! <3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Self-Preservation

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This is my daughter’s creative writing homework assignment:

In the first person, write a relationship sketch between two characters.

I’m going to do this now as I’m inspired by some internet hate I got last week. I wish I were in university again because the real world sucks tiny insignificant proverbial cocks, it’s one squirt-it-in-your-eye woody hurdle after another. She doesn’t think so though, she can’t wait to finish this spring and sling beers for tips in the summer and then in the fall, backpack in Europe. She will see the sights, drink all the jaunty craft beers, eat all the crust-made-with-actual-lard covered things that don’t contain nuts or sesame (don’t forget your EpiPen, my darling!) and meet all the foreign peens and fall in love with the lot of them. There will be tall, pale, hilarious British boys, pompous French dudes with oddly enticing body odour, freaky aggro German ones, sexy to-die-for Italian motherfuckers with all bark no bite, and maybe a random hot Scandinavian-type girl with some refreshing scissor game. Oh, to be young again. The last time I went to Europe, I was the old bat I am today minus two years, I met nobody. But! The elevator in the hotello I was staying at was so fucking small and squishy, I got to brush my boobs against the back of the concierge dude as he was carrying a stack of carta igencia (toilet paper! There’s hardly any toilet paper in Europe, you have to beg for it so there’s two words you’re going to need to know, my angel baby). The elevator ride was so painfully slow that at one point, I just kind of rested them against his back, smooshing them against his ribs. I could see the tips of his ears turn purple with mammary awareness as he stood still, his back to me, watching the dial go from one to two to three to four longer than it takes to load Adult Friend Finder Live Webcams on Sunday morning, you know what I’m talking about. His hair was black and curly with silver shards, which makes me crazy, and I wanted to run my fingers through it like it was a must-do tourist attraction, way more exciting than Vatican City, right?  The sexual tension was so palpable you could bottle it and call it “Emergency Stop Button” by Dolce & Gabanna. It truly was one of those moments of time that could have turned into something worthy of a blog post you would actually want to read, what a chicken shit I have become, so it may seem. I should be ashamed at my lack of behaviour, but believe me, exercising my control was actually a small feat of self-preservation. Even though in this case, I shoulda-woulda-coulda, it was symbolic of something else, a  personal triumph of sorts.

If I could bestow a life lesson on my girl, like a method of self-preservation, whereby she is spared pain and heartbreak, I would do that, but I think somehow by osmosis or some other mysterious natural phenomenon, she is inherently smarter and wiser than me. I want to save her from having a broken spirit like mine, which has been shattered, manacled, and beaten  like every other middle-aged sad sack on the dating circuit. We were never supposed to live this long, bitches! Childbirth was designed to kill us, then the farmer would marry our much younger sister who hopefully had the wherewithal to make gooseberry wine with yeast and honey and get him drunk before they would ever get to “churn the butter,”  cuz he be old and so very, very gross.

But now we’re supposed to spawn, move on, and  swim elegantly in each other’s wholesome shit AND toxic chicken shit like farmed talapia, it’s such a mess, this pond.

I am the type of person that would see a body of water and no matter how many signs that boldly said: BEWARE OF POISONOUS SNAKES, I will go skinny dipping and swim, get bit, go back again nekkid, get bit again, then more because “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice shame on me” is just the kind of inspiration I need for a challenging game change, THEN!  I’d get bit some more and wonder what I did wrong. Seriously, even with a SIGNPOST TO TERROR thrust in my face, I would boldly dive in. I peaked with this kind of self-destructive behaviour at 40, then it took me years of therapy to figure out what was wrong and even then, I slip up, hence The Cornfield Incident 2014. Your girl needs a life raft.

Here’s what I learned about self-preservation because telling me to not swim at all is like telling Justin Bieber not to douche, it’s in my nature :

When diving in snake infested waters, wear a wetsuit. An impenetrable one if such a thing exists, or make your own out of raw cookie dough and that hard as fuck gel shit they use in nail salons that makes you never want to masturbate. When you start to feel the feels of a set of fangs sinking heartily into your mighty upper thigh, say, swim your motherfucking sorry ass to shore, because it might feel good now, all hot and tingly, but trust, the venom is on its way.  If he hangs on, divert his attention by squeezing his tail, this seems to work with all kinds of snakes, and even puppies, and let him sliiiiide back in the water while you dry off in the sand. Oh look, there’s an ice cream truck parked over yonder. Go there and get something coated in chocolate. I know, I know, I’m more confused than you are. But at least I have a method and I am good.

So on to the internet trollage and the homework assignment I promised.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Apparently,unbeknownst to me, my world wide web in-box was hosting a Haters-Gonna-Hate Festival because last week I got barraged with a whole whack of messages, including:

“Ur a narcissucks (sic: clever tho, right?)”  And true, I DO suck. Call me.

“You are a whiney, vapid cunt”  Vapid? Really? That actually hurts: ICE CREAM!

“I hope you die and rot like an upstream trout”…what?  Is that what the trouts do? If I’m going to die upstream, isn’t that any worse than dying and rotting downstream? That’s a fucked up metaphor, right? I think I’d way rather upstream (closer to heaven!) than downstream (cig butts! tampon applicators! those plastic things that hold a six pack together that strangle birds and turtles! humanity’s blight on nature! all downstream, why would I want to rot there?).

Your (sic: lol!) too old and fat to fuck…”  Meh. You’re dad doesn’t think so.

Can you imagine the kind of person that would be bothered messaging such rude things to a lady whose only M.O. is to love and be loved? I can!

Here’s my homework assignment, dedicated to the all internet trolls out there, a relationship between two characters described in first person:

I hate this, and I’m bored. I wish for his sake, he’d get off the computer. I’m tired, but not the good tired like when we used to play basketball or build that fence, even when he was using that sandpaper that scratched my skin like a motherfucker. Still, it was better than all this tap-tap-tap, then stroke-stroke-stroke. Ugh, I feel like my talents are wasted. Remember when he used to draw those cartoons in grade school, all about super heroes rescuing damsels? His power was unbridled back then, I felt so much hope. Then came the real girls, and then that one girl in particular who we both liked, her skin was so soft on all her parts. The tits, especially, were like the joyous days of Play-dough, until the baby came and the whoa, they got huge and rock hard, and she wouldn’t let Dude’s lips or me and my twin touch them. Yes, I get it, I was pissed off too. The disinterest hurts, but those other times, the little pleasures, for example, when I enjoyed my index finger dipping into peanut butter and then getting licked by the Bichon Frise owned by the downstairs neighbour and because he got so drunk, I can’t remember what else happened but something felt different. And smelled fishy. There were more good times, let’s not kid ourselves. With all that diversion, couldn’t Dude have waited longer? But no, he had to make a fist out of me and pound me through the drywall, what the fuck? And then when he shoved her, with both me and my feckless twin, who seems to be only good for stabilizing the bagel when I hold the knife and cut it. Dude is mean to my twin because he likes to shock him and slice through his skin between his thumb and his forefinger cuz he’s impatient. I admit, I’m also fed up with Leftie these days, some things we can do in such harmony (remember waterskiing? rock climbing? Saxophone lessons?) but I need him especially now to pick up some slack with that wretched Dick when I’m too tired for this fucker’s nonsense. I very much need help to sweep the dark times under the rug. I’m a hand, not a conscience, but it’s too much for me.  And like I said, I wish he’d stop tapping me on that keyboard and spewing out his venom, and maybe do something like shovel and old lady’s walk way, or something for the good of society. What an asshole. Speaking of which, I think tonight, while he’s sleeping I’ll shove my fist up there and see who’s boss. 

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Wish You Were Here (David Gilmour, Call Me)

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This reminds me of that Pink Floyd song (remastered)  that goes something like “we’re just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl…” whatever, so sweet, let’s kiss because we’re so cute together. AWWWWWWWWWW.

So I’m back on the OkCupid which is how y’all like me, flailing around, swinging my dick, telling my tales, crying in my beer, blogging the blog of shame. The past few months have been an awesome learning curve for a celibate old hermit lady, I AM NOW FEARLESS cuz really, who cares? YOLO HO, don’t be afraid to put yourself out there. Yes, some douche shat on my heart but I got a good story out of it and then some boneheaded (but loveable) dawg randomly peed on it just a tiny bit, enough for it to sting ever so slightly but not enough send me to the cat hospice, no harm done. So back into the fishbowl I go, HOLDING MY BREATH, BITCHES!

This time around, I won’t lie, I’m really kind of jaded, so I’m a cold fish, because that is my self preservation persona. But! I’ve been going on and off the site voraciously all week, so what. I haven’t really written back to anyone new except a 19 year-old who wants to take a road trip with me to Mount Rushmore. He tells me will drive the whole way with my panties in his mouth. And then when we get there, we will bang our brains out. This is like the best message EVER. I think about him in a way that is inappropriate. I could be his mother. This is what David Lynch films are made of, tho, and I am so in. I wish that in real life I have nicer panties, lacy or silky ones, in a soft colour, pink or blue. I think about the long highway drive on Route 16, going south from Rapid City, I’ve mapped it out because my sex fantasies are that meticulously detailed, and I’m sitting on a seat warmer feeling all vulnerable and fishy without my panties and maybe even without pants entirely but I can’t really handle all that, so I’m wearing a skirt. And are my panties really in his mouth the whole way? No, that’s ridiculous…I take them out and fold them into my purse and we can drive and chillax and maybe listen to a podcast. I look over at him and see the peach fuzz on his chin all shiny in the sun. He’s got a zit cluster on his cheek I am DYING to pop all of them. Oy. I’ve made sandwiches in the cooler in the back and I offer him one. He takes the one with ham, havarti, and sliced tomato which ends up dripping on his chin. Juice on his peach fuzz. I reach over and try to wipe it off with a napkin, he winces and holds eyes elbow up, blocking me, STAHP, he says, and wipes his own chin with his bare hand, then smears it on his pants. Really? Now we’re going to have to go a laundromat. I don’t know…this is just not going to work out, is it? Ugh. I really wanted to go to Mount Rushmore. Anyway, I message him back:  “Awww, so cute.” Haven’t heard back. I’m sure I killed his boner with that memaw response. One of my many talents.

SIGH. Scroll on.

Okay, so here’ s the thing: I’ve been on this site so long, I can decipher some of the new buzzwords and some those coded letters that were mysterious to me 6 months ago. Let’s go over some of them, save the rest for another day, I’ve figured the nuances so you don’t have to, ur welcome, kittens:

DTF: “Down to Fuck” Yeah, you know this one from Jersey Shore but my question is: Why would a man send an inaugural message to a woman on a dating sight with just three letters?  How lazy can you possibly be? This could work for some sites but I, personally, have written an eloquent and loquacious erotic profile and all I get is “DTF?” NO. Just no. Much better: “Ur hot, DTF? :p> ”  Now you’re talking my language. Jesus Christ, put a little effort into it. And tongue game because otherwise I’m not interested at all.

FWB: “Friends with Benefits” and yes, that old chestnut from your Melrose Place style rental apartment and you also know from that Justin Timberlake/ Mila Kunis movie, so good because they fall in love in the end WHICH IS THE LAW OF NATURE. But! In real life, this term means different things to different people.  It’s a very ambiguous contract to get into so caveat emptor, hos, is all I have to say. With many single women, for example, they are oftentimes very busy with shift work, raising children, going to night school, taking care of their elderly parents, fighting their parking tickets, et cetera but still have “needs” so a friend with benefits scenario seems ideal because who needs another egg to fry when you have all that bullshit on your plate? Get your handy neighbour to bone you. Done. Or like that episode on Sex and the City, oh shut up; THIS IS MY THESIS, where Carrie calls her fuckbuddy when she is between relationships. These type of dudes are handy for quick comfort and mojo restoration. Personally, I’ve never been able to wrangle one of these breeds of FWB/FB’s and I don’t really want one either as I suspect they are much more work in real life than in theory. Conversely, the type of man who actively seeks a friend with benefits is the kind of dude who is just waiting for someone “better” to come along, a lady who in his immutable dimwitted mind, is worthy of a Real Relationship That Leads To Marriage with him, is basically just his bossy ass mama lookin’ hot in a chicken cutlet bra and skinny stretch jeans and pumps. Will not age well, trust, and neither will he. You are so much better than them, sister, your brain warned you but your vagina caved, don’t beat yourself up over it, move on. It’s very important to note for next time: This man is a social pariah and should be avoided at all costs. Or not, take his wallet.

Polyamory: It’s a whole new world since Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice so it’s not necessarily swinging and key parties per se. Couples are exploring other peoples! With blessings! They make up the rules as they go so you don’t have to. You, the interloper, just do what they say and please don’t blog about it because some of them are affluent members of society which is why they are wearing masks and capes when you enter the front gates with the password, “Fidelio.” I don’t get it either, so we’ll just leave it and hope they make one of those multi-casted movies where everyone’s plot-line intertwines and we get more insight into the lifestyle. I hope Cameron Diaz is in it. I love her.

Sapiosexual:  This is me! I am a sapiosexual! This means you are turned on by the brain. The upside: It’s way less messy, you don’t have to worry about changing your sheets or shaving your pubes, your wit is your fuck meat and your discourse is the boudoir. The downside: Brains are liars and tricksters, and I’m talking about your very own noodle, which will project a whole technicolor fantasy based on no reality whatsoever. As a sapio, you will forever be disappointed, I have learned the hard way, I’M SO DUPED ALL THE TIME, so I am exploring this:

Heteroflexible: I don’t even really think I care about a stupid dick anymore. Even the seemingly nicest dude is an arrogant douche by virtue of the fact he holds the torch. They all have that sense of entitlement engrained in their behaviour even if they have manners, it’s always there. Recently, when I lay myself down for the nightly fap, I no longer fantasize of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson smothering me to death in a single thrust, I think of soft spoken Asian ladies with feathers tickling my ears, OKAY THAT VIETNAMESE EAR CLEANING IS MY THANG, I CAN’T HELP IT. I really, really want a wife.

Meyers Briggs: Yes, this is that personality test that employers make you take to determine if you are a laid-back slacker or a whining worker bee or a fucking asshole with a heart of gold. There are 16 possible combos. Fucking A-type AND Zen people are posting their scores on dating sites now, IT’S THE NEW HOROSCOPE. But even worse because so goddamn boring. People are proud of their scores the same way they are so proud that they are Scorpios. Have you ever noticed that for some reason Scorpios are the most puffed up in all the Zodiac about their sign, “Don’t cross me! I sting, LOL!” Oh fuck off, you pompous, tiny, feckless arachnid, you don’t know from sting, I can fucking make you prolapse your joke gelatinous innards just by staring you down and flaring my nostrils ever so slightly, bull powered. Anyway, Myers Briggs people are even more fanatical. I have perused profiles with details on what INFP is and that they may be looking for an ESTJ or at least a ENTP. OFFS (wait what? Oh For Fucks Sakes), like you didn’t lie all the way through the test because you had pussy and or employment advancement on your mind.

Me personally, if I have to reduce it to four letters, I am looking primarily for a DICK who gets/tolerates me or if that fails,and we all know that’s a long shot, I’ll take a LADY with a feather who will tickle my ear. I don’t care if that sounds weird, it’s the internet and anything goes. Until then OMFG, my internet crush never fails me:

rRPD0EM

Mastering the Art of Being Fierce (STFU, Steve Harvey)

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I had an epiphany the other day that I think you would groove to but I forgot what it was, so maybe if I babble a bit it will come back. I really should write these things down. In the meantime, this is Rogue. I don’t know shit about X-Men, I have a vagina, but I came upon her by either happenstance or providence, depending on whether or not you believe in fate or just dumb luck. Whatever the case, you know the way the universe surprises you sometimes and sends something your way as a spiritual sherpa? I KNOW, so Oprahesque, like she used to say on her show about how the signs of guidance present themselves, let me paraphrase in my “own” way: At first it comes as a “whisper” of a stomach growl, then a low-noted fart, an SBD perhaps, followed higher pitched one, maybe a bit wet sounding, and if you ignore those then suddenly you might have to change your underwear, AND this is the warning: if you keep going like that you’ll have to get a colostomy bag at some point. Pay attention to the cues. Oprah is talking about important life decisions where you need to bail before the shit storm, like finally dumping that dude who kicks your dog and sells your used panties on eBay so he can buy his other girlfriend breast implants. Yes, I know that’s more of a Dr. Phil challenge but whatevs.

I’m talking about my hair.

It’s gotten kind of long and there are silvers pouring in at the temples. You prolly call them grey but they’re not. They’re blindingly shiny, fyi, grey doesn’t glisten like Swarovski crystals in the winter sun, so fuck you. But still, I’m like, ugh, should I dye my hair or what? Is it such a crime to age? Then last week, a random dude so sweet (and omg so hot, I could just squeeze the cute out of him and bottle all the juice and sell THAT crack on eBay) showed me a picture of Rogue from the X-Men with her silver crown of mojo and I’m like, FIERCE! WHY WOULD I EVER COVER MY SUPERPOWERS?

Then I googled up Rogue because if I ever get in to Cosplay (lol, just jokes…I think) I’m going to need to know who she is. I felt so drawn to her, like we are soul sisters. She has auburn hair with silvers, I have auburn hair with silvers. And the boobs, obvi. Her Wikipedia page is more prolix than my brain can handle, I am used to reading rehashed Jezebel articles. But! In essence, She’s a mutant who considers her power a curse. What?! I’m a mutant fo’ sho! And my “power,” and I’m using that term loosely, which is my charming writing style is full of shit, too! The blogarrhea, a blessing and a burden at the same time. This thing gets me in a whole whack of trouble yet for the select few who love to read it, I can’t stop writing it, it’s out of my control, #longhairdontcare. Rogue’s power is too, but hers is poignant. She’s so sensitive that when she touches you with her skin, she will suck all the memory and force out of you. Unwittingly! So she has to cover herself up in that tight titty suit so she doesn’t fuck anything up with her boyfriend, Gambit (is he hot? I don’t know. If I had to hit a superhero, it would be The Silver Surfer. He is a Fantastic Four, do they hang with X-Men? Jesus, am I actually asking this question?) and disempower him, you know, like regular women do when they dress their husbands in Lululemon and take them to farmer’s markets. She could kill you if she touched you long enough with her skin, so I guess blowjobs are out of the question :(. That’s so sad, to have have such limited intimacy,don’t you think?  And yet think of some people whose hands you’d be dying to shake with an ungloved vice grip. What a pleasure it is to meet you, Bieber!

So anyway, I’m going take a page from Rogue’s book and let my silver streak freak flag fly, that settles that dilemma. It is for my wisdom, my wit and my willingness to share my stories so you have something to read for 5 minutes, until something better comes on your newsfeed, that I am a valuable and powerful woman in today’s society. And the boobs, dem cartoon torpedoes, if left to their own free will, might flop around willy nilly and be riddled with crazy blue veins but harnessed in a bra and if you squint a bit, they can make you believe I could probably fly and double tittedly fight off all the evil in the world and possibly lower gas prices or at the very least, if not that, bobble around merrily in a hot tub and give you a bit of a chub even just thinking about them. That is some decent power, I’ll use it, somehow, some day. *chews anxiously on a strand of hair*

OH YES! The epiphany I had! I just remembered. Not really an epiphany but a stolen idea from my daughter’s Facebook page. She’s 21 and a feminist. If you are worried by the state of the future based on what the hashtaggery of duckface selfie cuture, do not fret, there is a whole new generation of young women strutting their way into the world questioning everything, including beauty ideals and gender roles, taking back the slut shaming, et cetera. My body, my rules, is their mantra. And by the way, The Book of Rules and all that shit that spouts out of Steve Harvey’s mouth about how women have to act like lady from the golden age of girdles and put men in a holding pattern of blue ball limbo for a set period of time, is a crockful of bukkake. A man who is waiting 3 months to pet your precious pussy is getting it somewhere else and you congratulations, fool, you have just trained him pee outside. Metaphorically-ish.

Aaaanyway, Evangeline posted a video…okay, it’s a TedTalks, I KNOW, but it’s only 12 minutes and it’s very inspiring, of Erika Lust, a Swedish woman who made a porn movie from a woman’s point of view that doesn’t depict women as inflatable Barbie dolls, objectified only for men’s pleasure. Why not make some badass porn films with some hot plots that appeal to women? I know for menfolk, the plots are superfluous but whatever, I myself like a warmup. Even my sex fantasies have to have a prelude that’s so drawn out, I get slightly bored and antsy, here is a typical one: “Let’s go for a hot chocolate at that place in the Distillery but first I have to pick up a package at Purolator, you wanna wait in the car? It’s probably that Thing I ordered off Amazon.” And then all this activity must go down before we drive to Cherry Beach and bone in the tall grass. Seriously.

So yeah, women-powered porn. Plots. Veins and stretch marks. 1200 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. Hozier soundtrack. BBC. Tongue game. THIS IS COULD BE MY CALLING! Let’s do this!

4brW8tf

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Intent

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Happy new year, motherfuckahhhs! I’m jealous of all of you who have managed to strip down your Christmas trees and drag them out to the curb. I have no heart for this type of deconstruction, me and Christmas go together like booze and more booze. WHEN ELSE CAN YOU GET AWAY WITH BAILEYS IN YOUR MORNING COFFEE EXCEPT DURING ORGY WEEK? Don’t answer that, I know at least two of you who think “Orgy Week” is just a state of mind and not the days and nights of gluttony, fapping, and tv binge-watching from December 26 to January 1. This might be the better way of thinking, instead of all this self-deprivation resolution gym/diet shite that only leads to self-loathing by mid-January.

One of my friends on the Facebook posted a New Year’s greeting that last year at this time, she set an “intent” for each and every day and is now, a year later, reaping the rewards. I’m earnestly (yes!)  happy for her and I think we should all take a page from her book (or I think she might even have a blog more constructive than this one) so I’ll try and interpret what is the crux  intention. I am a self-proclaimed armchair Buddhist with my moon rising in the fundamental teachings of Jesus, so my heart in almost the right place, bear with me.  I think “intent” means she is going through life mindfully and with purpose, rather than trudging through the cornfields like bewildered space aliens thinking we have some place better to be. Cornfields, fuck, I’m never going to get over last year. See, I, personally,  have to mindfully intend to move forward, NOT think about the past. So I’m going to list some intentions that I found in an old Oprah magazine I breezed through at a walk-in clinic, UTI’s, yo, what a bitch….Remember, intentions are not to be confused resolutions because those are for amateurs.

1. Live in the present. I don’t really know what that means either, aren’t we always living in the now?  Now I am writing a blog post, there’s an Uncle Smoke chicken pot pie in the oven, I am way too excited to eat. Is it wrong that I’m looking forward to 45 minutes from now? I don’t think so, maybe I should revel in the anticipation? Also I have to pee. I’ll go pee, wash my hands, come back. I always intend to wash my hands but I never do. It’s true, my friend JHo always says I’m the fastest pee-er but I’m not really, I just don’t want to waste time washing hands. THESE ARE PRECIOUS SECONDS I WILL NEVER GET BACK. So many things in the present (like handwashing) are just so boring I don’t want to do them. How can I possibly live in the moment when the moment is so fucking time consuming? Isn’t while I’m doing Amish chores like scrubbing the pots and pans, where I get to mull over the past and those particularly poignant moments where I have been hard done by, the place where I can work myself up into a rage that I actually don’t need steel wool, I can scrape all the burnt grease off with my emotional bile and chewed off fingernails? THIS IS GOING TO BE SO HARD. Also, I fret over the future, you know this about me. Hold my hand, please.

2. Keep a gratitude journal. What’s that? Oprah is such a task master. Everyday write 10 things you a grateful for and the gods of Disney fairy princesses will bestow you with all the luck in the world plus an abundance of cash money, fame, and all the hot fucks so your genitals will explode like an A-bomb that will actually create all the love the world needs to end hunger and war. I think we’ve gone over this before like last year, me with my eyerolling and you with your leather bound notebook from the Japanese paper store. Show me your diary now. I thought so.  You didn’t even bother to write in it, that’s okay though, I like the way you draw anime porn. Personally, as your poor man’s Oprah, I think you should just be in a permanent state of gratefulness, fuck writing this quackery down in list form because you’re sure as shit not going to be rewarded for it. You should make gratitude (and humility while we’re at it)  your default attitude. But don’t be a dick and expect anything out of your newfound lease on life because that’s not how it works. Also I think gratitude journals are the gateway to becoming cripplingly superstitious which is just plain unmindful. True story: I know of a man who drives with one hand on the wheel and the other hand massaging the  crucifix around his neck as he mutters his thanks to Jesus of how he is grateful for his healthy crotch spawn, who in is mind are the second and third coming of Messiah-palooza, whilst interspurtantly  he yells obscenities at other innocent drivers, who by the way, are obeying the rules of the road, all the while safe in the confines of his American-made gas guzzling SUV, windows rolled up. Mastering the art of gratitude is going to take more than writing in a journal, it’s going to take an ass kicking. We can hold each other’s hair back while we barf out our egos. Gratitude comes from the deep bile hole which contains this poison:

3. Judgy-wudgy-itis. To paraphrase the true second coming, Oprah, stop judging other people so goddamn much. Yes, we are all going to laugh at the follies of the crack couple who thought they were trapped in a locked closet and pooped in it FOR DAYS  because that is just natural selection. I still think it’s okay to hate on the buffoonery of the Bieber, and we can write in our gratitude journals how grateful we are that he has been more or less quiet lately and how the gods of social media were on the ball when he lost all those Instagram followers in the master cleanse of 2014. If ridiculous didn’t exist then where would comedy be? BUT! Can’t we let people express themselves who they are, how they self-identify, dress ,or create artistic content if they are not hurting anyone? Aren’t we all in this world together, like aliens in the cornfield, and we should look out for each other? Or simply just leave each other the fuck alone…maybe I did learn something from last year. It’s just such a hard road sometimes. Sigh, fap, lather, rinse, repeat.

Okay, I just ate the pot pie and feel the happiness of satiation which leads me to my own intent for 2015 and I hope Oprah feels the same way:

Stay fat, bitches! There’s so much to do with that waffle iron you got for Christmas, it’s crazy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Happens In the Cornfield…

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So I’m back from my week-long trip to Middle of the Cornfield, U.S.A. It was actually an epically planned date from a 3-month-long intense OkCupid romance in case you haven’t been following (scroll back the archives) and if you have you are probably wondering: Can long distance romances work?

Yes they can! They are awesome! Because when the dude, in my case, he who shall never be named outside my therapist’s office (which is the liquor store), decides he has the right to change his mind and spontaneously go all iceberg on you, he can just stealthily disappear into the ether after he dumps you at the airport. There’s no luxury of driving by his house and maybe knocking on the door to ask what the fuck just happened. WHERE HAVE ALL THE HEART EMOTICONS GONE? You won’t be running into him foraging at the Walmart, you won’t get to push your cart into his accidentally on purpose and maybe knocking him over in the process, fucking spineless asshole motherfucker.

No, none of these things will happen. Instead, because he is a trillion miles away, you can just pretend he got abducted by aliens, saving him from his dreary beige life in the bleak cornfields, and you can telepathically wish him well and that his anal probes are lubed with precious Astroglide.

HOW DO YOU MEND A BROKEN HEART?

Bitches need closure, right? Well not this ho. This isn’t like calling up an employer after a job interview to ask why you didn’t get hired and they tell you it’s because you are still rocking the dusty DOS and you better fucking upgrade your computer skills in this century. That would actually be helpful in your future endeavours. My daughter, who just turned 21, with all the bravado of youth, suggested I call and ask what went wrong. Because mature people do that sort of thing, they have civil conversations while they perform their love autopsy, then blithely move on to the next disaster, this time chewing with their mouths closed or trimming their pubes.  But I’m an old woman, I’ve been around the block before, I recognize the tree. There is no fucking point in closure. If a dude wants to slink away without saying goodbye, then let him go. You may have stepped on the wrong eggshell at some point and go over and over in your mind what you could have said or done that was wrong but why would you want to? If you have to worry about leaving a proverbial crumb on the counter (which could have very well been my crime) or measure your words before they plop out of your pie hole because heaven forbid if you sound like a smug ass know-it-all, then fuck him. This is fear-based behaviour because he has issues beyond the abilities of what pharmaceuticals can fix and it’s not my fucking problem, it’s his.

What lay beneath him wasn’t quite what I thought but lucky that I am an old bitch because I kept an inventory of all the red flags in the back of my mind so none of it really came as a surprise. Don’t get me wrong, on the surface he was a gracious, generous host and polite and gentlemanly but sometime around Day 3, there was a palpable shift like something died and was replaced by a barrel of insidious simmering anger in the form of snark. Frederick’s of Hollywood could not save this fantasy.

But! Whatevs. Here are some trip highlights because I actually had fun despite the inner turmoil:

1.  The town diner. I ordered a club sandwich and a bottle of Bud. I GOT CARDED BY THE WAITRESS! I’m like what?! Maybe my infantilizing fuzzy pink scarf is covering my baggy neck but I handed her my passport, and she was like huh, and I said I was 51 in dog years. We laughed, and he who shall not be named was incredulous. This happened only one time though. I drank half the liquor supply in the state of Illinois, you know, to soothe my feelings, and no one else batted an eye. I think I aged about 10 years that week.

2. We went to roadhouse-type strip club which I ended up loving so much I even Yelped about it. It was kind of retro with 50s pinup girl posters and real rugged dudes sitting around the bar being served 8-dollar pitchers of beer by a crusty but friendly barmaid. The girls were young, plump and cornfed, with real swaying boobs and cotton underwear. After they performed on stage to some hair metal band song, they would go around the bar and shimmy up to each of the patrons, and offer to squish their titties up in their face for some motorboating for a mere dollar. Seriously a dollar. It’s like you can’t afford NOT to partake in this.

3. The Santa Claus Parade in the town square where Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglas held their first debate. I became interested in the history of this and even wiki’d later when we got home. You won’t click that link because you just want to read about stripper tits but it’s not all about sex you know. The town was really pretty with lights and festive citizens (100% whiteys) and the parade was rocking. Then we went to see a movie at the local theatre where he who shall not be named found 2 dollar bills on the floor which he snatched up AND RETURNED TO THE CONCESSION STAND. Really? In case some kid lost it, he said. I know I should have thought this was a noble gesture but no, it was just dumb. I think by then I was starting to hate him as much as he hated me. But onwards.

4. Chicago. We went to the Billy Goat Tavern that is the basis of that Belushi “Cheeseburger, no Coke, Pepsi” sketch from SNL. If you are old, you prolly remember, but if you didn’t retain the seventies because of all the coke, here it is, it was CRAZY FUN:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y1tFx5xKrSI

5. Deep-dish pizza. Yes, please. We actually had a squabble at Uno’s, the original place where it was supposedly invented. It was about the toppings and I won’t go into it but he let me “win” and probably that was the last nail of my coffin. Still, deep dish pizza is heaven in the pie hole. Pro tip: It is better heated up the next day.

6. Television. You’re going to think this is lame but American TV is fucking awesome. But in particular and PLEASE DON’T JUDGE, I have discovered why lowbrow Americans love the Kardashians. I am not even remotely embarrassed to tell you I watched marathons of “Kourtney and Khloe Take the Hamptons” no less than 4 times. So what. I don’t say anything about you watching “Downton Abbey” which is the same thing only without itchy vaginas. But see how much time I had on my hands?

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So, I got home safely, but profoundly sad that my hopes of living happily ever after in a small town exactly like Stars Hollow on the “Gilmore Girls” would lead to a life of domestic bliss and inspiration to write the Great American Novel once and for all. I cried for two days. But not two solid days. In between the bout of tears was some fits of rage that got me inspired to do laundry and stuff. This is the only way you can move on, you have to feel it, as deeply as you can, otherwise you just swallow it up and get all wretched on the outside. Just saying.

The cool thing that came out of all this has been how all my friends rallied around with all their support and thoughts and theories. The best one was from my resurrected ex who said something like: “Guys do not know about their emotions. That’s why they keep quiet and just disappear.” And they only come back married to someone else. I am doomed. But I have friends who love me. Heart emoticons abound.

So what now?  Restore OkCupid account. Scroll, banter, kik. Lather rinse repeat. SIGH.

Oh! Also: He totally lied about his height.

 

 

Internet Kinksters United

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So I deleted my OkCupid account…okay “suspended” it, it’s currently hibernating like big giant grizzly bear waiting for Spring. Just so you know, during the last couple of months I was on there to “make new friends” which is legit option on the site, it’s not just dating and whatnot. Randomly, serendipitously, miraculously, and mathematically, in August I found my Great White Whale and he’s a keeper. He understands and even embraces my Myers-Briggs ESFP personality quirks: That insatiable need to deep sea dive into the bowels of the internet for all the fucked up crazy-ass antics that people hide in their day-to-day lives. The internet is not just for deep fried ramen noodle recipes, IT IS A FREAK SHOW WHERE THEY ALL COME OUT AND PLAY 24/7. I love it so.

Anyway, back tracking a few weeks ago, one of my family members sent me a barrage of Facebook messages about how my blog was inappropriate for human consumption and my gross sex life should be kept to myself and reminded me that I have children and I should be ashamed, would I talk about such things at the dinner table  and I’ll never get a job and blah blah blah. AND YET! if you can take a week off work and manage to scroll through an hour’s worth of her inane Facebook postings, you will find it littered with Kim Kardashian’s (awesome I must say) oily ass, a reposting of Jian Ghomeshi status declaring his penchant for hard-core BDSM amid all the bitstrip cartoons (no judgement but really?)…so a porn star and a dickhead misogynist, their agenda she sees as A-OK newsfeed fun and yet my cute story of shopping for sensual aids at the Shoppers Drug Mart IN THE SAME AISLE AS BEN-GAY AND DISNEY PRINCESS NIGHT LIGHTS brings shame to the family and doom to my future. I mean, seriously. Like I care. I’m a middle-aged woman with a propensity to unapologetically over-share in a blog that as a grown-ass adult reader, you can choose to read OR NOT.

In any case, I became silenced (but only temporarily, ROAR) out of shame because I am sensitive like that. And I also deleted my beloved OkCupid account because it just became tiresome, like going to the same fucking gym for 17 years and all the fantastic step classes from yesteryear have been replaced by boring ass body sculpt classes THAT DON’T DO SHIT, DON’T KID YOURSELVES. I don’t know where that analogy rant came from but you know what I mean. I have become desensitized by all the internet kink that maybe should just go back to participating in Facebook commentary, Twitterrhea, and Instagram buffoonery. SIGH.

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Kink. Let’s over-share.

I might be “out there” yapdoodling about embarrassing things, but on the grey scale of kinky, where Jian Ghomeshi is leather strap black, I am like a soft heather grey sweatshirt, you know the kind of faux- retro white flecked fleece they have at Forever 21. I am what they call vanilla, more or less. I have one little “kink” and thanks to the other over-sharers on the internet, I found out I am not alone. I have an ear fetish. Not your ears, don’t be sending me your ape-like lug hole pics, my own ears. I like having my ears fiddled with, even when the doctor does things to them. I had an ear infection over the summer and as a result, my left ear drum became punctured by the excess pus fluid…YES, TRUE STORY, contrary to urban legend, I did not jab a shish kebob stick in there, I SWEAR. Consequently, I’ve had to go to the hospital to have a mini hoover stuck in my ear to suck out all the  goo to keep it dry. The doctor is hoping that in time, the hole heals itself, so I can avoid surgery. I, on the other hand, am hoping this goes on forever. I get dressed up for these appointments. For one thing, can the intern be any cuter? And for another, I am in heaven with a hose in my ear canal. He barely has to flip the switch and my toes are curling, my eyes are rolling in back of my head. Last time, though, I had a different intern, a little Asian dude who did NOT get me at all. His hose technique was awkward, it kept falling out, he kept apologizing (DON’T! Shut up! Just stick the fucking thing in!) and gingerly had to placed  it back in mid-suck, so it actually hurt, and it was a big letdown. And at the end, when I demanded to see what splooged up in the Kleenex, he was reluctant and actually said: “Why? Do you have a fetish or something?” OF COURSE I HAVE A FETISH, WTF? WHY ELSE AM I WEARING FISHNET STOCKINGS IN A HOSPITAL?  Oh my God.

The internet satisfies my kink by giving me YouTube of people having their ears cleaned. You know how on every city block we have Vietnamese nail salons? Well in Vietnam they have ear cleaning salons by delicate ladies fastidiously digging away at ear canals using long, sharp, pointy instruments. Are you kidding? I am dying, DYING to go to Vietnam. In other parts of the world, they have men do this also on the roadsides and beaches, that I am not so sure about participating, but I’d like to go and watch. Holy shit, this:

RIGHT? If you watched that and got a chub then you and I are going to be really good friends.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

My very first encounter with an Internet Kinkster happened innocently enough through the on-line Scrabble games. At first the site just matched you up with whoever but the people began to state their preferences for chatting or not. It took about half a minute for the fetish crowd to catch on. One day I clicked on some guy from the U.K.’s game and he messaged me: “Before we start the game, did you read my profile?” I hadn’t but went back and saw he wrote this: “Oxford student, looking for ladies of all ages. Your flatulence is my pleasure.”

This was even before meme culture gave us this:

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But that pretty much nailed my reaction. But dive deep is what I do and I needed to  poke this weirdo with a spear and see what kind of creature he really was.

Me: “Yes, that’s cool, let’s play.”  I plunk down the first word.

He: “Can you describe one of your farts?” He promptly plays a good word I haven’t heard of but I am too lazy to look up and learn something new.

He is an Oxford student after all. He must be smart. he moves fast so he’s probably not cheating like I am.

Me: “This one I just had seeped deeply into the couch.” I stole that line from an old roommate when we used to watch tv and drink Diet Coke all night, she was positively poetic. This is going to be fun, I think, as I put down a decent word on the board. Scrabblecheat. com, holla.

He: “Delightful! How did it feel?” *plays “Q” on triple point* Yikes, he has a good vocabulary and can strategize.

Me: “Fucking amazing, like dynamic power of a leaf blower mixed with sweet relief of a cool breeze on a hot day.” Whatever. I plunk down all my letters in a lame place for a bonus 50, thank god because I’m already 100 points behind.

He: “Oh my God, what did it smell like?” He changed his letters and passed a turn. I never do this. I am impressed when people do. Isn’t it better to play a crummy 3-letter word than no word at all?

Me: “A very rich hunk of triple cream Danish Blue with a high note of hard boiled quail eggs.” I have nothing but low quality vowels and play “aioli.” Ridiculous.

I feel like I can hear him giggling in an out of control  British hyena accent from all the way across the Atlantic. This has to be a joke.

He: “You are an angel, my dear, straight from the heavens. Would you open your bottom on my face and let Polly out of prison?”  He plays an “X” on a double triple point.  Aaargh. I have 3 U’s.

And I think to myself: Okay, do I need a special dictionary to play with this dude? Who or what Polly out of prison does he mean? (and btw, it’s a euphemism for farting, thank you, Urban Dictionary, without you I’d probably be doing something useful like learning Spanish)  MOST IMPORTANTLY: HOW ON EARTH DOES HE EXPECT ME TO SIT ON HIS FACE FROM A BILLION MILES AWAY?

I decided to just ignore the chat and keep playing, I am gaining momentum in the game and I love a Scrabble challenge more than anything. Except having my ears fiddled with, lol. So when I didn’t respond after the next turn, dude deleted the game. At first I thought WHAT AN ASSHOLE but now years later, several million hours spent scrolling through the sea of lemon parties, goatsees, and scatpaloozas, I have a whole new respect an admiration for the early pioneers of the internet, putting their kinks and fetishes out there, hoping for a kindred spirit to fart on their face or whatever. I think about that young Oxford gentleman from time to time, especially after a bean burrito, and wonder if he ever found his Polly. I hope so because if there is one thing I learned from the Wild World of the Webs is that there is a lid for every pot. And a bunch of toys too.